Page 103 of King of Praise
It still feels surreal, this shift from hiding in fear to planning a future. From surviving Lucas to loving Micah. From his son’s widow to his partner in every sense.
The berry mixture begins to thicken, and I reduce the heat, still stirring occasionally as I reach for my phone to check the time. The cakes need exactly twenty-eight minutes. Too long and they’ll dry out, too short and they’ll collapse when cooling.
My phone screen lights up with a text from Micah.
Micah
Meeting running long. Might be later than I expected. Miss you.
Three simple sentences that warm me more than the oven at my back. I type back quickly.
Naomi
Miss you too. Stay safe. Surprise waiting when you return.
The cake timer shows fifteen minutes remaining. Just enough time to start on the buttercream frosting. The butter I put out earlier has softened and is ready to use. I measure powdered sugar and prepare the stand mixer Micah brought from Columbus when I mentioned missing my baking equipment. A simple gesture, but it had meant everything—acknowledgment of my passion, practical support for my healing process.
By the time I’m done mixing the icing, the timer beeps. I test the cakes with a toothpick and find them perfectly cooked.
With the components prepared and cooling, I glance around the kitchen, surveying the mess I’ve created. Flour dusts thecountertop like fresh snow, matching the scene outside the window. Dirty bowls stack in the sink. The scent of vanilla and warm sugar permeates the small cabin.
I’ve claimed this space as my own in every way. When I first arrived, I moved through the cabin like a ghost, terrified of disturbing anything, of taking up too much room. Lucas had trained me well—to be small, quiet, unobtrusive. To exist in the margins of space and life.
Now my presence is undeniable. My baking supplies occupy a full cabinet. Micah cleaned off part of the shelf next to the kitchen table to make room for more baking supplies. My clothes hang beside Micah’s in the small closet. My books are stacked on the nightstand. Small markers of existence that would have seemed impossibly bold mere months ago.
Through the kitchen window, snow begins to fall again—delicate flakes drifting lazily from a leaden sky. They don’t look substantial enough to accumulate, just winter’s final assertion before yielding to spring. The scene outside—pristine white against dark evergreens, absolute silence save for occasional birdsong—feels like a painting, perfect in its stillness.
The shrill ring of my personal phone breaks through these reflections. Not the burner Micah insists I use for our communications, but my regular cell—the one connected to my old life, restricted to calls from a small circle of trusted friends. I glance at the screen to see Olivia’s name and photo.
Balancing the phone between ear and shoulder, I continue working as I answer, my hands gathering ingredients while I greet my friend.
“Hey, Liv. Perfect timing. I’m just finishing up the filling for a celebration cake.”
“Celebration?” Her voice carries that amused, slightly scandalous tone she adopts whenever discussing myrelationship with Micah. “Something I should know about, darling?”
Heat rises to my cheeks, and I’m grateful she can’t see my blush through the phone. “Maybe. Things are progressing.”
“Progressing? God, you’re such a prude sometimes.” Her laugh bubbles through the speaker, warm and genuine despite the teasing. “Give me deets. Did Daddy finally confess his undying love?”
“Olivia,” I protest, though there’s no real heat in it. Leave it to her to give Micah such a scandalous nickname. I’ve grown accustomed to her particular brand of inappropriate humor, but this one might take some getting used to. “Yes, if you must know. He told me he loves me.”
Her squeal is so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “I knew it. Seb owes me fifty bucks. He bet it would take another month at least.”
“You were betting on us?” I should be offended, but I find myself smiling instead. There’s something wonderfully normal about being the subject of friendly gossip rather than fearful whispers.
“Of course we were. What else are friends for?” Olivia’s voice softens. “I’m happy for you, Naomi. Really. You deserve someone who looks at you the way Micah does.”
“And how’s that?” I ask.
“Like you’re the most precious thing in the world. Like he’d burn everything down to keep you safe.” She pauses. “It’s a little terrifying, honestly. But also kind of hot.”
I laugh, stirring the cooling berry mixture to keep it from forming a skin. “Speaking of hot, how are things withSebastian? Still just casual?”
Her groan tells me everything. “Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about your love life, not my terrible life choices.”
“So you admit Seb is a terrible choice?” I tease, enjoying this easy back-and-forth.
“The worst,” she agrees. “Completely commitment-phobic, utterly self-absorbed, and—”
