Dawson
The kitchen smells like cinnamon and vanilla—sweet, warm, and a little overwhelming in the best way. The counters are dusted with flour like a light snowfall, sugar scattered in tiny constellations where I missed wiping it clean.
A half-used roll of parchment paper hangs off the edge of the sink, crooked and torn like it lost a fight.
That sh*t did not want to tear right.
I eye it warily as I reach for the oven mitts, already imagining Carol’s expression when she realizes I used more than half the roll because the stupid thing had a mind of its own. She would smile sweetly at first. Then she’d say something that sounded polite but somehow managed to feel like a reprimand wrapped in sugar.
The timer shrieks on the counter by the stove, sharp enough to make my eye twitch. I turn
