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“Practice. For Sunday.” Her lips curve slightly. “I happen to know someone who needs cooking lessons anyway. But first…”

“First what?”

“I’m hungry. How about wraps?”

My sweet, lovely cupcake. How could I ever survive without you? “The ones you actually ate?”

“The ones I actually ate.” She steps closer, carefully avoiding the broken plate. “And this time, we’ll make them together.”

Together. Maybe that’s what we both need—not perfection, just presence.

THIRTY-FOUR

NAOMI

“You know this is insane, right?” Elliot leans against his pristine stainless steel counter, keys dangling from his fingers. “Breaking into my restaurant after hours?”

“It’s not breaking in if you give us the keys.” I hold out my hand. Brandon needs this.

Elliot’s lips twitch. “And what makes you think I’d do that?”

“Because you want him back in a kitchen as much as I do.” I meet his gaze. “Consider this a test run.”

“For what?”

“His own place.”

Elliot straightens, suddenly alert. “Not interested in my sous chef position anymore?”

“We both know he was never going to take it.”

“Worth a shot.” He tosses me the keys. “Security code’s 4891 if something’s coming up. And… please don’t fuck up my kitchen.”

“We won’t.”

“Naomi?” His voice softens. “Make sure he actually cooks something. None of that staring-at-ingredients bullshit he’s been doing.”

I catch the worry beneath his snark. “That’s the plan.”

“Good.” He grabs his coat. “Because if I have to watch him mope around my restaurant one more time, critiquing everything without actually cooking…” He shakes his head. “Just fix him.”

I freeze.

Not because he’s walking away, but because of the way he said it.

Like Brandon is something broken. Like it’s my job to put him back together.

Like Elliot’s been waiting for someone to do what he couldn’t.

I squeeze the keys.

Brandon doesn’t need fixing.

He needs to remember who the hell he is.

My phone buzzes.

Brandon: Outside. You sure about this?

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