Chapter 8

The grocery bag's plastic handles leave a red mark in Conrad's palm as he juggles his way into the apartment, keys dangling from his teeth. He drops the bag on the counter, wipes his hand on his hoodie, and surveys the haul: flour, two cartons of eggs (one as backup), butter, two whole sleeves of cinnamon, sugar, and a cheap sack of off-brand brown sugar because the store was out of the good stuff. He's never bought half these ingredients before. The shopping list, still curling on the counter, is the longest one he's written in weeks.

He takes a breath, pops the window open, and lets the tail end of afternoon blow through. The kitchen's already warm from the sun, but it's empty in that surgical way—clean, scrubbed, untouched since he moved in. The stand mixer sits in the corner, white and heavy, its cord perfectly coiled. It's not the only appliance in the place that's brand new. He remembers how he swore he'd never use it, that it was overkill for a one-person operation, but now he stares at it like a dare.

He unpacks everything in methodical order: flour and sugar on the right, butter stacked on the left, eggs dead centre. The measuring spoons come out of the drawer, still clipped together in a plastic ring; he pries them apart and lines them up by size, then does the same for the nesting bowls. The counter turns into a prep station, neat as a lab bench. He scans the recipe on his phone—a screenshot of Laurel's email, annotated in his mom's handwriting—and reads it through twice, then a third time for good measure.

A flash of pride creeps up when he realizes he has all the right gear, then dies instantly as he recalls the Amazon box that delivered it all. Dad's "housewarming" package, ordered by his dad's ever so helpful assistant Kayleigh.

He glances at the wall clock. Six minutes until the preheat hits 350. He taps the mixer bowl, then unspools a stick of butter onto the scale, slicing off each tablespoon with a precision he reserves for chemistry labs. The butter is still cold and hard as a brick, and he almost snaps the spatula trying to soften it. He grits his teeth and holds the metal bowl between his hands, feeling the chill leach into his skin.

He pours sugar into the bowl. The sound is louder than he expects, a gritty cascade that fills the whole room. He adds the eggs, cracking each with a tap—then a harder one when the first shell splinters, yolk drooling over his fingers. He curses under his breath, wipes his hand on a paper towel, and tries again. The second egg goes in clean, the third with only a minor breach.

When the recipe calls for cinnamon, he hesitates. The bottle reads "Saigon Cinnamon" in cheap script. He shakes in the half-teaspoon, then, on impulse, doubles it. He remembers the margin note—"don't skimp"—and for once doesn't argue.

He stirs the mixture, slow at first, then faster, watching the batter turn from gold to caramel. The aroma hits almost immediately, sharp and bright and cloying, but it makes the apartment smell less like paint and more like an actual home. The next steps happen on autopilot: flour, a pinch of salt, cream of tartar. He sifts them together with a whisk, clouds of powder puffing over his wrists and landing on the countertop in pale thumbprints.

The dough is thick and sticky, impossible to scrape clean from the bowl. He licks a dab off his finger, just to check. The sugar hits first, then the cinnamon, then a phantom of vanilla that lingers at the roof of his mouth. It's too sweet, but it's right. The recipe says to chill the dough for an hour, but he doesn't have the patience. He rolls it into balls anyway, lines them up on the baking sheet, and flattens each one with the bottom of a glass the way his mother did, the way Laurel told him to in the email.

His fingers are shaking, just a little. He forces them steady, pressing the cookies into even disks, making sure the edges are round. He catches himself going overboard, recalibrates, tells himself it doesn't have to be perfect to count.

He sprinkles the tops with more cinnamon-sugar and slides the tray into the oven, setting the timer with the same studied precision. Eleven minutes. He stands with his back against the counter, arms folded tight, watching the little numbers tick down on the stove display.

The apartment fills up, first with the scent of melting butter, then sugar, then the punch of cinnamon that almost makes his eyes water. He stares at the oven window, at the way the cookies spread and crackle at the edges, their middles turning pale and puffy. The timer beeps, shrill and insistent, and he yanks the tray out, careful not to tip it. He sets it on the stovetop and crouches to eye level, watching the cookies settle and wrinkle as they cool.

