The Pancake Trap

Lily thompson

The first thing I registered when I opened my eyes was the warmth of sunlight spilling across the curtains.

The second thing was giggling.

Not just any kind of giggling, the type laced with joy, mischief, and the comfort of someone who didn’t laugh like that with just anybody.

I sat up, blinked hard, and listened.

There it was again. Giggling. Followed by a deep, familiar chuckle that made the pit of my stomach clench.

Ryan.

I swung my legs off the bed and reached for my robe, heart already hammering. I was supposed to wake up before Isabella and prepare her for school. Mentally prep for my first day at Denzol. Not… this.

Padding barefoot down the hall, I kept expecting the laughter to stop, but it didn’t. It grew louder. Warmer.

I followed it to the kitchen.

And froze.

Isabella was perched on a barstool, whisk in hand, flour on her nose, laughing so hard she almost tipped over. And there—standing behind the stove—was Ryan.

Shirtless.

His back was to me at first, the muscles of his arms and shoulders flexing as he stirred something in a frying pan.

Then he turned, and my breath hitched, a traitorous gasp. Broad chest, defined abs, a V-line that drew the eye down.A towel slung low over his waist where he’d tucked a dishtowel. It was a visual assault, a stark reminder of a body I once knew intimately, a body that had no right to look so devastatingly domestic while making pancakes.

He was saying something to Isabella about “the perfect flip” and she was giggling so hard she spilled batter onto the marble countertop.

I should’ve said something. Moved. Cleared my throat.

But my feet felt rooted, my gaze unwillingly snagged on the easy way he moved, the warmth radiating from him. I hated myself for watching, even for that split second.

I watched the way he winked at her when she said something ridiculous. The way he used a spatula like a microphone to serenade her with some terrible made-up song. The way she laughed like she was ten feet tall and invincible just because he was there.

And it hit me.

That was me, once.

That used to be my laugh. My lightness. My comfort.

He used to sing to me like that. Dance with me in the kitchen. Promise me a future over badly flipped pancakes.

God, I was so naive.

So stupid to think forever was something he meant.

“Mommy!” Isabella squealed, finally spotting me. “Come! We made pancakes!”

I flinched, jolting from the trance, my cheeks burning hot.

Ryan turned toward me, already smirking, already knowing.

Damn it.

I straightened and crossed my arms, doing everything in my power to shove the heat in my face back into the pit of my stomach.

“You’re up early,” I said to him, voice clipped.

He raised a brow and pointed at the pan. “Chef’s duties call.”

And that damn smirk never left his lips.

I looked at Isabella, trying to ignore the fact that my heart was sprinting toward danger. “Honey, go take a bath and get ready for school. Now.”

Her smile faded a little, but she obeyed. “Okay... but save me some pancakes.”

She skipped out of the kitchen, humming to herself.

Now it was just us.

Ryan turned the stove off slowly, like he wasn’t the slightest bit affected by the sudden shift in the air. Like he didn’t know what he was doing showing up half-naked, domestic, and devastating all at once.

I crossed my arms tighter, trying to keep my eyes above his collarbone.

“What do you think you are doing?” I asked, my voice lower than intended.

He tilted his head. “Making breakfast.”

“No,” I hissed. “With her. With Isabella.”

He wiped his hands with the towel, taking his time, then leaned back against the counter.

“Hanging out with her?” he shrugged like it was nothing

I blinked. The audacity. The honesty.

“You don’t get to waltz back in and pretend like she’s yours.”

His jaw flexed. “I never said she was.”

“But you’re acting like it.”

“Because she likes me.”

“She doesn’t know you!” I snapped and I could see his eyes dim but I didn’t care

“She knows I make her feel safe.” he replied steadily, his eyes never leaving mine

The silence between us grew heavy. Dangerous.

I hated how good he looked. How calm he stayed.

I hated the way my chest ached when he spoke with conviction. Like he meant it.

I hated the way my body betrayed me—how I wanted to step closer when I should’ve walked away.

“I won’t let her fall for you,” I said, my voice shaking now. “I won’t let her believe you’ll stay, only to find out you’re a liar just like I did.”

He took a slow step toward me.

“You think I’m lying now?”

I didn’t move.

“You think I’d touch her world if I planned on walking away this time?”

I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe.

His eyes dropped to my lips and then back to my eyes, so slow, so purposeful, it felt like heat had licked up the length of my spine.

I stepped back.

Not because I wanted to.

But because I had to.

“If you ever hurt her, Ryan…” I whispered.

“I know,” he said, his voice low, steady, and maddeningly gentle. I turned on my heel and walked out before I did something stupid.

I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush limp in my hand, foam sitting on my tongue like I’d forgotten how to be human.

What the hell was wrong with me?

One smile, one half-naked pancake stunt, and suddenly my body was forgetting everything?

I spat and rinsed my mouth angrily, as if that could wash the weakness out of me. As if I could scrub away the way my stomach had fluttered when Ryan’s eyes dropped to my lips. As if I hadn’t nearly melted when he leaned in and spoke like he still knew how to unravel me.

I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles white.

I wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

I wasn’t supposed to want anything from him—attention, closure, definitely not... God, whatever that was.

I hated myself for staring. For noticing how defined his abs were. For remembering what his touch used to feel like. For letting my guard down, even for a second, when I knew better.

He left you. The mantra hammered in my skull, a desperate attempt to drown out the traitorous whispers of my body. He left when things got hard. When I needed him most. When I sat alone at a clinic wondering how I was going to raise a baby by myself. He didn’t call. Didn’t show. Didn’t even try. He was a coward. A liar with charming eyes.

I should’ve spit in his pancakes. Instead, I froze like some lovesick teenager reliving the glory days, a bitter taste rising in my throat. I closed my eyes and let the bitterness steady me. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t good. He was temptation in a well-cut shirt and now my daughter thought he was some sort of hero.

I wouldn’t let her fall for the same version of him I once did.

Not again.