Chapter Text
They say memories live in smells, tastes, and sounds — that the best recipes are the ones made with love. Sometimes, Chase liked to believe, a cookie could bring back a ghost. Not the kind that came out with the moon and haunted hallways — just the soft echo of someone who used to be there. Long enough for one last hug. Long enough to remember how it felt to be held.
That’s how he tried to comfort his little sister.
And maybe himself, too.
In one hand, he carried a sage-green backpack. Inside it, a dented Lady Lovalorn cat-unicorn lunchbox had been packed haphazardly — but lovingly — with a sandwich cut diagonally, apple slices with just enough lemon to keep them from browning, a handful of crackers, and a homemade cookie wrapped in wax paper.
Mom’s recipe. Soft-baked. Just enough nutmeg to remember.
In the other hand, he held Prunella’s. Her fingers were small and warm, tucked into his like they belonged there. He squeezed gently as they crossed the street toward the elementary school, glancing both ways out of habit even though traffic this early was sparse. Keysbridge mornings eased themselves awake — no blaring horns, no rush. Just the low hum of town beginning to breathe.
A calm autumn breeze rustled Chase’s golden hair, catching the first smears of light as the sun crept up over the rooftops. The air was crisp and clean, faintly perfumed with pine and the cinnamon-heavy apple cider someone was already selling from a booth in the town square. Chase inhaled as they passed, nodding to the vendor setting out paper cups.
Trees lined the sidewalk in neat rows, their leaves blushing yellow, orange, and burgundy. Some broke free in the breeze and skittered across the pavement, crunching under two sets of shoes — one worn and practical, the other rainbow light-up sneakers that flashed with every step.
Prunella did her best to keep up, but Chase’s strides were longer without him meaning them to be. He slowed instinctively, adjusting his pace so she didn’t have to hop to match him.
“Come on, Monkey,” he called, glancing back at her with a teasing smile. “We’re gonna be late.”
“I am coming,” Prunella huffed, voice indignant for someone barely reaching his belly button. She tugged his hand to emphasize the point.
She was small, but she filled space when she wanted to. Six years old and stubbornly determined — especially when she decided something was important. And she had many thoughts about what was and wasn’t, like a tiny judge and jury with pudgy cheeks and wide, curious eyes that missed very little.
Part of Chase wondered where that had come from. The other part thought twice about how often he resorted to passive-aggressive sass whenever anyone questioned him — and where she might’ve learned it.
Prunella also had a gift for stealth.
At night, when the lights were off, she moved quiet like a mouse — appearing suddenly in doorways, behind couches, beside his bed — and scaring years off his life.
It had become a routine.
A deeply unfair one.
She had their mother’s chestnut hair and blue-grey eyes, her expressions vivid and unfiltered. Chase had their dad’s honey-brown gaze and dimpled cheeks. Different enough that strangers never guessed they were related — which earned him looks on out-of-town doctor visits and grocery trips that made his stomach knot.
At least in Keysbridge, everyone knew.
Knew their names. Knew their history.
Knew what had happened.
It was the kind of town where people knew your dog’s name and how you liked your cider. Where leaves didn’t just fall — they settled in. Where routines mattered, and memory clung to places the way ivy clung to brick.
It was the town his parents had loved.
The town they’d fallen in love in.
And the place Chase was determined to stay.
For her.
“Are you going to one of your odd jobs again?” she asked, blinking up at him. He’d styled her hair into pigtails that morning, and they bounced with every step. “Do odd jobs make you odd, or are you odd on your own? You should get a non-odd job.”
Chase snorted. “Wow. Brutal.”
She shrugged. “Just saying.”
He walked her up the steps toward the kindergarten gate and crouched to her height. “Yeah, yeah. Maybe I’ll find a weird one instead. Balance it out.”
She made a face, clearly unconvinced.
He scooped her into a hug before she could dodge, pressing his cheek into her hair. She sputtered immediately, flailing.
