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Luca’s eyes dart from me to the oven. “I need to get that.”
I gesture for him to do what he needs to do, and he takes the bowl and spoon with him. For Christ’s sake…
He pulls a tray of cookies from the oven and then unveils another pan from somewhere, sliding it in. And as I watch him, a feeling of guilt washes over me. While I’m pissed he didn’t tell me this was going on, I think I feel worse about the fact that he’s been there for me during my recovery and training, and I haven’t been there for him. This has obviously been weighing on him for a while, and I didn’t even notice.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask as he picks up his bowl again.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does fucking matter.”
He sighs, finally setting his spoon down and turning to face me. “Ty, this has been going on my entire fucking life. It’s nothing I can’t handle, but right now, I don’t want to handle it.” He shrugs. “I’m going to do what I do best, which is bake the stress out, win a fucking fight, then face the wrath when they come out here in a few weeks.”
Panic takes root again at that thought. “They’re coming here?”
“Mm-hm.” Luca nods, opening a drawer and pulling out a whisk. “Sounds fun, doesn’t it?”
Picturing Luca’s parents coming here to St. Louis, interfering in the life we’ve made for ourselves… probably adding me to the list of things they disapprove of… I can’t help but feel some of that stress too.
And I hate that I don’t know what to do to help him. Because once again… I’m lost. I don’t know how to make this better, and I don’t know how to take some of this stress away from him. And I really want to.
But as I watch him pour vanilla into a measuring spoon, I do know of one thing I could do for him right now.
Even though I’ll never hear the end of it.
I lean against the counter beside him. “Want some help?”
His head whips towards me so fast I think he’s going to break his neck. “Tyler fucking Roscoe, don’t you toy with me.”
A breath of laughter escapes me at the look of pure shock on his face. “If you want to bake and forget… then, let’s bake and forget.”
He stares at me for so long, I start to think he’s actually had a stroke. But a smile spreads across his face, as pure joy radiates from him.
“Ever made cinnamon rolls?” he asks with a sparkle in his eye.
I cock an eyebrow at him. “What do you think?”
He smirks. “Surprising, considering it’s your favorite snack.”
I furrow my brow. “No, I don’t–”
“Shh,” he lifts a finger to my lips, “it is.”
He chuckles as I smack his hand away. But seeing him back to his usual, annoying, happy self is enough for me to let that go.
He tilts his head towards the fridge. “We’ll need milk and eggs.”
I turn to get them, but his hand quickly grabs my arm to stop me. And this time when I meet his gaze, his smile meets his eyes. He pulls me closer, pressing his lips to mine. As I lift my hand to wrap my fingers around the back of his neck, I keep him close and deepen our kiss. Showing him that I’m going to try harder to be better at this. To be there for him.
Because I fucking love him.
When we part, he smiles again. “Alright then, sous-chef. Get me my eggs.”
Or do I.
The next few hours are spent baking, as we make cinnamon rolls, brownies, and even more cookies. And… it actually helps. Every thought that has been pushing its way in and weighing me down has left, and I feel an odd sense of ease and relaxation grow with every pan and tray pulled out of the oven. Even when Luca makes weird jokes about me licking the cinnamon sugar and filling up on cinnamon rolls before the main course. Fucking weirdo.
And after the counters pile up with baked goods and it gets light outside, Luca pulls me back into bed. For now, the rest of the world can fuck off.
