Episode Twelve
1211 Words
**Chapter 12: The Pancake Incident**
Day 36 started with ambition.
Daniel’s ambition.
Claire woke up to the sound of the smoke alarm.
She shot out of bed. Daniel’s t-shirt, her hair a disaster, heart in her throat. “Fire?”
“No,” Daniel called from the kitchen. “Pancakes.”
She found him at the stove.
He was holding a spatula like it had personally offended him. The pan was smoking. Something black and circular was fused to it. The window was open. The alarm was still screaming.
Daniel Hart, CEO, man who ran a billion-dollar company, was losing a war with breakfast.
“What are you doing,” Claire said, grabbing a towel and waving it at the smoke detector.
“Making pancakes,” he said. Grim. “You said people do that when they’re not working.”
“You said you didn’t know how.”
“I read an article. It said *easy*. It lied.”
The alarm stopped.
Claire looked at the counter. Flour everywhere. A cracked egg on the floor. A measuring cup with something gray in it that might have been batter or cement.
“Daniel,” she said.
“Yes.”
“How many pancakes have you made.”
“One.”
She looked in the trash. Four black discs. One still smoking.
“One successful pancake,” he amended. “Zero edible.”
Claire started laughing. She couldn’t help it. It started in her chest and came out loud and undignified. She braced herself on the counter.
“It’s not funny,” Daniel said. But his ears were red.
“It’s very funny,” Claire said, wiping her eyes. “You can run a company but you can’t run a griddle.”
“I don’t have a protocol for griddles.”
“You need one. Title: *How to Not Set Off the Smoke Alarm Before 9 A.M.*”
He set the spatula down. Carefully. Like he was surrendering.
“I was trying,” he said.
“I know,” Claire said. And she did. She could see it. In the flour on his shirt. In the way he’d tried to do this for her. Because she’d said people eat pancakes when they’re not working.
She walked over. Stood in front of him. The kitchen smelled like burnt batter and failure.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
“You made me coffee yesterday. That was perfect. You don’t have to make pancakes.”
“I want to.”
“Why.”
He looked at her. Really looked. No CEO mask. No spreadsheet. Just Daniel, with flour in his hair and his t-shirt rumpled from sleep.
“Because you said people do this,” he said. “And I don’t know how to be a person with you yet. But I’m trying.”
Claire’s heart did the stupid thing again. The thing that wasn’t in any clause.
She reached up. Brushed flour off his cheek. Her thumb lingered.
“You’re doing fine,” she said.
He caught her wrist. Pressed a kiss to her palm. Quick. Barely there. But it knocked the air out of her.
“Order pancakes,” he said. “From somewhere. Anywhere. That knows what they’re doing.”
Claire laughed again. “Noted.”
---
Twenty minutes later they were on the kitchen floor.
The table felt too formal. Too *we have a meeting*. The floor was neutral territory.
Takeout containers between them. Pancakes. Real ones. Fluffy. Not black. Bacon. Orange juice. Coffee.
Daniel was still in his t-shirt and sweatpants. Claire was still in his t-shirt. They matched. It was ridiculous.
He ate two pancakes. Mechanically. Like he was completing a task.
“You don’t have to finish them,” Claire said. “There’s no performance review.”
“I know,” Daniel said. “They’re… good. I forgot food could be good. And not efficient.”
“High praise.”
He looked at her. At her legs. At the t-shirt that was his. At the way she was sitting cross-legged, completely at home on his kitchen floor.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what. The pancakes? I didn’t make them.”
“For staying. Last night. This morning. For not running when I set off the smoke alarm.”
Claire picked at her bacon. “Where would I go.”
“I don’t know. That’s what scared me.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy. It was open.
Claire set her food down.
“Tell me again,” she said.
“What.”
“About the scar. You told me in the car. But I was bleeding and you were driving and I didn’t… I didn’t ask questions.”
Daniel went still.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he said. Then, “Can I…” He gestured to the space next to her.
Claire moved over. Made room.
He sat. Not touching. But close. Their shoulders were a breath apart.
He pulled the collar of his t-shirt down. The scar was there. Thin. White. From his collarbone to just under his ear.
“I was seven,” he said. “My dad was drunk. He broke a glass. I tried to clean it up before my mom got home. I slipped.”
Claire’s stomach dropped.
“He wasn’t… he didn’t mean to,” Daniel said. Fast. Like he was still defending him. “He was sick. He didn’t know how to be a dad. Or sober.”
“Daniel.”
“I’m not telling you for sympathy,” he said. “I’m telling you because you asked. And because you told me about your knee. And because I don’t want there to be parts of me you don’t know. Not anymore.”
Claire didn’t touch the scar. She wanted to. But she didn’t.
Instead, she reached over. Took his hand. Laced their fingers together.
His hand was steady. Hers wasn’t.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what.”
“For telling me. For trusting me.”
He looked down at their hands. At the hair tie still on her finger. At the paperclip ring he still hadn’t replaced.
“I’m going to get you a real ring,” he said.
Claire’s breath caught. “Daniel—”
“Not yet,” he said. “Not because of a contract. Not because of 90 days or indefinite or anything. But when you want one. If you want one. I’ll be ready.”
Claire couldn’t speak.
So she leaned over. Rested her head on his shoulder.
He went very still. Then, slowly, he let his head tip against hers.
They sat there. On the kitchen floor. Surrounded by takeout and flour and the ghosts of burned pancakes.
No agenda. No post-its. No clauses.
Just them.
“How are we at this,” Claire said, after a long time. “At not working.”
“Terrible,” Daniel said. “We’re absolutely terrible at it.”
“Good,” Claire said. “We can be terrible together.”
His laugh was quiet. Rumbled through his chest into her cheek.
“Deal,” he said.
Outside, the city was awake. Inside, they were late. Again.
And neither of them cared.
---
- Writer