He's supposed to wait until they're set, but he can't. He pries one from the tray, burning his fingers in the process, and takes a bite.

The sugar crunches at the rim, then dissolves. The centre is soft, almost undercooked, and the heat carries the cinnamon up into his sinuses, sweet and spicy and a little raw. For a second, he just stands there, chewing.

The memory is immediate and absolute: his mother at the kitchen island, hair up in a towel, swaying to Fleetwood Mac as she dusted cookies with a flick of her wrist. The soundtrack was always the same—old hits and new ones, a playlist that got longer every summer, but never changed at the core. She'd sing along, off-key, taste the batter, lick the spoon, and make a mess of the entire counter. Conrad was always tasked with cleaning up. He never minded.

He closes his eyes, swallows, and lets the heat build behind his eyelids. The cookies taste exactly like they're supposed to.

He slides the rest onto a cooling rack, lines them up in perfect rows. The kitchen smells like childhood, like home, like every summer before last March. He wants to save the feeling, bottle it, but already he can feel the edges of it fraying.

When the last cookie comes off the tray, he starts cleaning up. He wipes down the counter, washes the bowls and spoons, sweeps up the streaks of flour and cinnamon from the floor. It's mechanical, almost soothing. He's done before the cookies are even cool.

For a long time, he just stands there, listening to the silence, feeling the sugar buzz crackle through his veins.

He could almost hear Susannah laugh. Or maybe it's just the wind from the open window, tugging at the edges of the recipe on his phone.

He doesn't touch another cookie. Not yet.

But he thinks about the girl next door, and how maybe, for once, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to show up at someone else's door with more than an empty Tupperware.

He stacks the cookies in concentric rings on the biggest plate he owns, using a ruler to nudge the outer edge into a near-perfect circle. It's stupid, he knows, but it gives his hands something to do. The cookies steam gently against the plastic wrap, fogging it where it clings. He adds an extra layer of foil around the rim, just in case. No sense in risking a drop.

He collects the bag of Tupperware from under the sink—the entire week's worth, washed and dried until the lids fit with a muted pop. The sight of so many empty containers makes him feel unreasonably guilty, like he's some kind of leech, or a twelve-year-old returning homework late.

He checks his reflection in the microwave door. The hair's a lost cause, but he flattens it anyway, wipes a crumb from the corner of his mouth. He rehearses a line in his head: "Thanks for all the food—thought you'd like these." No, that sounds transactional. "Figured I'd return the favour." That's worse. "Hey." That's probably the best he can do.

He paces the length of his kitchen three times, then four, staring down at the plate, at the bag, at his own trembling fingers. The plastic wrap crackles every time he adjusts it. He almost talks himself out of the whole thing. It would be easier to just leave the cookies at her door, a coward's delivery, but the thought of her opening the door to nothing but sugar and silence is somehow worse.

He slides into his sneakers, tucks the plate against his chest, and steps into the hallway.

The light above his door flickers, buzzing like a dying mosquito. It's already dark outside, and the corridor has that end-of-day chill, the kind that makes everything echo: the clack of his steps, the squeak of the old linoleum, the faint hum from the vending machine down by the mailboxes. His socks slip inside the shoes with every step, a constant reminder that he's underdressed for this.

Amelia's door is only six feet away, but it feels like miles. He pauses in front of it, tries to balance the plate in one hand while he wipes the other down the side of his jeans. He shifts the bag of Tupperware into his elbow, then swaps hands, then finally gives up and clutches everything tight to his stomach.

He stands there for five heartbeats. Maybe ten. The memory of the last time she knocked—her in a ponytail, flour on her cheek, holding a peace offering—makes him want to bolt.

He forces his hand up and knocks.

The sound is embarrassingly soft. He knocks again, harder, and waits.

The door opens on the second try, and she's there, wearing an oversize t-shirt with faded blue script and a pair of leggings. Her hair is up, and she's got a pen tucked behind one ear. She looks surprised, but not like she's caught off guard—more like she's curious what animal the cat dragged in.

