The bag of groceries was digging into the soft crease of my elbow by the time I stepped off the elevator into the private foyer. I shifted it higher, careful not to crush the fragile carton of raspberries I’d splurged on; the expensive kind, the kind that whispered luxury even in their tiny biodegradable shell. Damian liked raspberries. I wasn’t sure how I knew that, but I did.
Baking had always been my peace offering. My way of smoothing over jagged words and awkward silences. A quiet bridge when apologies felt too raw in my throat. And I hated how yesterday ended. I hated how tight my chest felt remembering his face after I "trespassed" and proceeded to shove that contract at him like a shield.
So, raspberry thumbprint cookies.
Not because I owed him anything.
But because guilt had
