The kitchen is a quiet haven, the soft hum of the refrigerator a gentle backdrop to the chaos in my mind. Moonlight spills through the window, casting silver shadows across the counter as I rummage through the fridge, my fingers brushing cold shelves until they land on the last slice of strawberry pie, its whipped cream topping glistening like a promise. I cradle the plate, the sweet, tart scent of berries filling my senses, and set the kettle to boil, the faint whistle grounding me. I settle onto a stool at the counter, the cool granite against my skin a stark contrast to the warmth lingering from the memory of Oliver’s kiss earlier today. The pie is a small comfort, a fleeting escape from the weight of his confession about the contract, my father’s threats, and the fragile hope stirring
