24
SOPHIA
Iwake up in the middle of the night to an empty bed.
The panic hits instantly—sharp, visceral, clawing up my throat before my eyes are even fully open. The sheets are still warm beside me, but the space is empty. Cold fear floods my chest.
I sit up fast, heart hammering, scanning the dark room. The bedroom door is open. Just a crack. Enough to let in a sliver of light from downstairs.
Reth.
I slip out of bed on shaky legs, grabbing the first thing I find—one of his oversized black shirts—and pull it over my head as I move. It smells like him. Like safety. Like home. But my pulse is still racing as I rush down the stairs, bare feet silent on the wood.
I’m halfway down when I smell it.
Cinnamon. Apple. Warm sugar and butter.
I stop on the bottom step, one hand on the railing, and the panic dissolves into something softer, deeper, almost overwhelming.
He’s in the open-plan kitchen, back to me, shoulders moving with quiet purpose. Flour dusts the counter and his bare forearms. The oven light is on, casting a soft golden glow across the strong lines of his back.
He’s wearing only sweatpants, low on his hips, the compass tattoo on his hand catching the light as he carefully spoons batter into the muffin tin.
Apple cinnamon muffins.
The ones I’ve been trying—and failing—to perfect for weeks. Every batch I made came out wrong. Sunken. Dense. Heavy with the weight of my own exhaustion and fear. I kept trying anyway, like if I could just get the muffins right, maybe I could getusright. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He always notices everything about me.
And now he’s baking them for me.
My eyes burn with sudden tears.
I stand there in the shadows for a long moment, just watching him. The careful way he measures the cinnamon. The slight furrow in his brow as he adjusts the batter. The way his shoulders are relaxed in a way they haven’t been in weeks. This is his love language right now—quiet, steady, made with his own hands because words still feel dangerous sometimes.
I step into the light.
He stills immediately, shoulders tensing for half a second, then turns. The fear in his eyes flickers out the second he sees me. It melts into something so tender, so full of love, that my knees nearly buckle.
“Cherry-red,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and emotion. “Did I wake you?”
I shake my head, walking toward him slowly. My barefeet pad across the cool floor until I’m close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. “I woke up and you weren’t there.”
The guilt flashes across his face, but I don’t let it settle. I step between his legs where he leans against the counter, sliding my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek to his bare chest. His heart is beating fast. Mine matches it.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he admits quietly, one big hand coming up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading gently through my hair. “Kept thinking about everything. About how hard you’ve been trying with those muffins.”
My throat closes. I press closer, breathing him in—warm skin, faint soap, and the sweet scent of cinnamon already filling the kitchen. “You noticed.”
“I always notice you.” His voice drops, tender and rough at the same time. “Every failed batch. Every time you’d stare at them like they were proof you were failing me. I hated it. I hated that I made you feel like you had to fix anything when I’m the one who came back broken.”
His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. The look in his eyes is devastating—love so deep and certain it feels like it could rewrite every dark thing that came before. Like I’m the only light he’s ever let himself believe in.
“I love you, Sophia Sinclair,” he whispers, forehead resting against mine. “I don’t always know how to say it right. But I can do this. I can make the thing you’ve been trying so hard to make perfect. For you. Because you deserve perfect things. Even if it’s just muffins. Even if it’s just me trying.”
Irise onto my toes and kiss him—slow, deep, pouring every ounce of my love into it. He kisses me back like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this world, one arm wrapped around my waist, holding me like he’ll never let go. Like if he loosens his grip even a little, the dark might take him again.
When we finally pull apart, I rest my forehead against his chest again, listening to his heartbeat settle into something steady and sure. My fingers trace the compass tattoo on his hand, the one that points to me.
“You’re my perfect thing,” I whisper, voice thick with emotion. “Muffins or no muffins. Broken or healing. You. Just you.”