“Grossss!” she protested, squirming free and straightening her sweater — a cartoon koala smiling up at the world. “You’re embarrassing.”
“That’s my job,” Chase said lightly.
Her expression dimmed just a fraction as the teacher stepped forward. Chase noticed. He always noticed.
“Bye, Monkey,” he murmured softly, squeezing her hand one last time. “Have a good day, okay?”
She nodded, clutching her backpack straps.
Ms. Eddie smiled politely and ushered Prunella inside with the rest of the early arrivals. Chase stood there longer than necessary, hand still lifted in a half-wave like he expected her to turn back.
She didn’t.
Eventually, he let his arm fall. Then his shoulders slumped.
It was time to head to his first job.
He loved Prunella fiercely. Loved her rambling facts about bugs and plants and animals — both real and imaginary. But he was grateful she was back in school after a long summer. The before and after-school programs gave him precious hours to work. To keep them afloat.
Still, between raising a six-year-old and juggling multiple jobs, he didn’t have much time to breathe.
And to say he was exhausted today would be an understatement — the dark circles under his eyes spoke for themselves.
He needed caffeine.
Chase hiked his jacket up higher against the bite in the air and turned down Main Street, boots scuffing lightly against the sidewalk. Morning sunlight spilled between buildings, catching on hand-painted storefront signs advertising back-to-school discounts and Halloween decorations that had appeared overnight like the town had collectively agreed it was time.
The coffee shop sat on the corner, already alive — windows fogged with warmth, silhouettes moving inside, the bell over the door jingling like it was trying out for Santa’s sleigh.
Crafted Coffee.
Where Chase knew he could always order a quick drink from the pick-up counter if he flagged Deacon’s attention. Best friend privileges.
Warmth and the rich scent of espresso and chocolate hit him as he pushed the door open, and he closed his eyes for half a second just to feel it.
He waved at Deacon’s grandpa behind the counter — Grandpa Ralph, as everyone in town called him — and offered a bright, but tired smile.
“Morning, Grandpa Ralph,” he called, weaving past the line like he owned the place — which, functionally, he kind of did.
Ralph looked up from the register, face splitting into a grin. “Mornin’, son!”
Chase slid onto one of the dark wooden stools at the bar, propping an elbow against the counter in front of Deacon, who was mid-war with the espresso machine.
“You okay?” Deacon asked without looking up. His lips pulled into a subtle smirk, the freckles on his cheeks framing his amusement. “You look like you got trampled by a horse.”
“Nuh-uh,” Chase replied instantly. “Horses like me. Not you.” He raised a teasing brow. “I still remember that second-grade field trip when you almost got bit and ran away crying.”
Deacon jerked back like he’d been stung, flushing a deep crimson. “Wha— hey! That did not happen like that!”
Steam puffed aggressively from the machine, as if it disagreed. Deacon flinched, glared at it, then locked a new filter in place with far more force than necessary.
“I did not cry,” he grumbled, pouting.
“Sure you didn’t, Dorkin,” Chase assured sweetly, resting his head in his hand with a half-hearted smile.
Behind him, Ralph rang up the last of the early-morning customers and began prepping drinks, humming tunelessly to himself.
Deacon wiped his station, placed a few mugs and to-go cups of coffee at the pick-up window for customers waiting nearby, then finally looked at Chase properly. His eyebrows pulled together, embarrassment fading into something more concerned. “But seriously. You okay? How’s Prunella doing?”
Chase opened his mouth—
—and a cup slammed down on the counter between them.
“CHASE!” Ralph announced proudly, presenting a clear to-go cup filled with something the color of radioactive mint. “Try this, son!”
Chase blinked.
So did Deacon.
It had… layers. Too many layers. Green liquid. Then cream? Possibly foam? Pink bubbles floated at the top, moving like they were sentient. Something sparkly caught the light and winked back at him.
“Is that… glitter?” Chase asked carefully.
