“The recipe says one and a half teaspoons of vanilla,” he said carefully, voice low. “But you can round up, if you want.”
“You’re letting me round?”
His mouth twitched. “Just a little.”
He held out a wooden spoon. A silent offering to let me stir.
My fingers brushed his as I took it. I stared down at the bowl like it might lunge at me.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asked, not looking directly at me. “Your nightmare?”
I shook my head. “No.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense. “Okay. Then I’ll talk.”
He cracked eggs with one hand like a show-off. One of them landed a little crooked, yolk sliding down his fingers, but he didn’t stop.
“Whatever it was, it doesn’t get to own your night,” he said. “You’re awesome, Mags. Like, aggressively awesome. Ten out of ten. Highly recommend. Would roommate again.”
I rolled my eyes, but my chest ached.
“You’re smart. You’re quick. You’re terrifying when you’re hangry, but it’s kind of sexy,” he continued. “You’re good and kind. You make space for people. You remember things, little things. You saved that stray cat last week even though it scratched the hell out of you.”
“That cat was a demon.”
“And you still cared.”
I looked down at the bowl as I stirred. The butter and sugar slowly folded together into something better than either were on their own. Roman kept going like he hadn’t just said something that made me want to cry.
“You’re funny. You make my weird feel normal,” he said, glancing at me. “And you’re cute as hell when you’re half asleep and glaring at your coffee like it betrayed you.”
“I’m not cute,” I mumbled.
“You’re adorable when you lie, too.”
One of the eggs cracked wrong in his hand and spilled down his arm with a wet plop.
“Ugh, gross,” he muttered. “That’s it.”
He peeled his sweatshirt off with theatrical drama, like he was accepting an Oscar for Best Flour-Dusted Torso. He folded the top and placed it on the table. My brain promptly stalled.
“That’s unfair,” I said, glaring at his chest like it owed me an apology.
Roman arched a brow. “What is?”
“You. Shirtless and saying nice things. It’s manipulative.”
He grinned. “You think I’m emotionally manipulating you with my delts?”
“I think you’re a menace.”
“I think you’re deflecting.”
Before I could come up with a suitable comeback, he reached into the bag of flour and flicked some at me.
“Don’t-” I warned.
He did it again.
Which, obviously, meant war.
I grabbed a handful of flour and lobbed it at his chest. It exploded like a powder bomb. Roman yelped and retaliated with a puff aimed at my face. I shrieked, flailing, and upended the mixing bowl as I grabbed the counter for balance. Some of the dough ended up smeared across his jaw. He tried to duck behind the fridge door, hit his head, cursed, and somehow flung sugar onto the counter like confetti.
Flour in my eyelashes. Dough on his neck.
We were both breathless from laughing by the time we collapsed on the floor, backs against the lower cabinets, our clothes dusted with white. My cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Truce?” he panted.
“I don’t trust you.”
He held up a jar of peanut butter. “Let’s just eat this and pretend the cookies were a success.”
I grabbed two spoons from the drawer and sank down beside him again. We passed the jar back and forth and ate in silence.
It was almost two in the morning. I should’ve been dead tired. Instead, I felt… light. Not healed. Not fixed. But I wasn’t drowning anymore.
Roman glanced over at me, eyes half-lidded. “You should sleep. I’ll clean.”
“No,” I said, pushing to my feet slowly. “We’ll regret this more if we’re walking zombies tomorrow. We’ll deal with the mess after we sleep.”
He followed me to the hallway, and we paused outside our doors. His was still slightly ajar. Mine was a safe distance away. He was still shirtless. I was still pretending not to notice.
“Night, menace,” I murmured.
“Night, grumpy liar.”
I smiled. He did too.
Roman glanced back at the messy kitchen as if he was deliberating going back to clean it. I wondered if he would make it to bed without taking care of the mess.
I stepped inside my room and closed the door behind me, the soft click too loud in the hush. After wiping myself off with a towel and changing out of my flour-dusted clothes, I flopped onto my bed and let out a long breath.
Please don’t dream about Roman again.
Or do.
Just make it less emotionally devastating next time.
Maggie
My phone buzzed insistently against the nightstand, like it knew I was trying to avoid reality. I groaned and rolled over, tangled in a mess of sheets and dreams I didn’t want to remember. My eyes were crusty, throat dry, and the early morning light filtering through the curtains felt too bright.
I blinked against the screen’s glow and squinted until the sender’s name came into focus:
Eric.
Just seeing it made my stomach clench. Like muscle memory, an emotional reflex. I opened the message.
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