She stares at the plate, at the cookies, then at the bag dangling from his arm.

"You baked?" she says, and her smile is slow but wide, genuine as anything.

Conrad tries to swallow the nerves. "Yeah. Um. My mom's recipe." He holds out the plate with both hands, the plastic wrap crinkling in protest. "Thought you might want some."

Amelia's eyes go wide for a second, then soft. She accepts the plate with reverence, turning it in her hands to study the careful spiral, the way the sugar sparkles in the hallway light.

"They look incredible," she says. "Are you sure you haven't swapped your major to pastry arts?"

He snorts. "I had help. From the ghost of my mother."

Amelia laughs—actually laughs—and sets the plate on a side table inside the door. "Come in. Please. I just made tea, and it would be criminal not to try these while they're still warm."

He hesitates, just for a breath, then steps over the threshold, letting the bag of Tupperware swing against his shin. The door clicks shut behind him, and the noise of the hallway disappears.

She picks up the cookies, then gestures to the kitchen with a tilt of her head. "I hope you're okay with peppermint. It's all I had left after midterms."

"That's fine," he says, and means it.

Amelia glances at the bag in his hand. "Is that for me, or are you planning to move out?"

He flushes, realizing how ridiculous it must look. "It's the empties. From before. I figured you'd want them back."

She sets the plate down on the counter, takes the bag, and peeks inside. "Impressive. Most people just let these collect until they're colonized by something green."

"Yeah, I'm not most people," Conrad says, and for the first time tonight, it feels more like a fact than an apology.

She lines the Tupperware up on the counter, then rips the foil and plastic from the plate. The scent of cinnamon and sugar explodes into the room.

She lifts one cookie, inspects it, then takes a huge bite.

"Oh my god," she says, mouth full. "This is—" She's so busy chewing she can't finish the sentence.

He stands there, hands in his pockets, watching her enjoy the hell out of it. The tightness in his chest loosens, fraction by fraction.

"I can't believe you baked," she says, when she's swallowed. "I've never met a guy who actually follows through on that."

He shrugs. "Figured it was time to return the favour."

She beams at him, and suddenly he feels like he's overwhelmed with emotions he can't quite pin point.

"Tea's ready in two minutes," she says. "Sit. Make yourself at home."

He glances at her little table—a real one, not an afterthought like in his own place—and nods, moving to the chair closest to the window.

Amelia pulls down two mugs, then sits across from him, already reaching for a second cookie.

"You have no idea how much I needed this," she says, voice softer now. "Today was a disaster. But this—" she waves the cookie "—makes it better."

He watches her, unsure if he's supposed to say anything else, so he doesn't.

Amelia's apartment feels like a secret level in the same game: all the same corners, but everything reskinned in soft amber and colour. Instead of white LED overheads, there's a table lamp in the living room with a woven shade that throws a gentle shadow over the couch. The couch itself is battered corduroy, brightened with a ridiculous number of patterned cushions and a throw that looks handmade.

There are books everywhere—stacks on the floor, on the side tables, even a line of cookbooks on the kitchen counter, spines cracked and stained. Above the window hangs a curtain of origami cranes strung together with fishing wire. The air smells faintly of lavender and something sharper, maybe from the tea.

He sits at the little dining table, which wobbles slightly under his elbow, and tries to keep his eyes from darting everywhere at once. It's hard to believe this is next door to his own monastic cell.

Amelia pours tea with the confidence of someone who's done this a thousand times. The kettle is ancient, the mugs mismatched. She adds a splash of cold water to his before he can say anything, then a spoonful of honey to her own. She passes him the mug, then slides the plate of cookies closer to the centre.

They sit for a while, saying nothing. The table is scattered with cookie crumbs and tea rings, but neither seems inclined to move. It's the kind of quiet that could go on forever and never get old.

Conrad drums his fingers lightly against his mug, then stills them. He stares at the cranes hanging by the window, the way they sway slightly when the heater kicks on. His voice, when it comes, is low and uncertain.