“Edible glitter,” Ralph clarified, chest puffed. “It’s a bubblegum matcha mocha! Wait ‘til Diane gets a load of this one!”
He nudged the drink closer with a flourish, as if he’d just reinvented civilization.
Chase stared at it.
Deacon stared at it.
“It looks like it could legally be classified as a biohazard,” Deacon muttered.
“I do love glitter,” Chase conceded diplomatically. He lifted the cup and took a small sip.
Instant regret.
His face scrunched. He recoiled in his seat, gag reflex valiantly suppressed.
“Oh man,” he wheezed. “That’s… bold.”
“Packs a punch!” Ralph beamed. “The days of plain caffeine are over, boys. We gotta have more ‘rise and shine’ per square inch!”
Chase nodded weakly, then leaned toward Deacon and whispered, “Please swap this for a white chocolate mocha when he’s not looking.”
Deacon gave the world’s smallest nod and the world’s driest smirk.
“I heard that!” Ralph called over his shoulder. “You can’t silence innovation, boy. One day, the people will see.”
“I’m sure they will,” Chase replied brightly, planning to bury the drink in the trash behind the flower stand.
“So how’s the little munchkin?” Ralph asked, already moving on.
Chase’s gaze drifted around the shop — the creaky wooden floors, the lovingly worn tables, the framed photos of Keysbridge over the decades. One caught his eye, as it always did.
His parents, smiling, frozen in time.
“She’s doing okay,” he murmured softly. “Kindergarten’s an adjustment. I just hope she makes a friend soon. She could use one.”
He stirred the glitter bomb absently, watching the sparkles drift and sink — much like the quiet fear in his chest, the one that whispered she needed more than he alone could provide.
“I know she’s been trying. But, y’know, kids can be mean.”
“And you?” Ralph asked gently, setting another mug at the pick-up window.
Chase shrugged, resting his chin in his palm. “I’m… great.” Then, forcing more brightness into his voice, “Better than great, actually! We’re in, like, a routine now. ’S’all good.”
Ralph hummed, unconvinced. “A routine’s not the same thing as great, son. Kowalski used to feed the wildlife by the base every day, but one day he nearly lost a hand.”
Deacon returned, holding a blessedly normal mocha. “From the animals attacking him?”
“No,” Ralph answered solemnly. “From equipment falling on top of him on the way back.”
Deacon shook his head, then slid the drink in front of Chase, swapping it seamlessly for the neon disaster. Chase wrapped both hands around it like it was a lifeline.
“Point is, you could use some company, too,” Ralph added mildly.
“What ever happened with the pizza guy you were drooling over?” Deacon nudged, smirking.
Chase huffed a small laugh, cheeks warming. “Moved away, I think. But I go every now and then for a slice. Maybe he’s seasonal or something.” He coughed into his hand. “A-anyway, even if I met anyone, it’s not like I have the time.”
His life was already stretched thin — adding dating to the mix felt laughable.
And besides, he had Prunella. Who would want to date a single father? To take on all that came with it?
And even if someone did… he couldn’t let them into her life unless they meant to stay. He couldn’t put her through another goodbye.
“I have Pru to think about,” he added, softer.
Ralph’s brows lifted knowingly. “Can’t hurt to try, son. If that’s what you want.”
Chase shifted in his seat, sensing the weight. The care.
Then he barrelled ahead — aiming for something lighter. “The only company I need besides Deacon and Pru is Dracifer and Caspian,” he explained, fanning himself dramatically. “Emotionally unavailable fictional men are very low maintenance.”
“You’re still obsessed with that Mistenwood series?” Deacon asked. “I thought vampires were on their way out—”
“And Star Brigade, Dorkin,” Chase added with a scoff. “And vampires are always in. It’s like you don’t even know me. My own bestie? The betrayal.” He sighed dramatically, then poked Deacon’s chest. “If Star Brigade is ever touring again, you know what to get me for my birthday. I’m their number one fan on their official fan site, y’know.”
“Healthy,” Deacon deadpanned.
