Page 54 of Below the Shadow of the City

And remind me to keep him far, far away from you.

He has his own party to go, one with people he’d be actually comfortable with. An invite was haphazardly offered to me, but we’d silently agreed that it would need to be a slower merging of our separate lives. Even if I was deeply curious about what werewolves and vampires and other supposed “monsters” dressed up as for the holiday.

There’s an ache twitching millimeters beneath my ribcage that we’re not going to these things together, and I wonder if we ever will. Maybe we are doomed and I’m just setting a self-fulfilling prophecy into motion. Different realms, different lives, parallel lines that may never fully cross. Of course I’m not going to dive in if I don’t know if I’ll drown.

For now, I’m enjoying eating cake straight from the baking dish with someone I truly, deeply enjoy spending time with. I sit atop one of the washing machines while Maddox leans against a concrete support column. My puffy Snow White dress covers the entire washing machine top, I’m not used to wearing something with such volume. To Maddox’s benefit, I didn’t wear the fake mustache and sunglasses down here.

“Sigrid, this is incredible,” Maddox breaks through the silence I didn’t even notice settled between us. “You need to open a bake shop or go on Food Network or do something with this kind of talent.”

I flush deeply at the discomfort of receiving a compliment. He means incredibly well but hearing anyone offer praise so casually makes my heart drop into my stomach. “I mean, it’s nothing crazy, apples and homemade salted caramel and some other stuff, and the ice cream, obviously.” If he only knew what I used to bake, this apple cake would seem like child’s play.

“Just apples and homemade salted caramel and some other stuff,” he mocks. “Yeah, no, you’re right it’s nothing. Only the best cake I’ve had in my life.” He’s eating the dessert with such feverish enthusiasm I want to spread my legs and top myself with the bourbon vanilla ice cream I made.

Instead, I tense. The fortress walls begin to close their gates.

“Don’t do that,” I say sharply.

“Do what?” He asks the question with such an innocence I feel guilty for even feeling like I do. He doesn’t know that words of affirmation feel like a knife twisting in my back because I wholeheartedly don’t believe he means them.

“Compliment me so…enthusiastically,” I’m flustered as I try to convey my thoughts in a way that doesn’t make me seem like a complete sadist. “I know you’re trying to be nice, but I don’t need the patronizing.”

He lowers his brows and lets out a hot huff. “It’s not patronizing. I’m being sincere. If you don’t want compliments, fine, no compliments,” he says assuredly, and I believe him this time. “My lips are sealed. I’ll just moan from how good this is instead.” He stabs his fork into the last bit of his slice and shoves it into his mouth with grossly exaggerated moaning sounds, so loud I’m convinced people on the floor above us can hear.

I grab his arm and shake him a bit to quiet him down, and he nearly chokes laughing. It pisses me off how easy going and affable he is, like his default setting is to embody the persona of a golden retriever. He brightens up a room in a way that feels unnatural. There’s no sun in his underground neighborhood, but he’s got enough warmth and light radiating off of him to more than make up for it.

I hadn’t brought up the cookbook or my old account to him before. Another thing that I’d avoided in my fear of emotional intimacy. “I used to have a baking Instagram, which sounds so silly to mourn like it was a real accomplishment. I had a lot of followers, and I was getting more before⁠—”

“Before?” He perks up and turns towards me, his face softens at the sound of my voice trailing off.

“Before things changed, but I’ve always thought maybe I’ll go back to it one day. I love baking, I really do. It’s like, the only thing I do where my stupid brain actually turns off.”

“You should, genuinely,” he says as he takes a bite of his second slice. I shoot him a faux annoyed glare I disarm with a smile. “Sorry,” he corrects. “No sincerity.”

“Those cookies I left down here for you were the first thing I’d baked since January.” He was the reason I started finding footholds in this passion again. Cynics would scoff at the fact that I decided to pick it back up to impress a guy, but here we are, enjoying a cake that I wouldn’t have even thought to make if I hadn’t met him.

“I have an opportunity to actually do something with it. Or, had, I should say.” I speak hardly above a whisper. I’d said yes, and have done close to nothing with the opportunity since. Except for this singular, measly, cake.

“What was it?” He crouches beside me and lays his paw atop my thigh, the weight of him is like a comfort.

“A cookbook, an editor reached out and asked if I wanted to participate. I’d send in eight recipes, they’d select six. I said yes, without a real plan, I still need to develop all these recipes and I don’t know how I can get it done in time. I’ve thought about backing out⁠—”

“Sigrid. You need to do it,” the firmness in his voice tugs at something in me. I feel his fingertips grip tighter around my leg.

“Eight new recipes, by December first, and I haven’t baked for anyone but you in so long,” I ramble. “It feels impossible. I don’t know if I have it in me. I told you I’m a terrible procrastinator, I think I’ve flown too close to the sun here.”

“Use my kitchen, cook in my apartment, there’s plenty of space and you already know I rarely use it. I can help you, I’ll be your scribe, I’ll happily taste test, you have a gift, I won’t sit idly by and let it go to waste.” I don’t know why I’m tearing up at his words. He’s saying exactly what I’d dreamt of hearing from someone for years and it feels unbelievable to hear it out loud.

“You don’t—” the sentence is impossible to finish.

“I don’t need to, I know. But I want to. And I’ll take any excuse to keep you around.”

“Thank you,” I nearly whisper after another beat of silence.

He shoves half the slice into his mouth. “I mean, I’m the one who actually benefits from this. You getting fame and fortune from your baking is an added bonus.”

I let out an exaggerated groan. “Why must you oscillate between overly sincere and completely facetious?”

“I like keeping you on your toes, just like you’re keeping me on my toes by wearing that dress down here. Don’t you know what looking like that does to me, Sigrid?”