The kitchen had finally quieted.
Where there had once been clattering bowls, laughter, and the hum of mixers, there now lingered only the warm scent of butter, caramelized sugar, and baked fruit. The counters were lined with the results of hours of work—golden pastries glazed to perfection, delicate fruit tarts shining under the lights, rows of cookies dusted with powdered sugar like fresh snow.
Eloise stood in the center of it all, flour dusting her cheek like faint constellations, apron tied crookedly over her linen shirt. Her hands ached pleasantly from kneading, rolling, shaping. Around her, the team she'd accidentally assembled looked just as wrecked and just as proud.
She looked at what they had made.
Not just her.
They.