“Thriving, Dorkin,” Chase corrected, hopping off his stool. He waved as he backed toward the door. “Anyways, gotta get to work. Thanks for the coffee.”
Deacon rolled his eyes, but smiled fondly. “Yeah, yeah. Tell the kid Uncle Deacon said hi.”
Chase gave a mock-salute. “Will do! Toodaloo, Dorkiepoo!”
Deacon blinked. Then massaged his temples.
The bell chimed as Chase stepped outside, the morning chill making him zip his jacket without thinking. The drink in his hand kept his fingers warm. Steam curled faintly from the lid as he walked, and he took a careful sip — vanilla blooming across his tongue, sweet and grounding, settling in his chest.
Like the presence of Deacon and Ralph behind him — their voices and the clink of ceramic fading as the door swung shut. Familiar sounds. Safe ones.
Chase liked people. Liked talking, joking, making easy connections. It came naturally to him — too naturally, sometimes.
But closeness was different. Real closeness asked for things he wasn’t sure he could give without losing his footing. Once he let someone in, he didn’t know how to do it halfway.
So he kept those spaces few and carefully balanced — like a stack of soup cans at Willoughby’s Market. One wrong shift, and everything came down.
And today’s morning gig? Stock boy.
The first of several.
He took another sip of his mocha.
His shoulders loosened. His eyes felt a little brighter. And with caffeine in his system, the day felt… survivable.
He crossed the street toward the market — the town’s grocery store-slash-gossip hub, where the front windows were perpetually smudged with fingerprints and seasonal flyers, and the inside smelled like apples, floor wax, and community. The kind of place where conversations lingered in the aisles long after carts stopped moving.
Chase clocked in, tied his apron around his waist, and got to work.
His responsibilities were simple enough: lug boxes, restock shelves, and nod politely when Mrs. Garrison asked — for the fifth time that morning — where the honey and tuna were.
She had a weird taste in sandwiches.
And dementia.
But she was sweet, like her favorite snack.
“Is it back here?” she asked with a hopeful smile.
“Yep,” Chase replied gently, already walking her there. Again.
Boxes, shelves, smile. Repeat.
He only worked part-time at the store. After this, he’d head to his next job before picking up Pru from school. Yardwork, deliveries, baking commissions — whatever came up. It all blurred together into a long, quiet calculation of hours versus bills, but it was enough. Enough to keep food on the table. Enough to keep the courts satisfied.
“Hey, Hollow — move faster!”
Coach Gary’s voice carried from the end of the aisle, sharp but not unkind. The store manager — and proud owner of a mustache that deserved its own HOA — stood with his arms crossed, surveying the shelves like he was inspecting his little league recruits.
“Those canned beans aren’t gonna shelve themselves!”
“Yes, sir,” Chase responded dutifully, shaking his head as he picked up the pace.
His back was already stiff from yesterday’s yardwork gig — with a deep, familiar ache that had taken up permanent residency somewhere between his shoulder blades — and the constant lifting wasn’t helping. Still, he didn’t mind the work.
The monotony helped.
It gave him space to zone out. To not think. To let his brain drift somewhere quieter.
Sometimes, when he was bored enough, the work even became… creative.
He was halfway through arranging cereal boxes into the vague shape of a pumpkin — orange in the center, pale yellow edging it like a halo — when he stepped back to admire his handiwork and promptly backed into the aisle.
A cart slammed into his calves.
“Ah—!”
Chase stumbled forward, arms flailing as a box of Pumpkin-O’s tipped dangerously. He caught it just before it hit the floor.
“Watch it, buddy—!”
The words slipped out on instinct.
The second they registered, Chase clapped a hand to his mouth. Slowly — painfully — he turned around.
“Oh my God! Sorry— I— um… you just scared me.”
The man behind the cart looked unimpressed.
Tall. Taller than Chase, at least — which, to be fair, most people were. About his age. Jet-black hair, neat and deliberate, matching dark clothes that looked like they’d never known dust or clearance racks. His posture was stiff, controlled, like he was already annoyed he had to exist in this space at all.
