Page 109 of Ashes of Us
"Yeah?"
"Crack them into a separate bowl first. Not directly into the mixer."
"I knew that."
"Sure you did."
The bakery was quiet at 5:30 AM, just the two of us and the hum of the refrigerator cases and the early May light starting to creep through the front windows. This had become our routine over the past few months: him showing up before my morning shift, helping in whatever way he could, which usually meant taste-testing and keeping me company while I actually did the work.
Today was different though. Today he'd insisted on helping make Maya's birthday bread himself. Something about proving he could do more than just eat my baking.
It was going about as well as expected.
"Okay." He cracked an egg into the bowl with intense concentration. "One."
"Good. Three more."
"This is harder than it looks."
"Most things are."
He cracked another egg. This one went in clean. So, progress. "You make it look easy."
"I've been doing this since I was twelve. You've been doing it for…” I checked my phone. “Approximately eight minutes."
"I'm a quick learner."
"You're a disaster." But I said it fondly, reaching over to wipe a smudge of flour off his cheek. He caught my hand, pressed a kiss to my palm, and I let myself have the moment. Let myself be soft with him in a way that still felt new and terrifying and right.
Six months. Six months of trying. Of therapy—both together and separate. Of hard conversations at midnight and easy ones over coffee. Of him showing up, consistently, even when it wasn't convenient. Of me letting him, even when I was scared.
It wasn't perfect, not really.
We'd had fights. Moments where old wounds opened up and we had to sit with the pain instead of running from it. Nights where I'd wake up panicking and he'd hold me until I could breathe again. Days where he'd shut down with fear, afraid I’d give up on us, and I'd have to pull him back out.
But we were doing it. Actually doing it.
"Four eggs," he announced proudly.
"Good. Now the butter. Softened, not melted."
He looked at the stick of butter on the counter. "How do I know if it's softened?"
"Press your finger into it. If it gives but doesn't collapse, it's ready."
He poked it experimentally. "Gives but doesn't collapse. Like us."
I snorted. "Did you just compare our relationship to room temperature butter?"
"I'm saying we're resilient. Pliable but structurally sound."
"That's the worst metaphor I've ever heard."
"Yeah?" He grinned, that full smile that still surprised me with its openness. "What would you call us then?"
I thought about it while he measured butter with the careful attention of someone defusing an actual bomb. What were we? Not what we'd been before; young and careless and convinced love was enough to fix anything. Not perfectly healed either; we both still carried scars, still had moments where trust felt like a tightrope.
"Rising dough," I said finally.