"Why have you been so nice to me?"

Amelia blinks, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, eyes on the mug. "The food. The tea. Letting me sit here and take up your time. You don't even know me, but... you've gone out of your way. People don't usually do that for me. Not anymore." His throat tightens. "Sometimes it feels like no one even... likes me." The last part slips out before he can stop it, raw and too honest, but he doesn't take it back.

Amelia leans her chin into her palm, studying him, her expression softened. "You're not hard to like, Conrad. You're just... hard on yourself." She lets that hang before adding, gently, "I've been where you are. When everything feels too heavy, when you think you're carrying it alone. If a batch of cookies or some leftovers makes it a little easier for even one night? That's worth it."

Her words land in his chest like a hand pressed firmly against his heart—steady, grounding. He swallows, mouth dry.

"My mom," he says suddenly, surprising himself. "She... died. A few months ago."

Amelia's eyes soften, but she doesn't interrupt.

"She had cancer. For a while, it looked like she was going to beat it." He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "And then it came back. Worse. Faster. She didn't... she tried to hide it but no matter what she did she didn't stand a chance the second time."

Amelia's fingers tighten around her mug. "Conrad..."

He shakes his head, as if to wave her off. But once the door is open, he can't seem to shut it. "I overheard my parents fighting one night, about his—about my dad's affair, how he cheated on her during her first round of chemo, how she wouldn't let him ruin her final months. I wasn't supposed to know. But I did. And then I had to pretend I didn't, for months. I had to smile at my brother, act normal, like everything wasn't... breaking. He never knew. None of them did." His voice cracks on the last word, barely audible.

The silence after is thick, fragile. Conrad stares down at the table, braced for pity, or worse, discomfort.

But Amelia doesn't look away. "That's... a hell of a burden to carry." Her tone isn't pitying, just honest. "No wonder you look like you've been holding your breath for years." She reaches across the table, fingers brushing the edge of his mug, close but not quite touching him. "You don't have to tell me everything. But you don't have to keep it all inside, either."

Conrad closes his eyes briefly, then nods. When he opens them, she's still there—steady, unflinching.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn't feel completely alone with the weight of it.

"So," she says, plucking another snickerdoodle from the pile. "Tell me the secret to this godly creation."

He rolls the mug between his hands, letting the steam chase away his nervousness. "There's no secret. My mom just made them. Every fall. She didn't even measure most of it—just poured stuff in until it felt right. But uh.. I actually had Laurel send the recipe through to me. She's been like a second mum to me since I can remember. Our families have always been close, we'd spend summer together ever year. She taught me how to fold the dough just right, how to sprinkle the sugar so it catches the light." He swirls his tea, the amber liquid catching the glimpse of the window. "She's been there for me through everything. Even when—" He trails off, jaw tightening as a flicker of Belly's face intrudes into his mind.

Amelia's brows lift. "Hey, it's okay—"

"No," he interrupts softly, forcing a small smile. "It's just... hard." He lets the sentence hang, then shifts his gaze to the window.

Amelia nods in understanding before making a show of inspecting the cookie. "They're perfect. Crispy at the edge, soft in the middle. I am very jealous."

Conrad shrugs. "They never turned out like this when I tried before. I had to follow the recipe exactly. If I didn't, she'd know."

Amelia's lips twitch. "A true scientist. Were you her sous-chef, or more of a quality-control consultant?"

"I did cleanup," he admits. "Jere—my brother—was banned from the kitchen after the brown sugar incident." He smiles, just a ghost of it, but it's real.

"Tragic," she says, like it's a national loss.

They both reach for a cookie at the same time. His knuckles bump hers, and for a second neither moves. Amelia grins, then lets him go first. The silence that follows is easy. The cookie is better than the one he ate earlier— maybe because it's cooled, maybe because it's here, maybe because he's not thinking about messing up.

