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I remember exactly the first time I met Brandon Milton. God, I was a mess that night.

Blake had dragged me to this frat party because Sebastian was going to be there. I was wearing this tight-ass dress Mom had convinced me to buy, trying not to breathe too deep lest I bust a seam. Trying to hold everything together.

Then someone put on this Christmas playlist, in fucking October, and ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ started playing. Clara used to hum that while baking cinnamon cookies. The memory hit me like a truck, and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand the press of sweaty bodies.

I needed food. Needed to feel something other than this hollow ache. Needed to fill the emptiness with something I could control, then purge it all away.

I stumbled to the kitchen, desperate for anything I could find in this testosterone-fueled hellhole—chips, dip, leftover pizza—anything to stuff down my throat.

And there was Brandon, all tousled hair and devil-may-care grin, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed wearing a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle, and flour dusting his skin. The apron was tied low on his hips, and even through my panic, I noticed how it pulled across his broad shoulders with each movement. He was flipping pancakes at 11 PM, humming to himself, completely out of place in this frat house kitchen yet somehow belonging there more than anyone else.

The fluorescent kitchen light caught the angles of his face—sharp jawline, full lips curved in concentration, and eyes so blue they seemed almost unreal.

Later, I’d learn how those eyes could cut right through my bullshit, but right then, they were focused entirely on the task at hand, watching golden batter bubble and brown.

“You look like you could use some pancakes,” he said, not even looking up from the pan.

I wanted to tell him to fuck off. I wanted to run. Instead, I sat at the counter and watched him flip perfect circles.

“What kind of weirdo makes pancakes at a frat party?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

“The kind who loves cooking.” He slid a plate toward me. “Try it.”

I stared at the pancake, my throat tightening. Eat in front of a stranger? Let him watch me put food in my mouth? The thought made my skin crawl.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Didn’t ask if you were hungry.” He flipped another pancake with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Asked if you wanted to try it.”

There was something hypnotic about watching him cook. The easy confidence in his movements, the way his strong capable hands knew exactly what to do without hesitation. No second-guessing, no anxiety—just flow.

My racing thoughts began to quiet.

It was… nice.

Stirring, pouring, flipping—the rhythmic motion strangely soothing.

He didn’t ask questions. Just slid one pancake after another on my plate before sitting down with his own stack.

“Breakfast for dinner,” he said. “Or breakfast for midnight snack. Whatever.”

The pancakes were… perfect. Fluffy, buttery, with just a hint of vanilla.

“Better than whatever processed shit they’re serving in the cafeteria if you ask me,” he said.

For the first time in forever, I ate without planning my escape route to the bathroom, without feeling the need to binge and purge.

A week later, I ran into him at the campus coffee shop. He sauntered over, all cocky confidence and bedroom eyes. “Well, hello there, cupcake.”

I gave him my best unimpressed look. “Cupcake? Really?”

“Would you prefer muffin?” He grinned wider. “Tart? Éclair? Pancake?”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t quite stop the corner of my mouth from twitching. “How about you just call me Naomi?”

“Naomi.” He rolled my name on his tongue like he was tasting it. “I think I’ll stick with cupcake.”

I wanted to be annoyed, but there was just something about him. The way he looked at me like I was someone worthy. It was unnerving. Thrilling. Terrifying.

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