“I’m trying not to wake anyone up,” I mumbled, trying not to let my voice shake as I moved to the cabinet, sliding an empty glass into my hand.
He walked up behind me, slow like a hunt, and brushed his hand along my arm. I flinched so hard I dropped the glass. It shattered across the floor.
He grabbed my shoulder—not hard, not soft. Justwrong.
“I have to tell your mom, that you’re growin’ up,” he said. “That top’s too small for you.”
Then he tugged the strap. Snapped it. Ripped it.
That sound—the softrrrripof cotton—cut louder than the glass.
I didn’t scream. Iran.
Out the front door, barefoot and breathless. The night air slammed into my lungs like a second skin. I didn’t stop running until I hit the edge of the trailer park. Then I collapsed into the faded lawn chair next to Old Man Greaves’ satellite dish, curled in on myself like a dying animal..
That was the mildest of the dreams that dragged me out of sleep in the dead of night. I don’t know what set them off—three weeks here without a single nightmare, and now suddenly, they won’t stop.
Lately, I just lie there for hours, staring at the ceiling, letting the flickering shadows from the nightlife outside spill across my walls like ghosts I can’t shake.
When my insomnia turned to hunger I found myself in the kitchen, elbow deep in my grandmother’s parker house roll recipe. It was one of the things she taught me as a child, arguably the last piece of her legacy.
The smell of flour, butter, and yeast settles around me, and I focus on the task in front of me. Measuring. Mixing. Kneading. The motions are familiar—things I’ve done a hundred times before. There’s comfort in the repetition, in doing something with my hands that has a clear beginning, middle, and end. It keeps my mind steady. Focused.
“Well, shit,” Landon drawls from the doorway, arms crossed over his bare chest. “Tell me what I have to do to keep you looking like this every morning.”
I glance up, my hands still sunk into the dough. He’s leaning against the doorframe---shirtless. Landon is fucking shirtless. A sprawl of black tattoos curves across his chest and crawls over his shoulder—bold strokes that look less like art and more like somethingspreading.
My eyes track the jagged edges, the sharp turns of ink that bite into his ribs, and then fall—against my better judgment—down to the grey sweatpants slungwaytoo low on his hips. His defined V almost makes me jump out of my skin. I drag my gaze back up—his hair hangs loose, messy around his face, and there’s that smirk. That cocky, knowing,infuriatingsmirk.
“Maybe I should wake you up like this every morning,” he says, voice thick with sleep and heat. “So you’ll keep looking at me like that.”
A flush rises fast across my neck, burning into my ears. I turn sharply back to the counter, pressing my palms into the dough like it insulted me.
“Do you ever announce yourself like a normal person?” I mutter, rolling the dough harder than necessary.
He smirks, his gaze lazily dragging down my flour-dusted tank top to the curve of my thighs. “Didn’t realize you baked when you couldn’t sleep. It’s…weirdly sexy.”
“Yeah, nothing says ‘take me now’ like flour, buttermilk and trauma,” I deadpan, brushing hair out of my face with my forearm.
Landon pushes off the frame and stalks towards me with lazy steps. “You think I’m kidding, Peach, but I’m watching you make bread with that bitey little scowl, and it’s doing things to me.”
“Are those things bakery-related or should I be concerned?”
He stops just short of the counter, palms braced on the edge. His eyes burn into mine, lower lip caught between his teeth. “Both.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how small the kitchen is. How warm the air feels now. Howclosehe is.
He leans in, dipping his head so his voice brushes my ear. “You know, if you ever need help with… kneading... I’m good with my hands.”
I roll my eyes so hard it nearly resets my brain. “Do you flirt like this with every girl covered in flour at three a.m., or am I just lucky?”
“Only the ones I lose sleep over.”
And fuck, the way he says it—half-teasing, half-raw—makes something stir low in my stomach.
I look away. Grab the rolling pin. Pretend I’m not flushed.
“You’re not getting any if you keep talking.”
