The sweet cake smell fills the kitchen.
It's everywhere—drifting through the air like a slow, lazy river of sugar and butter. Fresh coffee steams on the counter, bitter and warm, cutting through the sweetness before it becomes unbearable.
The two scents should fight each other, but they don't. They dance. They weave together. They become something new.
I sit on the counter.
My legs dangle over the edge, swinging slightly from boredom more than intention. The marble beneath me is cold through my clothes.
Sum pulls another tray of fresh cakes from the oven. Heat rolls through the kitchen, carrying vanilla and something else—something that almost tastes like home.
Sum's movements are clumsy and impatient, the movements of someone unused to waiting for anything. The tray slips dangerously in his grip before he catches it at the last second with a sharp breath.
