But first—first he needed to do something with his hands before he put his fist through a wall.
The apartment smelled like vanilla,and desperation.
Dean stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, flour dusted across the front of his shirt like battle scars. The mixer whirred too loudly in the quiet, but he let it run—like noise could fill the spaces she'd once occupied.
He wasn’t good at this. Not baking. Not living without her.
He reached for the chocolate chips, dumping them in.
Fiona had always said baked goods solved everything.
She’d said it with a laugh in her voice, handing him a cookie too hot to touch and grinning like she was delivering a sacred truth.
He remembered the exact moment. A year ago? Maybe more. She’d heard the neighbor yelling—one of those late-night arguments that crawled through the walls and made everyone feel too close. Fiona had stood at the door with a plate of cookies the next day, soft smile and awkward knock.
Dean had asked her why.
She’d smiled. “Baked goods solve everything.”
He remembered thinking it was naive.
And later that night—he remembered this part too well—he'd posted about it.
Dean had liked the comments.
He’d laughed at them.
He looked down at the cookie dough in the bowl now. It didn’t look like healing. It looked like mess—too sticky, uneven, a little lumpy.
He grabbed a baking sheet and began scooping.
He slid the tray into the oven and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, the heat of it warming his skin.
He didn’t know if she’d ever eat one of these.
But he was doing it anyway.
Because Fiona believed kindness counted.
He set a timer, wiped the counter clean, and sat down at the table with the smell of butter and shame wrapping around him like memory.
CHAPTER 33
Fiona
The apartment was tooquiet when she got home.
Emma was still at the clinic, and Fiona had promised she didn’t mind being alone. She did. But it was the kind of loneliness she couldn’t admit out loud—not without sounding like she missed him.
She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and stood in the center of the guest room. The weight of the day hung off her like wet clothes.
Marcus’ father at school. The paperwork at the lawyer’s office.The long drive back to Sweetwater.
Fiona walked to the bed and sat, slow and stiff, like her limbs weren’t all working together. She pulled the quilt up around her shoulders and tucked her knees to her chest. It didn’t help.
She looked down at her hands. One bare finger, feeling naked from a ring she no longer wore. She pressed her thumb to it like she could still feel the weight.
And then—because she couldn’t stop herself—she wrapped her arms around her own body.
