Page 104 of Knot Baked Out For This
I stand outside Hazel's apartment door at 6:47 PM, holding a bottle of wine that cost more than I should have spent and less than she deserves, trying to remember how breathing works. The stairs up from the bakery smell like cinnamon and yeast, and the promise of things I've wanted for so long I forgot they were wants and not needs.
Ember whines beside me, tail wagging with the enthusiasm of a creature who doesn't understand social anxiety.
"Easy girl," I murmur to my station dog, who definitely wasn't supposed to come but Hazel mentioned she missed having pets around and I'm apparently incapable of denying her anything. "Best behavior."
Talking to the dog about behavior when you're standing here like a teenager before prom. Very Alpha of you, Cambridge.
The door opens before I can knock.
"You're early," Hazel says, but she's smiling, flour in her hair despite presumably spending the day cleaning, wearing anoversized sweater that makes her look soft and touchable and absolutely off-limits until she says otherwise.
"You said seven."
"And you're standing outside my door at—" she checks her phone "—six forty-eight."
"I was waiting for seven."
"On my doorstep?"
"Maybe."
"For twelve minutes?"
"Time is subjective."
She laughs, that bright sound that makes my chest tight, and steps aside.
"Come in before Mrs. Chen sees you and starts another newsletter about Alpha courting rituals."
Her apartment unfolds like a secret—small but perfect, every inch considered and cherished. Fairy lights string along the windows because of course they do. Cookbook collection taking up an entire wall, organized by cuisine, then alphabetized because she's secretly as type-A as Luca. Candles that smell like vanilla and home scattered on surfaces I didn't know needed candles until now.
The October evening light paints everything golden through windows that overlook Main Street. From up here, the town looks like a snow globe before the shake—contained, perfect, waiting.
"Your place is?—"
"Tiny?"
"Perfect."
"Liar."
"Hazel." I set the wine on her counter, notice the small collection of things we've been leaving for her—a ceramic owl from Levi, a perfectly organized spice rack from Luca, theantiquarian cookbook I found at an estate sale last week. "It's you. All of it. That makes it perfect."
Her cheeks are pink, and she busies herself with something on the stove that smells like heaven had a baby with garlic.
"Ember can explore. Muffin's around somewhere, probably plotting world domination."
Ember doesn't need to be told twice.
She bounds into the living room with the grace of a small horse who thinks she's a lapdog.
Within seconds, there's a yowl, a bark, and then?—
"Are they... playing?" Hazel peers around the corner.
Muffin and Ember are indeed playing, or what passes for playing when a twenty-pound cat decides a seventy-pound dog needs to learn about hierarchy. Muffin bats at Ember's nose, Ember play-bows, and then they're racing through the apartment like furry tornadoes.
"Ember hasn't had a cat friend since—" I stop, not wanting to bring up the past.
