Page 148 of here

We’re both so fucked up, aren’t we? Her with her purging, me with this self-imposed exile from everything I love. Both of usthinking if we punish ourselves enough, maybe we’ll deserve… what? Happiness? Redemption?

Her hand reaches out, hesitates, then settles on my forearm, stopping my movements, and I realize I’ve been kneading harder than necessary.

“Show me?” she asks.

“You want to learn bread making in the middle of the night?”

Mom’s voice echoes in my head.Bread is love, Brandon. You don’t just make it, you share it.

“Better than watching you brood.” She mimics my kneading motion. “Besides, I need to expand beyond abstract pancakes.”

I guess as long as I don’t have any kids, I can teach my girlfriend.

“Wash your hands first.” I jerk my chin toward the sink. “Unless you want your first loaf to taste like whatever’s under those nails.”

“My nails are perfectly clean.” Shooting me a look, she moves to the sink. “Unlike someone who’s covered in flour.”

“Up to your elbows. Soap. Like you’re scrubbing in for surgery.”

“Bossy much?”

“In my kitchen? Always.” I dry her hands with a clean towel. “Hands flat on the counter.”

She spreads her fingers on the surface, and I have to bite back a groan at how perfectly she follows instructions. In the kitchen, at least. I move behind her, my chest barely touching her back.

“Like this?” she asks.

“Almost.” I cover her flour-dusted hands with mine, adjusting the position.

The dough yields between our fingers as I guide her through the motions.

“Like this,” I murmur against her ear. “Push from the center, fold it over, quarter turn.”

“Seems like you’re doing all the work.”

“Because you’re fighting it.”

“I’m not fighting anything.” Her shoulders tense against my chest.

“You are trying to control everything.”

She huffs but relaxes slightly. Her hands move more fluidly under mine, following the rhythm I set.

“Better.” I press a kiss to her neck. “See how it’s getting smoother? That’s what happens when you trust the process. Let the dough tell you what it needs.”

“Dough doesn’t talk.”

“It speaks through texture, resistance.” I guide her hands through another fold. “Feel how it pushes back? That means it needs more work.”

Her body fits perfectly against mine, and the domesticity of teaching her to bake bread at four in the morning hits different. Like we’re building something here, between the flour dust and silence.

“And when it stops fighting?” Her voice catches as my thumbs stroke her wrists.

“Then you know it’s ready.” I rest my chin on her shoulder. “Just like people.”

She stills. “Are you saying I’m fighting?”

“Aren’t you?”

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