By the time I finally leave, the hospital is quieter. The cool air slaps me awake on the walk to my truck. My hands ache around the steering wheel, muscles begging for rest.
But instead of heading straight to my apartment, I sit in the driver’s seat, staring at my phone. My thumb hovers over the screen. A text would be easier. Safer.
I type:How did the pop-up go?
Delete it.
Type again:Still awake?
Delete.
The urge claws deeper, until finally I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
The line rings once, twice. Then her voice, soft and warm: “Hello?”
Relief floods me, ridiculous in its intensity. “It’s me,” I say, and I hate how raw I sound. “Simon.”
“I know.” There’s a smile in her voice. “Rough day?”
“You could say that.” I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. “Tell me about yours. The pop-up—how many people came?”
She hums, like she’s considering. “Enough. More than I expected. Norah thinks it went well. I sold out of almost everything by noon.”
“That’s good,” I murmur. And I mean it. More than good. I picture her in that blue dress, bustling between trays, light spilling over her hair. “The pastries were perfect. My staff finished the ones you sent before I even had a chance to look at them.”
“They’re my grandma’s recipes,” she admits quietly. “Every single one. She used to say sugar was its own kind of medicine.”
“She was right,” I say.
There’s a pause, the line filled with her soft breathing. Then she says, “I’ve got a few left. I was going to have them for dinner with tea.” Another pause, shy. “If you wanted to join me.”
My pulse jumps. “Are you sure?”
Her laugh is a little exasperated, but sweet. “Simon, you have to stop asking me that every time.”
I scrub a hand down my face, grinning despite myself. “Alright. I’m on my way.”
The café’s lights glow warm against the dark street when I pull up. The repairs are still visible—scaffolding, fresh paint along the trim, a sign half-covered in tarp. But upstairs, a window shines like a beacon.
I knock, and almost instantly I hear quick footsteps. When the door opens, my throat goes dry.
She’s in a robe—soft, gray, belted loosely around her waist. Her hair is piled up in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face.
Her skin is flushed, like she just stepped from a shower: bare legs, bare feet on the wooden floor.
“Hey,” she says, warm and straightforward.
“Hey,” I echo, trying not to stare too hard, trying not to imagine how easily that robe would part if I tugged at the belt.
She leads me upstairs, and I force myself to keep my eyes ahead, not on the bed that flashes through my memory—the same bed we spent three days in, her scent heavy, her body pliant under mine.
“Not too late, am I?” I ask as we step into her kitchen.
“Not at all.” She sets a kettle on the stove, her movements practiced but nervous, like she feels the weight of me behind her.
I walk to her before I think better of it, sliding my arms around her waist, burying my face in her neck. Her scent is calmer now, with no heat threading through it, just warm and clean, entirely her own.
“What are we doing here, sweetheart?” I murmur against her skin.
