Page 24 of Soaring and Steadfast

“I know.” He exhaled, the faintest hint of a self-conscious smile playing at his lips. “But I’m also afraid to put my foot in my mouth.”

“It doesn’t feel good.”

“Oh, I’ve certainly done it before.” He chuckled, but the sound was softer, carrying something unspoken beneath it. He handed her a cup, their fingers nearly brushing before she pulled away first. “Several times, in fact.”

His next words were almost hesitant. “Do you want to sit on the couch—where it doesn’t have baby fluid?” He grimaced before quickly adding, “Or maybe at the table.”

“The table,” she decided, pausing just a fraction too long. The distance between them mattered.

She turned toward the counter, reaching for something that felt safe. “I’m stealing a cupcake to go with my coffee. Want one?”

“Please,” he said, a hint of something grateful in his voice. “I’ve got a huge sweet tooth that I try to keep contained normally, but I think I need the sugar right now.”

“Feeding the trauma?”

His expression turned wry. “Is it wrong to admit it?”

“Heck no.” She forced a small, wry grin, though her heart felt heavier than before. “I’m contemplating having a chocolate cupcake and a vanilla one to shut that anxiety down.”

“No judgment from my end.” His chuckle was quiet, almost conspiratorial, as he grabbed the box from the counter and placed it between them on the table—deliberate, firm, a tangible barrier and an offering all at once. “Dinner is served.”

“Oh, man…” Her laugh was more breath than sound, nerves threading through it. The box between them felt like a line neither of them was ready to cross. “Don’t tempt me.”

They sat in the quiet, the air between them thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Lila stole glances at Louis, trying toreconcile the man before her with the one she’d come to know through late-night messages and easy, effortless banter. He had been her comfort when she let her past slip through carefully guarded cracks, his words a steady hand even from miles away. But here, in the hush of this moment, he was something more—solid, real, close enough to touch.

She watched as he reached for another cupcake, the motion absentminded, almost like armor.

Then he met her gaze.

“My anxiety is still talking,” he admitted, the words soft, an almost apology as he took a bite. “Time to shut him up—again.”

Her heart clenched at the quiet vulnerability in his voice, at the way he carried his own battles like she did, unseen but always present.

“You don’t have to justify it,” she murmured, offering the smallest of smiles, something fragile and real. “If there was carrot cake, I would be disgracing myself.”

He stilled mid-bite, and for a breath, something shifted between them. The openness in his eyes was disarming, as if, in that instant, they weren’t just trading words but trust.

“I would love carrot cake—wanna go with me to grab one?”

“Seriously?”

His expression turned unexpectedly earnest, as if this moment, this invitation, meant more than just cake. He put the cupcake down, leveling her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“Now hang on,” he said, his voice firm but warm, an edge of playful seriousness threading through. “A few ground rules because we don’t joke about cake, and I can’t believe we haven’t texted about this before.”

“I can’t either…”

His brows lifted as if that confirmed some deep, unspoken truth between them.

“First of all—carrot cake should be cold. Like, really cold cream cheese frosting cold… make-your-teeth-hurt kinda cold.”

“Oh, I agree… and it should have cold raisins in it.”

“Hallelujah… and pecans.”

She tilted her head, watching the way he spoke as if this was sacred, the way his eyes lit up in a way she hadn’t seen before.

“Is it even carrot cake without pecans, raisins, and strings of carrot?” she asked, her voice softer now as if this wasn’t just about cake but something deeper.

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