“Does this place only employ clumsy waifs?” the man deadpanned.
Clear blue eyes swept over Chase — assessing, cool, taking inventory like he was mentally drafting notes for an extreme makeover.
“Or just anyone off the street?” he questioned, tilting his head.
Chase blinked.
Oh.
One of those.
He bent to straighten the fallen box, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as he did. Sure, his shirt was secondhand, washed a few too many times, and the apron definitely wasn’t helping — barf-yellow doing him zero favors. But he looked cute enough.
He glanced down reflexively, fought back the flicker of self-consciousness, and stood back up. Schooled his expression into a pleasant smile. Dug out his customer service voice.
“Can I help you find anything, sir?” he asked, an octave higher than normal.
The man picked imaginary lint from his sleeve with exaggerated disinterest before pivoting his cart around Chase.
“I doubt it,” he muttered. “This town appears… limited. And so does the help.”
Chase’s smile tightened — polite, practiced. “Ha. We only employ the best,” he bragged, sugar-sweet. “And we all bring service with a Willoughby’s winning grin.”
That got him.
“The best?” the man echoed, going stiff as his gaze flicked down the aisle — over the scuffed linoleum, the endcap display that leaned a little, the seasonal flyers taped up crooked. His mouth curled like he’d tasted something sour. “Hardly. This place is stuck in the stone age.”
Chase kept the smile in place. Forced it not to crack.
“Well,” he responded lightly, as if they were having a normal conversation and not whatever this was, “maybe if we toss one, we’ll invent rock and roll.”
The man stared at him like Chase had just spoken in an entirely different language. Like he couldn’t decide whether to be offended or confused that someone had dared to joke in his general vicinity.
Then he reached to the shelf, grabbed an armful of chocolate bars with sharp, efficient motions, and turned so abruptly his cart wheels squeaked in protest. He stalked away without another word, shoulders set like the whole store had personally inconvenienced him.
Chase watched him go. His smile split wider — genuine now, bright and too big to be called polite.
“Thanks for stopping in!” he called after him cheerfully. “Thank ya, thank ya very much!”
He snapped finger guns and added a passable Elvis swivel, hips barely moving but spirit fully committed.
Down the aisle, the man slowed.
Just for a second.
Not enough to turn around. Not enough to dignify Chase with a look.
But enough for Chase to see the hesitation. The tiniest hitch, like the man was fighting the urge to react at all.
Then he kept walking.
Chase scoffed under his breath, rolling his eyes as he turned back to the cereal display. “What a jerk,” he muttered — but the edge of amusement lingered anyway, annoying as it was.
By the time his shift ended, his arms were sore, the caffeine in his system was fading, and his shirt smelled vaguely of hot dogs and mop water — because of course it did. He clocked out, hung his barf-yellow apron in the back, and realized he had zero desire to ever look at cereal again. Not even the kind with marshmallow charms.
Even if it was Star Brigade brand.
He waved at Gary as he left, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and stepped back into the chill, heading toward Maple Street.
Second job of the day? Raking leaves. It wasn’t glamorous. It was cold, repetitive, and left his hands smelling like damp earth no matter how many times he rubbed them against his jeans. But it was fifty bucks a yard — and sometimes it came with a slice of lemon pound cake or a piece of unsolicited life advice he’d politely nod through.
He took what he could get.
As he passed the town bulletin board near the corner of Main and Sugar Spring Way, something caught his eye.
He slowed.
Then stopped.
Wedged between a lost mitten notice and a piano teacher’s fall availability flyer was something… nicer. Thicker. Intentional. Printed on sturdy cardstock, cream-colored, its corners just beginning to curl in the breeze like it had been up for a few days.
Chase stepped closer.
‘Bakery Assistant Needed
at Keysbridge Inn by Ashton!’
The words were written in looping script beside a delicate illustration of a whisk.
