I don’t answer right away.
Magnus just stands in the doorway of the caravan kitchen, broad shoulders filling the frame like the world itself learned to make space for him. His gaze moves slow—methodical—over the chaos I’ve made.
Cooling racks stacked with spiced buns. A pot of syrupy preserves simmering low. Linen-wrapped loaves lined like soldiers on the counter. Flour on the stone, on the floor, on my clothes. Sugar dusting my hands like I’ve been dipped in something soft and dangerous.
For a heartbeat, I brace.
For a lecture.
For that careful tone people use when they’re about to turn concern into rules.
For another gentle request to rest.
Instead, Magnus’s mouth curves.
Not big. Not loud. Just a quiet, fond kind of amusement that hits me straight in the chest.
My heart flips s
