Control

24 - Let it Rise Before the Heat

a/n - Thank y'all for the love on these chapters, I love reading your comments and hearing your thoughts. Alsoooo thank you so so much for supporting on the patreon. Chapters 25 and 26 are up on there! Chapter 25 is super fun so get ready for that, very reminiscent of chapter 19 if you catch my draft wink wink. Hope you enjoy this one!

The kitchen smells like yeast and heat. Not sweet yet, like I like it. But it's good enough for now.

The counters are dusted white, flour smeared in the grain of the wood where I didn't bother wiping it away. There's a bowl by the sink with dried dough clinging to the sides, a measuring cup knocked on its side. There's a standing lamp in the corner, and the light bulb will probably last for another week before it dies out. Too low, it's hard to see if you're just walking in. This back room is one of my favorite in the whole place. My hands are always busy back here, and nobody needs anything from me. Usually.

The dough pushes back under my palms.

I lean into it, folding it over itself, pressing with the heel of my hand the way I always do. My sleeves are rolled to my elbows, an old sweatshirt with old paint tracks already dusted with flour, the cuffs damp where I wiped my hands without thinking. I'm barefoot on the tile, toes curling slightly when I shift my weight.

The resistance is comforting. Predictable. If I do this part right, the rest will follow.

I don't hear him come in. I just feel the change. The subtle tightening in my chest, the awareness that someone else is sharing the room now.

Alexander stops just inside the kitchen, like he's run into something invisible and decided not to push through it.

He's still in his coat, scarf looped once around his neck, the dark wool brushing the collar of the gray sweater underneath. The fabric pulls a little when he moves, stretched over his shoulders, down his arms. My eyes catch—stupidly—on his thighs where the sweater falls just long enough to trace them before I realize what I'm doing and snap my gaze back to the counter.

Heat rushes to my face.

His hair is a little messed up from the cold, curls not sitting the way they usually do, glasses pushed higher on his nose like he forgot to fix them. He looks... real. Close. Too close, even from across the room.

"Hi," he says.

The word is soft. Careful. Like he's setting it down in the space between us for me to inspect.

I keep my eyes on the dough, pressing my palms into it harder than I need to. "Hi."

My voice sounds thin to my own ears. Smaller than I meant it to be. I hate how much a child I sound like.

"Where's Eddie," he asks.

He doesn't lean forward. Doesn't scan the backroom. His tone stays even, but there's something underneath it—concern held back on purpose. I'm not even sure if he can fully see me, and for that I'm a little grateful.

My hands slow, the rhythm faltering for half a second before I force them to keep moving. "He's with a friend," I say. The words trip slightly over each other. "I... I called one of the moms from his class. I needed to be alone."

I brace myself without meaning to, shoulders tensing, waiting for the follow-up. The questions. The gentle disapproval.

I don't look at him, but I swear I feel him nod.

Something in my shoulders eases with his permission.

He steps closer, but only to the edge of the counter, like he's learned exactly where to stop. He doesn't reach for me. Doesn't reach for anything. His eyes stay on my hands instead of my face, tracking the way my fingers sink into the dough, the way it stretches and resists under my palms.