Page 80 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“I like us like this,” I say. “Covered in frosting. Arguing about lemon peels.”

Jennifer grins, cheeks pink, eyes soft. “You really are the sweetest third-degree felon.”

I’m gone. Down bad. In love. Probably gonna end up with icing on my dick somehow. And I wouldn’t change a damn thing.

We’re quiet for a moment. Not the bad kind. Not tense or weird or oh no I crossed a line by saying I want to lick frosting off your collarbone. Just the soft kind. The kind that settles over you when the sugar high ebbs and all that’s left is the hum of the kitchen and the weight of being close.

Jennifer’s standing close enough I can feel her breath on my jaw. Her nose is still dusted with flour. Her hands are still messy. Mine too. And yet we’re both frozen like we’re scared if we move, we’ll break whatever this moment is.

I should say something flirty. Funny. Light.

Instead, I say, “I like being part of this.”

She squints like I’ve dropped a math problem on her. “Part of…?”

“This.” I wave a frosting-smeared hand vaguely around the kitchen. “The plan. The fair. The weird little murder bakery coven. I know I’m not the scariest guy in the room or the one who can pull strings with police departments or, I don’t know, embalm a body while quoting Rilke. But I can do this. I can showup early. I can bring backup flour. I can make sure the cupcakes don’t collapse because we overmixed.”

Jennifer’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “You brought extra flour?” she asks, but her voice is doing that wobbly, almost-cracking thing that makes my heart lurch.

I nod. “And spoons. And… a lemon zester. Just in case.”

She stares at me like I hung the moon. Or at least like I remembered to hang her porch light, which, okay, I also did. Then she says, so quiet it almost slips past me, “I didn’t think I’d ever have this.”

It hits me right in the spot where feelings live. Somewhere between my sternum and my ability to form coherent thoughts. “This… what?” I ask, even though I know.

She shrugs one shoulder. “Someone who cares enough to show up. To help. Not because they want something. Not because they’re angling for control. Just… because.”

I don’t know what to do with all the emotions suddenly crashing around in her eyes. So I do the only thing I can think of. I reach out and wipe the flour off her nose with my thumb.

She catches my wrist mid-motion and holds it there. Her fingers are warm. Her grip’s a little shaky.

“You matter,” I tell her, because it feels like the most important truth I’ve ever known. “You’re not too much or too sharp or too scary. You’re you. And that’s enough. It’s more than enough.”

She leans into my hand, just slightly. Enough that I feel the pressure of her cheek against my palm. “Goddamn it, Blake,” she whispers. “You’re gonna make me cry into the batter.”

“Crying adds depth of flavor,” I tease gently. “Like salted caramel.”

She laughs. Chokes on it. Laughs again.

And I think I’m getting through. Not as the flustered neighbor. Not as backup. But as someone who belongs.

I tuck that laugh away. Save it somewhere stupid and soft, like a kid hoarding shiny rocks. Then I turn to the cakes. They’re perfect.

Golden domes of tender lemon cake, just the right rise, no sinking middles. Glossy swirls of buttercream piped with near-religious precision. Tiny, candied lemon curls perched like crowns. They gleam. They practically hum with triumph.

Jennifer studies them like a war general inspecting her troops. Then, slowly, she peels back a wrapper, lifts one to her mouth, and takes a bite.

Her eyes flutter shut. A muffled, obscene moan escapes her throat. She swallows with visible effort, then drags her teeth across her lower lip like she’s trying to pull herself together and failing.

“They’re lethal,” she says softly. Like a confession. “Absolutely criminal. I want to fuck this cupcake.”

I forget my name, the year, and how to stand upright. “So… we’re still talking about the cupcakes, right?”

Her laugh bubbles out of her, warm and loose and beautiful. She swats at my arm with the back of her hand, icing still clinging to her fingertips. “You wish, Baker Boy.”

God help me, I really do.

Then there’s a new softness in her expression, something heavy and sweet behind the usual smirk. Her eyes flick to my mouth. And without another word, she leans in and kisses me. It’s not the kind of kiss that makes people grab counters and knock over bowls.

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