Emma
The kitchen smelled like vanilla and possibilities at 6 AM. I'd woken early, unable to stop thinking about yesterday's almost-moments with Dominic. My hands moved on autopilot, measuring flour and vanilla while my mind replayed the way he'd looked at me over breakfast.
"Focus," I muttered, carefully adding chocolate chips in the shape of Orion's Belt. Noah had been obsessed with constellations lately, insisting that "artistic interpretations of stellar phenomena should maintain astronomical accuracy."
The coffee maker gurgled companionably as I worked. Morning light painted the kitchen in soft gold, catching on the mixing bowls Dominic had bought – professional grade but deliberately modest, like everything else in this apartment. I'd noticed how he always chose things that wouldn'