Clean. Polished. Nothing like him.
He tilted his head, imagining the inside of a place like that. Neat rows of scones lined up just so. Floors without crumbs. Counters wiped spotless. It probably smelled like fresh linen, laminated menus, and restraint. Zero personality. Or maybe… the kind of personality that required permission.
He squinted at the name.
Keysbridge Inn ‘by Ashton.’
How pretentious.
The inn sat at the edge of town, its white facade visible from the road like a postcard that never changed. New management, apparently — Mr. Johnson had finally sold it so he could move closer to his kids and grandkids. Good for him.
It used to be just the Keysbridge Inn.
But no matter what the sign said now, to everyone in town it would always be the Keyhouse.
That was where lanterns were lit for the winter festival. Where hot chocolate steamed in gloved hands. Where Chase remembered standing between his parents as a kid, beaming as the lights floated in the dark.
He stared at the flyer longer than he meant to.
Bakery assistant. Regular hours. Probably decent pay.
His chest tightened.
He let out a breath and shook his head, stepping back like the paper might burn him if he lingered too long.
He didn’t have any experience. Not really. And these days, it felt like you needed five years of internships before birth just to apply for anything entry-level. People like him didn’t get jobs like that. They cobbled things together. Took what they could. Made do.
Still.
The words followed him as he turned away.
And through two yards’ worth of leaves — whenever he let his mind wander.
But soon the sun began to stretch long shadows through bare tree branches, and like fingers stretching across the lawn, they wrapped around his shoulders and shook. Snapped him out of it. Reminded him of the time. To hurry before he was running late to pick up Pru.
And finally — after clearing more bags than he could keep track of, and one blister forming hot and angry against his palm — Chase yanked off his gloves with his teeth and shoved them into his pocket.
He was done with his second gig.
His breath came out in quick, uneven puffs as he jogged up the porch steps of Mrs. Abernathy’s place.
The door cracked open before he could knock.
“Left a thermos of cocoa on the stoop,” Mrs. Abernathy said, eyes soft, voice warm despite the chill. “And a little extra this time. You keep that sister of yours in warm boots for the winter, you hear?”
Chase managed a grateful smile, accepting the envelope she pressed into his hand. Bit his tongue before he complained about a handout.
Because the truth was, he hadn’t figured out how he was going to pay for Pru’s new snow boots yet. And the temperature would be dipping into the teens before he knew it.
He swallowed that thought with a long gulp of hot chocolate as he jogged home, the cocoa sweet and rich and exactly what he needed. The warmth spread through him, loosening his chest just enough to breathe again.
At the house, he rushed inside, straight to the refrigerator, pulling out the cake carrier and balancing it carefully against his hip as he locked the door behind him.
The container smelled like strawberries and effort.
He always put extra love into strawberry desserts — they were his favorite, after all.
He’d made the cake at midnight last night — after helping teach a session at the local dance center, the kind that kept his body moving without asking too much of his heart, then cooking dinner, running laundry, and tucking Prunella into bed with a whispered story about a marshmallow queen and her gingerbread wolf.
He wasn’t much of a reader. Never had been.
So he usually made up stories instead — even if he kept her bookshelf stocked.
Pru liked them. Even when she interrupted constantly to poke holes in his logic.
Too smart for her own good.
Mrs. Forenski usually humored him and agreed, but doted on her all the same. Her house smelled faintly of tea and old books. And Chase knocked lightly once he reached her door.
A minute later, it creaked open to reveal an older woman with silver curls and a cranberry scarf, beaming like she’d been waiting just for him.
“Afternoon, sweetheart!” she greeted, her smile widening when she saw the cake. “You are a doll.”
Chase lifted the container proudly. “Devil’s food cake with real strawberry frosting,” he recited, “topped with buttercream roses, a crown, and a message for the birthday princess — as requested.”
Mrs. Forenski’s eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s perfect! I don’t know how you find the time to do this.”
