Chapter 13: Sera's POV
The kitchen smelled like a dream—heavy with the scent of caramelized sugar, warm cardamom, and the earthy richness of the pumpkin. We had just finished piping the last of the pastry cream into the golden, flaky centers of the Kouign-Amanns.
Watching Bash in the kitchen was... confusing. For a guy who looked like he was built for destruction on the field, he was surprisingly careful with the pastry bag.
"My mom used to make us help with Sunday dinners," he said, his voice quiet as he set the bag down. "She said a man who can’t feed himself is a liability. My dad, on the other hand... he just wanted me to be a man who could lead a huddle. I think I’m somewhere in the middle."
He leaned back against the marble, looking out at the Portland rain beginning to streak the windows. "After the season ends, I’ve got scouts breathing down my neck. The NFL is the goal, I guess. It’s what everyone expects. But sometimes..." He trailed off, looking at the flour on his hands. "Sometimes I just want the quiet. Like this. No cameras, no stats. Just someone who knows how I like my coffee and doesn't care about my passing yards."
My heart did a slow, painful roll. He was opening up, showing me the "Bash" that wasn't a headline.
"You'll get there," I whispered. I reached out, intending to just nudge him, but I saw a stray dollop of the pumpkin cream on the counter. Before I could think better of it, I swiped my finger through it and smeared it right across his cheekbone.
Bash froze. His eyes widened, then narrowed with a dangerous, playful glint.
"Oh, it's like that, Bellwether?"
"You had a... spot," I giggled, trying to duck away as he lunged for me.
He caught me by the waist, lifting me easily until I was sitting on the edge of the island. We were both laughing, breathless and light. For a second, the air changed. His hands stayed on my hips, his face just inches from mine. I could see the gold flecks in his eyes and the smudge of orange cream on his skin. It felt real. It felt like we were two normal college students who had just spent a Sunday afternoon together.
"Sera," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the playfulness. "I want you at the game next Saturday. It's Homecoming."
I bit my lip, trying to think of an excuse. "Bash, I've been to the games. I'm usually in the student section, getting trampled by your mega-fans and covered in body paint that isn't mine."
He let out a low, rumbling laugh, his hands tightening slightly on my waist as he pulled me a fraction of an inch closer. "What? You mean you aren't one of my mega-fans, Bellwether? I’m wounded. Deeply."
"In your dreams," I countered, though my face was heating up. "I'm more of a 'silent observer' who tries not to get an elbow to the ribs when you throw a touchdown. It's a survival sport in those stands."
"Well, no more survival mode," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips for a heartbeat before meeting my eyes again. "I don’t want you in the student section. I want you in the family section. Down in the front. My seats. No body paint, no elbows—just you. I want to be able to find you the second I walk onto that field."
I swallowed hard. "Bash, that’s... people will see. Your parents might be there."
"I don't care who sees. I play better when I know exactly where you are, Cupcake. Please? Do it for me."
His eyes were pleading, a soft vulnerability there that I hadn't seen before. It was impossible to say no to that look.
"Okay," I whispered. "I'll be there."
He beamed, the grin so bright it actually made my chest ache. "Thank you."
I started packing the pastries into the boxes he’d provided, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. "I'm leaving most of these here. You can share them with the guys—if Miller’s stomach can handle it. I'm just taking four for me and Amelia to try."
"Leaving so soon?" Bash asked, his voice returning to that casual, slightly guarded tone.
"Yeah. Long night ahead," I lied, thinking of the "Sugar" transformation I had to start in a few hours. "What about you? Big Sunday night plans for the star quarterback? Or just catching up on sleep before practice tomorrow?"
Bash looked away, a flicker of genuine discomfort crossing his face. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at me.
"Actually... I was thinking about heading back to that club. The Velvet Room." He cleared his throat. "I want to see if I can catch that dancer—Sugar—after her set. There was something about her, Sera. I feel like if I could just talk to her without the music and the lights... I don't know. I just have to see her again."
The laughter in my chest turned to lead.
I forced a smile, though I felt like my face was made of glass. "Oh. Right. The electric girl. Well, good luck with that, Bash. I’m sure she’s exactly what you’re looking for."
I grabbed my small box of pastries and my stained apron, moving toward the door before the tears prickling my eyes could fall.
"Sera? You okay?" he called out.
"Fine!" I called back, not turning around. "Just tired. Enjoy the pastries!"
I practically ran to the bus stop. I sat on the damp bench, clutching the box of Kouign-Amanns—the pastries I’d made to show him who I was—and realized I was officially my own worst enemy.
He didn't want the girl who knew his favorite pie. He wanted the girl in the pink wig. And tonight, I had to go be her.