Savior

The Girl with Chocolate

"Baking 101: the eggs must be room temperature along with the butter so it emulsifies properly, cakes must be cooled upside down on a cooling rack so it is easier to stack the layers, cakes are essentially chemistry experiments, so the recipe must be followed to a T or disaster strikes, and lastly: know your oven. And since ovens in England are some alien technology, the cake must be cooked at a higher degree."

I have to try really hard not to laugh at the serious expression on Layla's face or her apron with bumblebees on it or her messily tied up hair or the hands-on-hip stance that means serious business.

Because as soon as she walked through my door that's what it was – all business.

There is no tom-foolery when it comes to baking apparently.

When I realize that she is expecting me to affirm her rules I clear my throat, "warm eggs, upside down cake, chemistry, and weird British ovens. Got it."

Layla rolls her eyes –a much lighter jade today, the specks of gold clearly shining through- at the deadpan tone I use, but the small smile she tries to hide makes me beam.

The last few weeks had surely been a roller coaster of regret and pain and lips all around but the last few days had been fumbling and awkward and forget forget forget.

Which is seriously easier said than done because Layla is wearing a really light, dainty pink on her lips and all I can seem to think about is what it tastes like.

But, Jaime and forget and so I clear my throat and turn to the array of cooking essentials arranged on my kitchen counter.

"So, what's first?"

"First," the mischievous grin on her face does not bode well, "You put this on."

And then she whips an apron from around her back with –oh god- the design to make it look like I am a woman in a bikini – a woman that is well-endowed in the breast area.

"Oh no, Red. You've got to be kidding me." I choke out between my chuckles of disbelief and she only shrugs innocently, but my laughter dies out when I realize something, "did you go out and buy this for me?"

She instantly flushes.

A stray piece of hair is tucked behind her ear by trembling fingers and Layla looks at her feet, "well, I was at the store and I saw it and it made me think of you so I thought it'd be funny, but I guess you don't really have to-"

"What do you really think of me if I remind you of an apron of a bikini clad woman?" I joke lightly and she bites her lips to hide a smile, but she really needs to stop doing that, "No, I love it. Thank you."

It made me think of you.

Fuck, calm down, Styles.

"How's your mom?" Layla suddenly asks, starting to gather the ingredients.

The question is out of the blue and instantly dampens my mood, my stomach churning at the thought of my ailing mother. Though, Layla asking oddly makes me feel better. Nobody asks about her anymore –like, they are afraid I might break if they do.

"She's... well, as good as expected. Chemo is taking a lot out of her, but she seemed more alert and energetic the last time I saw her. But, I don't think the radiation is actually helping."

Layla remains quiet, washing out a bowl and I fumble with my hands as a means of distraction. A distraction from the thought of my mother and from how tight Layla's jeans are.

Finally, she turns to face me with a soft smile on her face, "well, we'll just have to make her the best damn cake of her life then, huh?"

And maybe it's because she doesn't have pity in her eyes or says sorry or maybe because she is just Layla, but fuck if my heart never beat this hard.