Chapter 7.
1353 Words
Chapter 7: Complete Contrast.
Dream Dauntson.
I finished my breakfast of pancakes and tea, and wow—if guilt had a flavor, it was buttery and covered in syrup. Still, I was satisfied. The painkillers were working their magic, slowly turning my head from a banging drum into a mildly irritated tambourine.
"He's literally my savior," I muttered to myself as I slid my feet into my shoes. "Mr. Drowning Demon of Doom... making tea like a knight in Armani armor."
The words felt ridiculous even as they left my lips. But that’s exactly what he had been: dramatic rescuer, unasked hero, and now—apparently—a pancake chef. My life was officially a soap opera, and I wasn’t even the main actress. I was just stumbling in, hungover, wearing mismatched socks.
I dusted off the imaginary crumbs of pride and headed downstairs, ready to sneak out like a polite burglar. No notes. No confrontation. Just poof—exit stage left.
But then...
Voices.
A woman’s voice.
"Dammy, I saw you carrying a young woman in last night. Who is she?"
Dammy?
I froze mid-step. My brain hiccupped.
I thought he was Devon. Who the heck was Dammy? Was there a twin? A secret alias? A mafia code name?
And who was the woman speaking?
Before I could spiral into theories about him being a part-time spy or underground ballroom dancer, the puzzle clicked.
Dammy.
Oh. My. Syrupy. Pancakes.
Dammy was Devon Damien Drawson’s nickname. His family nickname. The one only his mum and Delly, his best friend, called him.
I felt like I’d accidentally eavesdropped on sacred information. Like I had trespassed into a diary no one else was allowed to read.
He cleared his throat. "She’s just..."
That’s when I rounded the staircase corner. Three steps from the bottom. Right into a domestic interrogation.
The woman turned.
Oh.
She was beautiful. Not in a scary, boardroom-boss way, but in a floral-dress-hugs-and-home-baked-cookies kind of way. Radiant smile. Warm eyes. And the vibe of someone who probably gave the best hugs on Earth. Her presence softened the expensive, echoing house like she carried sunlight in her pockets.
"Oh! Good morning, my darling," she said with a voice so sweet I nearly checked my blood sugar.
"Good morning, ma’am," I responded, trying to not sound like I had just crash-landed in someone else’s family drama. My voice cracked slightly like a nervous choir girl.
"Please, call me Mum," she beamed.
MUM?!
"Really?" Devon—a.k.a. Mr. Drowning Demon—exclaimed, his voice drenched in disbelief.
"What?" she said, throwing her hands up dramatically. "I have a good feeling about her. Plus, you carried her bridal style last night!"
She winked.
WINKED.
I was not emotionally prepared for this woman. I hadn’t even emotionally recovered from her voice. Now she was winking? How dare she ambush me with wholesomeness.
I stared at her. Then at Devon. Then back at her.
She was sweetness incarnate. And him? He was... thunder wrapped in sarcasm.
How? HOW?!
“How can Mr. Drowning Demon come from Mother Warm-and-Fluffy?! Did he skip family meetings growing up?” I thought, internally spiraling. Maybe he was swapped at birth. Maybe she adopted him from a cave where brooding dragons raised him. That made more sense.
"Please, my darling," she said, turning to me again with that smile that could probably end wars, "join us for breakfast."
"I’ve eaten already. In my room," I said, shooting a glance at Devon like, You gonna tell her you played butler this morning or nah?
"Son," she said, spinning to him with Olympic precision, "you cooked for her? And served her breakfast in bed?"
I saw it. That tiny twitch in Devon’s eye. Like his soul had just stubbed its toe.
She gasped and clutched her chest dramatically. "You’ve NEVER served me breakfast in bed! I had to give birth to you and raise you from scratch, and still—nothing! I am so jealous!"
He muttered something that sounded like, "Drama Queen."
"I HEARD THAT!" she snapped, finger pointed with expert-mum precision.
I choked back a laugh so hard it came out as a weird wheeze-snort. Attractive.
