"Is that... flour on your face?"Jonathan stood in the doorway of the kitchen. The jagged, red-rimmed edges of his eyes softened for the first time since Lagos. He leaned against the doorframe, his charcoal suit jacket tossed over a chair, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows."Don't look at me." I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand. The smudge only grew. I turned back to the marble island, pressing the heel of my palm into the dough. It was stubborn. Cold. "I found it in the back of the pantry. A bag of T55. Probably older than my scholarship.""You're baking. Now?" Jonathan walked into the room. He didn't smell like the boardroom or the gun range today. He smelled like the rain outside. "The world is ending on the news, Benjamin. My father’s brain is still on the upholstery of the Hayes suite, and you’re making... what is that?""Lemon tarts." I reached for a bowl of citrus. The bright, sharp scent hit the air, cutting through the heavy, metallic smell of the house.
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