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“I’m glad you came back.”

Silence. Long enough I think he won’t answer.

Then, so quiet I almost miss it: “Me too.”

I drift off with those words wrapped around me like a blanket. When I wake hours later, he’s still there. Still watching. Still keeping guard.

“I won’t leave again,” he says into the darkness. Not a promise. A fact. A surrender.

I don’t know if I’m relieved or terrified.

Maybe both.

CHAPTER 11

Kaia

A week passes in a strange new rhythm.

I wake to the smell of coffee brewing. Every morning, same time, like clockwork. The ovens already heating, the counter wiped clean, yesterday’s leftover rolls arranged in the display case exactly how I like them.

Malak has claimed the attic. The narrow staircase I haven’t climbed in three years, the space where Dan stored boxes we never unpacked. Now it’s his, and I lie in bed at night listening to footsteps overhead, the creak of floorboards, sometimes nothing at all—and that’s worse.

We move around each other like dancers who’ve learned the steps but never rehearsed together. He preps before dawn. I take over when the sun comes up. He vanishes. I work. He returns when the shop is empty and dark.

The customers never see him. I think he times it—listening for the bell, counting footsteps, staying invisible. But I see him. In the early morning darkness when he thinks I’m still asleep. In the late evening when he’s cleaning the ovens. The way his hands move with careful control, like he’s holding himself back.

From what, I don’t let myself wonder.

The baby is thriving now. The pulse under my ribs strong and steady. My energy back. No more shaking hands or hollow hunger—just the regular exhaustion of running a bakery while growing something impossible inside me.

And the other kind of hunger. The kind that has nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with the man sleeping one floor above me.

On the eighth day, I break the silence.

“You need to learn how to bake.”

He’s wiping down the front counter. Stops mid-motion. “Why?”

“Because you’re living in a bakery. Because if something happens to me, someone needs to know how this works.” I gesture at the kitchen. “Because you can’t hide forever.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You’re gone for twelve hours a day. That’s hiding.”

He sets down the rag. His jaw tightens. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop treating this like a prison sentence.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “You said you have to stay. Fine. Then actually be here.”

Silence stretches between us. His eyes are black today. Completely black. Like the void is closer to the surface than usual.

“Show me,” he says finally.

I lead him to the main counter. Pull out flour, water, salt, yeast. The basics.

“Bread is simple. Four ingredients. But the way you handle them matters.” I measure everything into the big mixing bowl. “You have to feel it. The dough will tell you what it needs.”

“That sounds like nonsense.”