No photos on the walls. No stack of mail on the counter. Nothing that says a person actually lives here. It looks like the kind of place a real estate agent stages for an open house, right down to the suspiciously symmetrical throw blankets.
I turn slowly, taking it in. "Did you just move in?"
"Two years ago," Colt says, tossing his keys into a little ceramic bowl by the door.
"Twoyears?" I blink at him. "Colt, where's your stuff?"
He huffs out a laugh, leaning back against the door with his arms crossed.
"What were you expecting, Morrison? Jockstraps on the chandelier?"
"Well, yeah. I was expecting at leastoneempty pizza box on the floor." I run my finger along the back of the sectional, which is — yep — flawlessly clean. "Maybe a Gatorade bottle living its best life under the couch. Some evidence of a human male in his late twenties."
"I'll have you know I'mverytidy."
"You're verysomething."
I narrow my eyes at him and follow him into the kitchen.
At least this looksused. There are actual dishes in the sink, and ingredients scattered all across the bench. And on the counter—
"Um, Colt… what are those?"
I slow to a complete stop, looking directly at a tray of golden, perfectly risen, lightly glistening pastries cooling on a rack. They look like they were just pulled out of the oven.
They also look astonishingly like something I've tried to make before.
Colt's standing beside the counter, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, looking at me like he's bracing for impact.
"Those… are why you're here." He steps over to the tray and collects the best looking pastry. "I want you to taste one."
"…What?"
"Taste it, Zo."
He holds the pastry up between us, fingers steady, eyes locked on mine in a way that turns my stomach into mush.
"Open."
He brings it to my mouth, slow, careful, and I feel the warmth of his fingertips brush the corner of my lip as my teeth sink into the pastry. Flaky layers shatter as buttery crumbs catch on my bottom lip.
Colt doesn't look away when I lick them off, his blue eyes tracking every flicker across my face like he's memorizing it.
The flavors hit my tongue in the perfect order. Brown butter, melting and nutty. A whisper of cardamom I'd beenmeaningto try for months. The vanilla from Madagascar I splurged on and ration like gold. There's even a delicious salt note at the back that makes my eyes flutter closed.
It'sgood.
It's so good it could go in the case tomorrow.
"Oh my God."
"Yeah?"
"Colt." I look up at him, mouth still full. "This isreallygood. How did you—"
And then I see it.
There, on the kitchen counter beside the tray.