“Last night,” Chase recounted honestly. “Between laundry and Pru’s bedtime story.”
She took the cake like it was a priceless heirloom, cradling it carefully. “You know, we look forward to these for every event. You always outdo yourself.” She smirked. “If I had a proper kitchen at The Tea is Silent, I’d hire you as our baker in a heartbeat. That’d one-up that crotchety old coot and his rinky-dink coffee shop.”
Chase laughed. “You do more than enough just putting my business cards out, Mrs. Forenski.”
“I mean it,” she insisted, peering at him. “You could really sell them. Professionally. You’ve got talent. Mia certainly thinks so — and she’ll be thrilled with the princess cake.”
Chase rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the cold through his hoodie. “Maybe. I dunno. I don’t have any formal training. Just… family recipes. Improv.”
Mrs. Forenski studied him carefully.
“Some people go to school for this,” she said gently. “Others just have it. You’ve got it, sweetheart. Your momma would be so proud of you and Prunella. And what you’re doing for her.”
The words landed heavier than she probably intended.
Chase smiled faintly anyway — the kind of smile meant to reassure, not reveal.
Mrs. Forenski pressed a wad of bills into his hand, folding his fingers closed around it before he could protest. Something a little extra, more than they’d discussed. Her touch was warm, certain. Final.
“Thank you,” he expressed quietly, because there was nothing else to say that wouldn’t sound like pride getting in the way of gratitude.
He stepped back down onto the porch, pausing just long enough to adjust the strap of his bag and offer one last smile over his shoulder. Mrs. Forenski was still standing in the doorway, watching him go the way people did when they hoped you were doing all right, even if they already knew the answer.
Her words followed him down the steps.
So did the memory of the flyer.
He walked, mentally dividing his paycheck for the week — utilities, peanut butter, a school field trip, those stupid snow boots. Numbers lined up in his head the way they always did, neat and unyielding.
Bakery assistant.
Just a scrap of paper.
But it stayed with him — like the scent of something warm left in the oven too long. Sweet. Sharp. Impossible to ignore.
Not only was it something he might like doing, but it was one job. One place. Something steady.
And, as he always did — probably always would — he found himself wishing for his mom’s advice. Just one more time.
‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿
That evening, his mom’s kitchen smelled like browned butter, warm sugar, and the soft, aching kind of sadness that came from missing someone who should have been there to share it.
The windows had fogged slightly from the oven’s heat, the outside chill pressing faintly against the glass. The overhead light cast a mellow glow across the counters — cluttered but familiar — and his dad’s old radio hummed quietly with some pop station Chase hadn’t bothered to change.
Until a familiar melody crept in. He reached over and nudged the dial until something softer filled the space.
It felt like the house exhaling after a long day.
He spooned a full cup of pumpkin purée into the chipped mixing bowl in front of him, scraping the sides with care. The bowl had been his mom’s.
Still was, in a way.
The floral pattern along the rim was faded almost to nothing, worn smooth by years of hands and washing and use. But Chase didn’t need the flowers to remember which bowl it was. He could feel it in the weight. The balance. The way it sat solidly on the counter like it belonged there.
He reached for a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips, hesitated — then sighed.
“I don’t know, Deacon,” he murmured into the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, keeping his voice low. “I don’t have any experience.”
In the living room behind him, Prunella was sprawled on the rug, half-watching cartoons and half-coloring with intense concentration. The TV played Lady Lovalorn at a volume just loud enough to keep her occupied. Crayon shavings littered the coffee table like confetti, and every so often she hummed softly to herself.
Chase didn’t want to be too loud.
“Chase,” Deacon said patiently, his voice crackling faintly through the speaker, “don’t you think you’re psyching yourself out? The worst they could do is say no.”
Chase pinched his lower lip between his teeth, nodding even though Deacon couldn’t see him. He folded the purée into the batter slowly, methodical, like keeping his hands busy might keep his thoughts from spiraling.
