My phone buzzes, I catch the name on the screen—Mom.Fuck.Robyn smiles.
“Go answer,” she says. “There’ll be time for that.”
There better be.
It’s a short conversation with Mom; she just wants to make sure I’m not dumber now than I was before the concussion. It takes her no time to decide I’m fine and hang up, promising she’ll visit soon.
When I step back into my living room, Robyn’s curled up on one end of the couch, flipping through the channels. She tucks her legs tighter and pats her thigh. I hesitate only a second before stretching out, laying my head on her lap. It feels indecently good, the weight of me settled there, her fingers threading into my hair like they’ve been waiting for this moment as much as I have.
She settles on a show. Some competition where impossibly calm people sculpt entire skylines out of cake. I squint up at the screen for about thirty seconds before her palm covers my eyes.
“You’re not cleared for screen time.”
I scoff.
She laughs, the sound vibrating through her leg. “It’s okay. I’ll narrate.”
She describes spires and cantilevers and sugar glass façades with the same precision she uses in the lab, her hand drifting from my hair to trace idle patterns along my neck or arms. I close my eyes and let myself be held there, listening to her voice and the rhythm of her breath. I fall asleep on her thighs to the cadence of her voice and the care of her touch.
CHAPTER 35
The Return
Robyn
“We couldn’t make a tower.There’s no way we’re making a pinecone, Robyn.”
I huff out a quiet laugh, turning the cake on its stand. Then I warm the fondant between my palms until it softens. “A pinecone is just layers around a cylinder. We can do layers.”
“We couldn’t even doup,” he says, teasing, but there’s no bite to it. His smile spreads easily, lifting his cheeks, warming his whole face in a way that makes everything I felt for him bubble up to the surface. And everything I feel now because there’s more steadiness to the version of Nate standing in front me.
The kitchen smells like butter and cinnamon, sugar melting slowly on the stove while Nate insists, throughthatsame smile, that I’m about to burn his apartment down. The low lighting of dusk spills across the counters, catching in the flour dust like something suspended, something almostmagical—maybe if we keep going, we might actually get this right.
There’s no way the pinecone will work. But maybe we’ll get something else right.
“Here,” I say, nudging his elbow, tipping my chin toward the fondant. “Start with a teardrop. Just shape it.”
He takes it, rolling it out with a focus that looks reverent, smoothing the paste until it’s thin but not fragile, steadying it beneath his palms. He reaches for the pastry scalpel, carving careful lines, turning the sheet between his fingers.
When his hand wavers, just slightly, I slide the barstool toward him with my foot. “Sit.”
He scoffs, butthatsmile stays, easy and unguarded. “Bossy.”
As he lowers himself onto the stool, his knee brushes my thigh. The contact is light but sends a jolt through my nervous system.
“Focus on the cylinder,” I murmur. “We don’t need a six-inch spine for our pinecone.”
“What if I’m going for the world’s biggest cake pinecone?” I ask, meeting his glance.
“Then we’re doomed either way.” He lifts one of the pieces, and it bends slightly, losing the shape he’d given it. “This already looks worse than the tower.”
“Our giant pinecone just needs a little patience.”
He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Now it’s ours?”
“Yes.” I glance at him, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “I’m not letting you take all the blame this time.”
I reach for his hand, guiding his fingers, pressing the back of the knife gently into the fondant. “Score it. Like this. Then rotate. Repeat.”
