Page 44 of We Can Do
I shift closer to him, resting my head on his chest where I can hear his heartbeat—steady and strong and reassuring. The sound is hypnotic, something I want to memorize and carry with me. His arm comes around me automatically, pulling me into a protective embrace that makes me feel safer than I’ve felt in years.
“This is nice,” I murmur against his skin.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice rumbling through his chest. “It really is.”
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, careful to avoid the sensitive areas I’ve warned him about. Even now, even in this moment of peaceful intimacy, he’s remembering, cataloging, being careful with me in a way that makes my throat tight with emotion.
Maybe this is what I’ve been missing. Not just physical intimacy—though that’s part of it—but this kind of care. Someone who sees all my broken pieces and chooses to hold them gently rather than trying to force them back together or running away from the sharp edges.
My eyes grow heavy as his breathing evens out beneath my cheek. The combination of emotional exhaustion, physical release, and feeling truly safe for the first time in so long is pulling me under. As I start to drift off, one last thought floats through my mind:
Here, in this unexpected place, with this man who sees me—really sees me—and doesn’t look away, I’m finding something I didn’t even know I was looking for. Something that might be healing, might be hope, might be the beginning of something worth risking everything for.
And maybe, just maybe, it won’t all blow up in my face.
Chapter Seventeen
Noah
“Slow morning.” I plant my hands on my hips and survey Rye Again’s dining area. A few customers dot the space—an elderly couple sharing a cinnamon raisin loaf in the corner, a college student hunched over her laptop near the window, a businessman scrolling through his phone while his coffee grows cold. The usual morning symphony of clinking plates and animated conversation has dwindled to scattered murmurs. Nothing like the controlled chaos that typically defines our first hours.
Lawrence doesn’t look up from the napkin dispenser he’s refilling. “The rain will do that sometimes.”
I blow out a breath that makes my lips vibrate like a kid making engine sounds. The numbers have been solid these past couple weeks—more than solid, actually. We could weather a dozen slow mornings without breaking a sweat. But that’s not the point. When the bakery isn’t bustling, when there aren’t orders to fill and customers to serve, my hands don’t know what to do with themselves. My mind starts picking at threads better left alone.
“I should go check out the diner.” The words tumble out before I can think them through. “See if they’re busy.”
Lawrence finally looks up, one eyebrow raised in that way that makes me feel like I’m being studied under a microscope. “Why?”
“Because... uh...” My mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for water.
“Because then you get to feel bad if they are busy?”
I rub my mouth, caught red-handed in my own neurosis.
Lawrence’s chuckle fills the space between us, warm and knowing. “I have an idea.” He sets down the stack of napkins with deliberate care. “You could take the morning off.”
The laugh that bursts from my chest is automatic, incredulous. “You’re not serious.”
“Why not?” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms in that casual way that means he’s already made up his mind about something. “I have it handled around here. I can call you if it does pick up and we need your help.”
I bite into my bottom lip, worrying it between my teeth. The suggestion sits heavy in my stomach, foreign and uncomfortable. Rye Again has consumed every waking moment for the last six months—and plenty of the sleeping ones too. The idea of just walking away for a morning, of existing without flour under my fingernails and the constant mental inventory of rising times and oven temperatures... What would I even do with myself?
The fact that I can’t immediately answer that question is probably its own kind of problem.
“Okay.” The word fights its way past my reluctance. “I’ll... do it.”
My fingers fumble with the apron strings, the simple act of untying them feeling like I’m severing some vital connection. The hook by the door has held this apron every day since weopened. Hanging it there now, in the middle of the morning rush—even a slow one—feels like abandoning my post.
“There you go.” Lawrence’s beam could power the entire block. “What are you going to do? Bungee jumping? Roller coaster park?”
“I was thinking I’d take a quick trek to Machu Picchu.” I force lightness into my voice. “I’ll be back before lunch.”
But the joke falls flat even to my own ears. Because seriously, what am I supposed to do? The thought of sitting still, of letting my hands be idle while my mind spins freely—that’s the opposite of relaxing. That’s torture.
“I’ll get some supplies to build the new shelves in the kitchen.” The words rush out like water finding the path of least resistance. “The new starters need somewhere to go.”
Those experimental batches—half all-purpose flour, half corn—have been multiplying like rabbits. Every surface in the kitchen has a jar or bowl claiming territory. We need the vertical space.
