Page 114 of Between Love and War
Michael raises a brow. “Kate, he wears a baseball cap indoors.”
I smile, even as my chest aches. “Fine. I’ll text you.”
Michael chuckles, but it fades as quickly as it comes. His gaze softens. “You know I’m still rooting for you, right?” he says, stepping closer. “Not just bakery dreams. I mean all of it.”
My smile tilts, a little confused. “All of it?”
He nods. “You’re gonna get that cheesy grand gesture someday.”
And I feel his words dance around in my head. Because I don’t want a cheesy grand gesture anymore. I just want him.
“I’m rooting for you too,” I say. “You’ll reach big milestones. Big dreams.”
He laughs as his expression shifts. He steps closer, and I suddenly forget how to breathe. His hand comes up, brushing a loose piece of hair away from my face. I freeze, not because I don’t want this, but because I do—so much it almost undoes me.
“You’re staring,” I whisper, trying to be funny, but it comes out more breath than bravado.
“You’re still beautiful when you’re sad,” he replies softly. “That should be illegal.”
His hands cup my face like I’m made of something delicate and rare. His thumbs gently graze my cheeks, and I feel everything—how he’s trying to be brave too, how much he doesn’t want this moment to end.
“I just… don’t want to forget anything,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
And then he kisses me.
Like he’s pouring every version of love he knows into it. And both of us don’t know much about versions of love. But we both know this version. The one where we yearn but mourn the other at the same time.
I kiss him back with all the things I never said out loud. Every quirky thought I filtered. Every look I stole. Every time I fell a little harder without telling him. I kiss him with the parts of myself I never thought existed.
When he pulls back, his hands still linger at my waist.
“You’ll always be home to me, Katie,” he says.
And somehow, for the first time, I believe that maybe I could be someone’s home. Someone worth staying for. But more than that—someone who could stand on her own, sturdy enough for another person to depend on.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Michael
Istare at the box of cookies. Kate gave me these last night after our breakup. I don’t even know if it’s worth calling a breakup. Things have to be whole for them to break, and it’s like we were never given a chance to be whole, together.
It’s not just the cookies that get me, though. I’ve had them a hundred times. I know the taste before I even lift the lid—chewy in the middle, crisp at the edges, warm even when they’re not. Like her.
But there’s a note taped to the top, folded once and stained slightly with oil. For a second, I think it’s a letter. Something emotional. Something I can read and reread until the words stop hurting.
It’s not.
It’s a recipe.
Her recipe.
Step-by-step instructions in her curly handwriting, with little notes like “don’t skimp on the salt, trust me,” and “this step is optional but do it anyway.” At the bottom, she’s drawn a tiny smiley face beside her name like she’s trying to soften the blow.
And somehow, that stings more.
Because giving me this recipe is the farewell. Like she’s telling me to make my own cookies now since she’s not gonna be there anymore.
I hear my doorbell ring. My heart leaps stupidly and irrationally. That’s Kate.
