Page 35 of Ashes of Us
"Oh, you've entered a war zone."
"I'm Team Buttercream, for the record. Fondant tastes like sweetened Play-Doh."
"Correct opinion." I handed him an apron—one of mine, which meant it said RISE & SHINE across the front in cheerful letters. He put it on without complaint.
We ate first, sitting on the kitchen floor because my apartment above the bakery was still barely furnished. Just a mattress on the floor in the bedroom, a card table with two folding chairs, and boxes I hadn't unpacked yet.
"You really committed to the minimalist aesthetic," Daniel observed, looking around.
"I've been busy."
"Clearly." He gestured at the kitchen, which was the only room that looked lived-in. Professional-grade stand mixer, shelves of baking supplies, a collection of mixing bowls that would make any chef jealous. "You put all your energy into this."
"It's all I have right now."
He looked at me for a long moment. "I don't think that's true. But I get why it feels that way."
Then he stood up, brushed off his hands, and said: "Okay. Teach me about fondant."
Two hours later,we had something that actually looked like a superhero logo. The lines were decent—I'd had to fix a few of Daniel's wobbly edges—and the colors only bled a little in one corner where he'd been a little too enthusiastic with the red. Notmy best work, but still bakery-window worthy. The kid would love it.
"Not bad for a first-timer," I said, stepping back to assess our work.
"I had a good teacher." Daniel was studying the cake with the same focused intensity he'd probably used on trauma patients. "Think the mom will be satisfied?"
"She'll be thrilled. Trust me."
"Optimistic. I like it."
I started cleaning up. Washing bowls, wiping down counters, the familiar rhythm of closing down the kitchen. Daniel helped without being asked, falling into an easy partnership that felt startling in its naturalness.
When everything was clean, he hung up the apron and checked his watch.
"I should go. Early shift tomorrow."
"Right. Yeah." I walked him to the door, suddenly awkward. "Thanks for... all of this. The food, the fondant, the terrible YouTube tutorials."
"Anytime." He paused in the doorway, backlit by the stairwell light. "So. Same time next week? Or is that too presumptuous?"
"Presumptuous would be assuming I need help with fondant again."
"Fair point. You're clearly a professional." He grinned. "How about just dinner then? No cake emergencies required."
"I'd like that."
"Yeah?" His smile widened, and I realized he'd genuinely been unsure of my answer.
"Yeah."
He kissed my cheek—brief, warm—and headed down the stairs. "Text me when you're free," he called back. "I'll bring better takeout next time."
"The Thai food was fine!"
"It was lukewarm by the time we ate it. I can do better."
I stood in the doorway, smiling like an idiot, until I heard the outside door close behind him.
Then I went back inside, locked up, and looked at the superhero cake sitting on my counter. My phone buzzed almost immediately. Daniel.