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess,” he mumbled. “Still. Would be stupid mean if they called me a talentless hack and bannistered me from the hotel.”
There was a pause.
“…Banished?”
“That’s what I said, Dorkin,” Chase replied immediately, already defensive. “Anyway. That’s the worst case. Best case is I get hired and don’t screw it up and embarrass myself at high tea — or whatever event rich hotel people eat cakes at.”
He could practically hear Deacon rolling his eyes on the other end.
“You’ll be fine, Chase,” Deacon assured. “And you’ll regret it if you don’t try.”
Chase snorted softly, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Wow. Look at you, Dorkin.”
“What?”
“Pot, meet kettle chips,” Chase teased. “Listen to your own advice, dude. I know you were totes eyeing that librarian assistant role.”
A long pause followed.
Then, flatly, “I’m hanging up now. Tell Pru I said hi.”
Chase laughed under his breath. “Sure, sure. Night, Dorkin.”
The call ended, leaving the kitchen quieter — the kind of quiet that settled gently rather than pressing in.
Almost immediately, Prunella’s voice piped up from the other room. “Can I use your glitter?” she asked loudly.
Chase set his phone down and went back to mixing the batter, folding in the chocolate chips with practiced ease. “Which glitter?” he questioned without looking up.
“The good glitter.”
He froze.
“…You mean the edible one,” he murmured slowly, “or the illegal-for-six-year-olds one you stole from the craft box?”
There was a beat.
“…Both.”
“Absolutely not,” Chase replied instantly. “You chaotic gremlin.”
She groaned dramatically, stabbing her purple crayon straight into the sky of her drawing. “I was gonna make it snow on the unicorn castle.”
“Use your glitter pens,” Chase offered, scraping the sides of the bowl. “They’re in your pencil box.”
“That’s more work.”
He laughed — soft, breathy, tired. “That’s life, Monkey.”
She didn’t understand. And that was okay.
They worked like that for a while — easy, companionable silence filling the space between them. Chase portioned batter into muffin tins, tapping them lightly against the counter to settle. Pru hummed to herself, absorbed in her masterpiece. Lady Lovalorn continued on the TV, dramatic and sparkly and entirely unconcerned with reality.
The warmth of the oven seeped into the room like a hug.
Chase liked nights like this.
Nights where he could feed her something he made with his own hands. Tell her a memory about Mom and Dad without it hurting too much. Watch a movie together. Tuck her into bed with a whispered promise that tomorrow would be okay.
It was quiet. Peaceful.
And still — she deserved more.
He wished he could afford new clothes when she grew out of things too fast. New toys that weren’t secondhand. Scout programs. Summer camps she asked about with wide eyes and careful hope. He did everything he could — but sometimes it felt like his best still fell short.
His thoughts drifted back to the flyer. To Deacon’s voice. To the idea he’d been afraid to hold too tightly.
Could he really work in a bakery?
It would be a dream. Stability. Something he loved. Something that didn’t require him to run himself ragged across half the town every day. Maybe even enough money that he could save. Plan.
One day… open his own place.
He lingered on his balcony later, after putting Pru to bed, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed to keep warm. The night air was crisp and clean, biting just enough to wake him up. Above him, the stars glittered over Keysbridge — sharp, bright, impossibly distant.
He smiled faintly.
Who was he kidding?
Opening his own bakery was a pipe dream at best. Right up there with becoming the sixth member of Star Brigade and going on a world tour.
Now that was a dream.
But stranger things have happened when you wish upon a star.
The moon was out, too — just a crescent — catching the light like it had something to say. A new phase. A quiet beginning. The kind of light that didn’t demand attention but showed up anyway.
Maybe the universe was sending him signs.
Or maybe he was just tired. Hopeful. Lonely. A little crazy.
Still, he let himself look for one second longer. Just in case the stars were listening.
Then he exhaled, shook his head gently, and went inside. Set his alarm for five in the morning, turned out the light, and let the quiet settle around him — carrying with it the faint, stubborn promise of something more.