He looked up when she appeared in the doorway, and his face transformed—surprise melting into something softer, more vulnerable.
"Fi," he breathed, setting down the bowl. "What are you—how did you?—"
"You left your address with the building manager," she said, her voice coming out sharper than she'd intended. "In case of emergencies."
His eyes searched her face. "Is everything okay? What can I do? What do you need?”
The concern in his voice, the way he stepped toward her instinctively, made something crack open in her chest. She was furious with him for making her feel this way—for making her want to forgive him when she wasn't ready, for making her miss him when she was supposed to be moving on.
"No," she said, then immediately contradicted herself. "Yes. I don't know."
Dean's hands were covered in flour, but he held them out toward her anyway. "What do you need?"
The simple question nearly undid her. What did she need?
She needed to not be so confused. She needed to not love him. She needed him to stop being so goddamn thoughtful when she was trying to hate him.
"I need—" Her voice cracked. "You said you'd do anything."
"I meant it."
"Then I need you to hug me," she whispered, hating how small her voice sounded. "I need you to hug me and not say anything about what it means or doesn't mean. I just need?—"
She didn't get to finish the sentence because Dean was already there, flour-dusted arms wrapping around her, pulling her against his chest. He smelled like cinnamon and home and the particular scent that was just him, and she buried her face in his shoulder and tried not to cry.
"I've got you," he murmured into her hair, one hand cradling the back of her head. "I've got you, Fi."
She let herself melt into him, let herself remember what it felt like to be held by someone who knew all her soft places. Then she pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"What are you making?" she asked, nodding toward the chaos on the counter.
Dean's cheeks flushed. "Cinnamon rolls. Your grandmother's recipe. I found it in that old cookbook you left behind." He gestured helplessly at the mess. "I thought maybe—I know you said baked goods solve everything, and I made fun of that, but?—"
"You're making my grandmother's cinnamon rolls," Fiona said slowly.
"Badly," he admitted. "The dough looks wrong, and I think I used too much cinnamon, and June had to help me figure out the oven temperature because apparently I don't know how to?—"
"Dean." Her voice stopped his rambling. "You're making my grandmother's cinnamon rolls."
CHAPTER 62
Dean
Dean lookedat her like she was the only real thing in the room. Fiona sat at the small kitchen table, curled slightly forward, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea June had silently placed in front of her. Her hair was a little frizzy from the morning humidity. She looked tired. Messy. Soft.
Beautiful.
He leaned back against the counter and tried to play it cool. He should check the dough rising—or not rising, frankly—behind him in the bowl, but he didn’t move. If he looked away from her, she might disappear.
“I wasn’t trying to impress you,” Dean said, because he couldn’t not say it. “With the baking. Or the folder. Or anything, really. I’m just—trying to show you that I see that now. What matters. What you gave me.”
Her fingers tightened slightly on the mug.
“I used to think that being a man meant... being impressive,” Dean said quietly. “Being successful. Getting applause. I thoughtif I worked hard enough, everyone would know I mattered. Thatwemattered.”
Fiona finally looked up.
“And I forgot,” he said. “That what mattered most was already in my house. Laughing at her own jokes and bringing home glitter in her hair.”