Amelia breaks the hush. "My dad was the cook in my house. Mum can barely boil an egg, but he'd make these enormous feasts—pasta, curry, Sunday roasts that took all day." She takes a thoughtful sip. "I started baking with him when I was little. He'd say baking was for people who liked rules. Cooking was for chaos artists."

Conrad laughs, a sound he hasn't heard from himself in a long time. "He sounds like someone who'd get along with my mom."

Amelia nods, her eyes gone soft. "They'd have formed an unstoppable team."

He looks down at the mug. "He still cook?"

The pause is small, but heavy. "He passed, when I was fifteen," she says, voice gentle, no drama. "Plane crash. One of those tiny Cessnas, bad weather. It's odd, but I bake more now than I did before. I think he'd like that."

Conrad meets her gaze, and the room seems to contract until it's just the two of them at the table, hands curled around mugs, breathing the same air.

He hears himself saying, "I wish I'd paid more attention, when she was teaching me. I thought I'd have time."

Amelia's eyes are bright, not with tears but with something sharper. "You have some of it, though. The muscle memory. That's what matters."

He wants to say thanks, but it comes out, "She'd have liked you. You'd have gotten along."

"I'd have liked her, too." Amelia polishes off another cookie, then lifts the plate to her nose. "Is it weird to say these smell like Christmas? Not the holiday—just... the way you hope it will be."

"Yeah," he says, and it lands in the exact centre of his chest.

They talk about baking for a while—Amelia's failed banana bread attempts, Conrad's vendetta against royal icing, the best way to keep cookies from going stale. It shifts, naturally, to school. She's studying computer science. He tells her about his pre med classes, the way his organic chemistry professor draws molecular structures with both hands simultaneously, and how he once stayed awake for thirty-six hours straight before his anatomy practical, only to fall asleep standing up while staring at a cadaver's exposed liver.

They cover favourite movies (hers: "anything with zombies"; his: "007, specifically the Pierce Brosnan era"), best campus study spots, the proper way to pronounce "oregano," and why Americans don't just use a damn scale when baking.

At some point, the tea runs out. Amelia refills it, adding another drizzle of honey to both mugs. Conrad notices he's halfway through his second cookie, and for once he doesn't feel like he has to apologize for it.

It gets dark outside. The origami cranes throw little shadows on the wall, swaying when the window catches a breeze. Amelia leans back in her chair, mug held in both hands, like it's a shield and a comfort at once.

"I never thought I'd actually like anyone in this building," she admits. "Most of the neighbours are—well, you've seen them."

Conrad nods. "I try to avoid."

"Likewise," she says. "But you're alright, Fisher."

He snorts. "You barely know me."

"I know you can bake," she says, deadpan. "That's more than enough."

They sit for a while, saying nothing. The table is scattered with cookie crumbs and tea rings, but neither seems inclined to move. It's the kind of quiet that could go on forever and never get old.

Eventually, Conrad stands, stretching the knots from his back. "I should go. Early class tomorrow. If I don't finish this lab writeup, my professor will combust."

Amelia stands too, collecting the empty mugs. "You can take the rest with you. I'll eat them all if you don't."

He hesitates, then says, "I made them for you."

She looks at him for a long second, then smiles—a real, unguarded thing. "That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me all year," she says. "Thank you."

Conrad shrugs, not sure what to do with the warmth rising in his face.

He makes it to the door before she calls after him. "Hey, Conrad?"

He glances back.

"Next week, I'm making cinnamon rolls. If you want to help—or just judge—let me know."

He considers, then nods. "Yeah. Okay. I will."

The hallway is cold after the warmth of her apartment, but the taste of cinnamon lingers all the way back to his place.

When he gets inside, the air is still heavy with the scent of the cookies he left behind. He sits on the couch and pulls out his phone, opening a photo of the cookies he had snapped before heading to Amelia's. His thumbs hover over the screen before typing: "They turned out pretty good. Thanks for the recipe." He attaches the photo and sends it to Laurel, then sets his phone face-down and watches the shadows on the ceiling. For the first time in forever, he's not in a hurry to do anything else. He smiles, just a little, and lets the evening settle around him. There will be time for everything else, later.