"You see?" she continued, facing me again like we were besties now. "I have a good feeling about this particular young woman."
She turned back to him. "Who is she, by the way?"
He shrugged. "She’s just a friend. A baker. The one who baked your birthday cake."
Her face lit up. "Oh! Thank you, dear, for that cake. It was divine. So soft. So moist. So perfect!"
"You’re welcome, Mrs. Drawson," I said, half-curtsying because my brain was short-circuiting.
She narrowed her eyes at me.
Oh no.
I knew what was coming.
"Hmm... You’re welcome Mum," I corrected quickly.
She beamed again, as if I’d just won her eternal approval.
Devon groaned softly like he was physically allergic to joy.
"Well," I said, trying to untangle myself from this sitcom, "I should be on my way now. Thank you so much, Ma, for your hospitality."
I turned to Devon. "And thank you, Mr. Drowning Demon, for... everything."
His mum gasped like I’d just confessed to murder.
"Mr. WHAT?!" she said, covering her mouth in delight.
She turned to him, eyes gleaming. "Someone who can challenge you! Apart from me or Delly! I LOVE her even more!"
She clapped her hands excitedly like a fangirl at a K-drama premiere.
He mumbled something about needing a restraining order.
"Thank you again, Ma," I said, backing away slowly like I was in the presence of royalty.
"Bye, Mr. Drowning Demon," I added with a smirk.
He narrowed his eyes. I smirked harder.
And just like that, I made my glorious exit.
As I walked down the driveway, I whispered to myself, "What a complete contrast."
---
Later That Day
I was back home, wearing my favorite oversized shirt, eating cold cereal, and processing life when I made the call.
Group video call.
Lucy and Leo.
My chaos crew.
"WHAT’S UP, BABY GIRL?" they yelled in unison, way too loud for my still-recovering eardrums.
"Guys," I began, looking dead into the camera. "I met his mum."
Their mouths dropped open like synchronized swimmers.
"WHAT?!" Lucy screeched.
"NO FREAKING WAY!" Leo added, adjusting his bonnet like it helped him hear better.
"What’s she like?" Lucy asked, leaning in. "Like... Margaret Thatcher vibes or Michelle Obama warmth?"
"She’s... sweet," I said slowly. "Like, cinnamon-roll sweet."
Leo nodded knowingly. "Yeah, she is. I have met her before too."
I gaped. "You WHAT?!"
He shrugged. "She came to the bakery once. Bought cupcakes. Left a tip. She’s basically sunshine personified."
Lucy gasped. "Oh my God. Dream, do you understand what this means? You’ve stepped into family territory. This isn’t a fling. This is the kind of step people write essays about."
"Wait," Lucy continued, squinting. "So... how did that happen? You slept over and met THE MOTHER? Did you two, you know..."
"NO!" I shrieked, throwing a pillow at my screen. "Nothing happened! I passed out from the Moscato, woke up in a bed I didn’t own, and got served pancakes and painkillers. That’s it."
"Served breakfast in bed?" Leo gasped.
"Mr. Demon? OUR Mr. Demon? The one with the soul of a tax audit?"
"YES!" I shouted. "And that’s not even the craziest part. His mum likes me. She told me to call her 'Mum.'"
They both screamed loud enough that my neighbors probably wrote it in their group chat.
"It’s happening!" Lucy yelled.
"What’s happening?" I asked.
"He’s falling for you," Leo sang, waving his spoon like a conductor.
"No, he’s not," I muttered, burying my face in my cereal bowl.
"Sweetie, he made you tea and smiled. That’s a full-blown proposal in Devon language," Lucy said, dead serious.
"They’re like total opposites," I said. "She’s sunshine and rainbows. He’s... a thunderstorm in Gucci."
"Complete contrast," Leo said, raising his glass dramatically like he was toasting at a royal banquet.
I rolled my eyes, but deep down...
I knew he was right.
And that scared me more than I cared to admit.
- Writer
