Chapter 12: Bash's POV
"The dough has to be a perfect rectangle," she instructed, her voice finally steadying as she focused on the task. "If it’s uneven, the butter will leak out during the folds and we’ll just have a greasy mess instead of layers."
She leaned over the marble, pressing down on the heavy rolling pin. The dough was cold and stubborn, pushing back against her with every pass. I watched the tension in her shoulders, the way her small frame strained against the resistance of the flour and chilled fat. She was determined—I’d always known that about her—but this was a physical battle she was losing.
I didn't think about it. I just moved.
"You're struggling, Cupcake," I murmured, stepping into her space.
Before she could protest, I reached around her. I didn't take the rolling pin away; I just placed my hands directly over hers. My palms completely eclipsed her fingers, the skin-on-skin contact sending a jolt through me that had nothing to do with baking. I boxed her in against the island, trapping her in a cocoon of my own scent and the sharp, sweet sting of the cardamom she’d been crushing earlier.
"Together," I whispered, my breath stirring the loose auburn hairs at her temple. "Even pressure, right? Like this?"
I moved with her, my strength making the rolling pin glide through the dough like it was soft butter. It was a rhythmic, intimate dance, our bodies swaying in sync. I could feel the hard lines of my chest against her shoulder blades, and I knew she could feel the steady, heavy thrum of my heart. Her pulse was a frantic bird beneath my hands, but she didn't pull away.
She was so small in my arms, but she felt like an anchor.
"Perfect," she whispered, her voice a little breathless.
We finished the first turn, the dough now a sharp-edged sheet of potential. She slipped out of my hold to wrap it in plastic, and the sudden loss of her heat made the kitchen feel ten degrees colder.
"It needs to chill for forty-five minutes," she said, not looking at me as she tucked the dough into the sub-zero fridge. "The gluten needs to relax."
"I know the feeling," I said, leaning back against the marble. I watched her wipe a smudge of flour off her forehead, only to leave a fresh one on her nose. "While the dough is 'relaxing,' we should probably eat something that isn't eighty percent butter. You want the usual? There’s a deli down the street that does a mean pastrami, or I can find something a bit... lighter?"
"Pastrami sounds like a dream," she admitted, finally meeting my eyes with a shy smile. She walked over and sat at the barstool on the other side of the counter, probably trying to get off her feet after the long night of dancing in dangerously high heels.
I pulled out my phone and placed the order, but my mind wasn't on the food. It was on the way she looked in my kitchen. She looked like she belonged here. The rowdy, beer-soaked energy of the football house had been completely scrubbed away by her presence.
"So," I said, sliding onto one of the barstools and nodding for her to take the one next to me. "When you aren't bussing tables or making high-stress French pastries, what does Sera Bellwether actually do for fun?”
She laughed, a real, melodic sound that made my chest tighten. I watched her reach for a glass of water, the movement fluid and graceful—a stark contrast to the way she tried to hunch her shoulders and hide behind her frames in the library.
"I don't have a lot of 'fun' time, Bash. Between classes, the job, and trying to keep my scholarship... It doesn't leave much room for a social life. I don’t even have roommates to hang out with at night. Just me and and my book collection.”
She laughed again, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes. I hadn’t realized how lonely she clearly felt.
Well, I was going to change that real fast.
I walked around the counter and sat beside her, my thigh brushing hers intentionally. "I realized after that bomb you dropped about your amazing dancing skills and you sharing about your Mom that there are still things I don’t know about you," I said, leaning in. "Tell me something else I don't know."
She went still for a heartbeat, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. I saw the way she carefully schooled her expression, that "library girl" mask slipping back into place.
"Well, I grew up just a few miles outside the city, closer to Mt. Hood" she said, her voice softening. "My grandma had this tiny house surrounded by trees that always smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke from this old school wood burning oven she had. She’s the one who taught me everything about baking actually. She used to say that if you can master a sourdough in this Oregon humidity, you can do anything."
"A local," I murmured, watching the way the sunlight caught the auburn in her hair. "So you're a nature girl? Hiking, camping, the whole Pacific Northwest starter pack?"
She made a face, a tiny, adorable scrunch of her nose. "Absolutely not. I like looking at nature through a window. Preferably next to a fireplace with a good book. I’m not a fan of the mud or the bugs. I just like the... the mood of it. Especially this time of year."
I imagined her doing just that. Sitting on a bench seat with a copy of some fantasy romance I know she likes to read because everytime I see her with a new book, I look up the titles and a synopsis. I even planned to start listening to the Audiobooks once she accepted her fate as mine so we could talk about them. I knew some of them were even “spicy” and looked forward to acting out her favorite scenes. I thought about a big fireplace crackling next to her as she looked out the large glass windows or this imaginary room. I saw her reach down and place her hand on her belly which was slightly round with a blanket pooled around her.
Where did that come from? And why was I getting hard just thinking about it?
Looks like I was learning new things about myself today, not just my spicy little cupcake. But I wanted that scene for her. All of it. And for me too.
She caught her glancing at the calendar on the fridge. "Halloween is only a few weeks away. It’s the best time for baking. Everything is spicy and heavy and orange."
"You're a fall fanatic," I teased, nodding toward the organic pumpkin puree on the counter. "I should have guessed. The oversized sweaters were a dead giveaway too."
"It’s the best season," she defended, her eyes sparking. "The air gets crisp, the flavor profile is immaculate, and I get to wear cozy sweaters. It's the only time of year where everything feels... right. Plus, football season is pretty great too." She ends with a teasing smile.
We spent the next hour just... talking. No masks, no stage lights, no hidden agendas. We talked about her grandmother’s kitchen and how she still uses her old wooden spoon for luck. I told her about the pressure of the upcoming season—how the weight of the team feels like a physical load on my shoulders —and how I use the library as a sanctuary because it’s the only place where I’m not 'Bash the Quarterback.' I didn’t mention it was because I got to spend time with her though. She wasn’t ready for that.
It felt domestic. It felt dangerous.
For the first time since I’d seen those auburn strands under the pink wig, I didn't want to catch her in a lie. I wanted to protect the version of her that was sitting three inches away from me, laughing about the time her grandma caught her trying to 'improve' a family recipe with extra butter.
The delivery guy rang the bell, breaking the spell. I went to the door, grabbed the bag, and when I came back, she was standing by the fridge, looking at the timer.
"Time for the second fold?" I asked, setting the sandwiches down on the island.
"Almost," she said, turning to face me. The midday sun was hitting her eyes, turning the brown to honey. "You're a lot different than I thought you were, Bash. You're... actually kind of a nerd."
I grinned, stepping back into her circle. "Don't tell the team. I have a reputation to uphold."
I reached out, my fingers hovering near her face. She didn't flinch. I moved slowly, my thumb catching that stubborn flour smudge on the tip of her nose. I let my hand linger there, my touch feather-light, watching the way her breath hitched.
She looked so honest in this light. So real. It made the memory of "Sugar" feel like a fever dream, yet the two versions of her were colliding in my head. One was the girl who loved Portland Octobers and her grandma’s kitchen; the other was the woman who swayed her hips on a stage for a room full of suits.
"Sera," I started, my voice dropping.
The timer on the oven went off with a shrill, piercing beep.
She jumped, the moment breaking like glass. "Dough’s ready," she whispered, her eyes wide. "We have to get the butter back in before it warms up."
I let my hand drop, nodding toward the fridge. "Right. The lamination. Let's see if we can get those layers perfect."