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Baking is something I understand.

Flour.

Sugar.

Salt.

Yeast.

Everything has a purpose.

Everything changes when it is mixed with the right thing.

I begin with cinnamon rolls.

Then I make biscuits.

I am starting blueberry scones when someone walks into the kitchen.

“You do know most people sleep at this hour.”

Sean’s voice no longer frightens me.

I turn.

He wears gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt.

A dark bruise covers one side of his jaw.

The cut on his arm has been cleaned and bandaged.

“You’re awake.”

“I smelled cinnamon.”

“The rolls aren’t done.”

“I didn’t say they were.”

“You were hoping.”

“Yes.”

He sits at the island and watches me mix the dough.

Three days ago, being watched made my skin crawl.

Now it feels different.

Safe.

“Did you have a nightmare?” he asks.

“No.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“I slept.”