It’s All Baked Inn - 3. Read the Recipe

“Well done, Chase,” Violet began in her usual composed voice, calm and precise. But there was more warmth under it now — something softer than her sharp eyeliner and the clipped professionalism she wore like a blazer.

Afternoon light spilled through the tall office windows behind her, warm and gold in that particular October way, striping the floorboards and catching on the neat stacks of paperwork spread across her desk.

Chase sat very still.

He’d come in expecting feedback. Notes. Maybe a polite speech about potential and timing and how they’d keep his résumé on file.

Instead, Violet had folded her hands, looked him squarely in the face, and said ‘well done’ like it meant something.

He blinked once. Then again.

“Like…” he started slowly, voice catching on the edge of a laugh, “‘well done’ as in ‘good job’? Or ‘well done’ as in ‘you’re politely firing me, but in a supportive way’?”

The corner of Violet’s mouth twitched.

“The first one,” she replied.

Chase stared at her.

Violet glanced down at the paperwork in front of her, then back up. “Agatha and I have discussed your trial week. Silviana gave her thoughts as well. We’ve reviewed your work, your pace, your willingness to learn, and pre-opening feedback on your baking.” Her gaze sharpened with dry amusement. “Side note: if you’ve seen me eat more than my fair share, no you haven’t.”

She cast him a sidelong look in mock-warning, then paused just long enough to let his nerves fully combust.

“Anyway— Chase, we’d like to offer you the position. Full-time.”

The room went quiet.

Not empty quiet. Not awkward quiet.

The kind of quiet that came after something landed so hard your body forgot how to react before your heart did.

Chase’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

On Violet’s desk sat a pen, a neat stack of employment forms, and a slim folder with his name clipped to the front in clean, typed letters. Chase Everett Hollow. It looked official in a way his life rarely did.

He looked at the folder.

Then at Violet.

Then back at the folder, just to make sure it hadn’t vanished while he wasn’t looking.

“You’re serious?” he asked, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants.

Violet raised a brow. “I generally try to be,” she answered, taking a small, composed sip from a coffee mug that was, perhaps, a touch too bedazzled to support the statement.

Chase laughed — a thin, disbelieving little sound — and immediately shook his head. “No, I know, I just—” He looked down again, blinking hard. “Sorry. I think my brain just did, like… a little cartwheel and fell down the stairs.”

“That sounds tragically unpleasant,” Violet noted dryly, setting her mug down. “But points for flair.”

“I’m just an emotional wreck — don’t mind me,” Chase assured dazedly, pressing a hand to his chest. He took a deep breath, then beamed at her. “Sorry, I’m being a little dramatic.”

That got an actual smile out of her.

“You? Dramatic? I hadn’t noticed,” she replied, amused.

“Birds of a feather squawk together?” Chase offered, his smile turning crooked — laced with teasing, relief, and a hint of uncertainty.

Violet softened further, a quiet chuckle slipping out. “Well, if you insist. But then I call something stately and elegant—”

“What about a raven?” Chase asked, rubbing his chin.

A light knock echoed against the door behind him before she could answer, and they both glanced over as Buddy stepped inside to retrieve a stack of papers.

“I think he’s more of a raven,” she mused, nodding toward him.

Buddy paused, furrowing his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

Violet lifted a hand vaguely. “Stately, elegant, reserved…” Her expression softened by a fraction. “Fiercely loyal. Occasionally playful.”

Chase blinked.

Buddy’s gaze flicked briefly toward Violet. “Playful? Never.”

Chase’s grin twitched. “Quotes the raven,” he murmured, trying very hard not to laugh.

He failed the moment Buddy narrowed his eyes at him. “Quoth,” he corrected.

Chase blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.”

With a faint huff, Buddy gathered the papers and stepped back into the hall, muttering a greeting to someone as he shut the door.

Violet watched it close, then looked at Chase. “He likes Poe.”

From the hallway: “I can still hear you.”

Violet sighed, exasperated and fond, then tapped the folder in front of Chase with one finger. “Anyway, the job is yours if you want it. Bakery assistant. Full-time. Standard probationary period, of course, but yes — you passed.”

Chase swallowed, his smile fading as the reality set in.

One job.

One schedule.

One paycheck from one place.

His mind leapt straight past the words and into the math of it all, because that was how his life worked now. Groceries. School stuff. Winter clothes for Pru. Maybe replacing the toaster that had to be smacked twice to work. Maybe not feeling like every week was a sprint between disasters.

The possibilities came too fast and too bright, and suddenly his eyes stung.

He laughed again, because if he didn’t laugh, he was going to cry in Violet’s office, and that felt like a deeply uncool way to accept employment.

“I want it,” he blurted — a little too quickly to sound calm and collected. Not that he ever was. “The job. I mean. Obviously. Yes. Totally yes.”

“A good decision,” Violet declared, and the warmth in her voice deepened just slightly. “Because Agatha has been hovering in the hallway for the last five minutes waiting to see if she’s allowed to celebrate.”

Chase tilted his head. “Wait… What?”

As if summoned by the sentence alone, the door swung open again.

Mrs. G breezed in first in a swirl of floral perfume, glitter, and bakery authority, one arm still dusted faintly with flour. Silvie slipped in behind her with a grin she was clearly trying — and failing — to keep polite.

“Well?” Mrs. G demanded, though the brightness in her face suggested she already knew perfectly well. “Is he ours?”

Violet exhaled through her nose, pleased and resigned all at once. “Yes, Agatha. He is. Do take good care of our new employee.”

Mrs. G let out a triumphant gasp so theatrical Chase honestly thought she might burst into song next.

“I knew it!” she cried, pressing both hands to her chest. “I knew it from the moment he walked in with those cookies and those enormous, anxious doe eyes. Oh, thank heavens.” Then she looked at Chase and beamed. “Welcome officially, dear!”

Before he could brace for impact, she swept across the office and wrapped him in a hug.

Not a small one.

Not a polite one.

A full-bodied, rib-threatening embrace that smelled like vanilla, rose hand cream, and a kitchen in full swing.

Chase wheezed in startled delight. “Oh my God—”

“We’re keeping you,” Mrs. G announced into his shoulder. “You precious little flour fairy.”

“Agatha,” Violet warned lightly, though she sounded more cautious than cross.

“Oh— lovingly,” Mrs. G clarified at once, hand to her chest.

Chase giggled. “No, no— it’s fine. I magically spread rainbows and cupcakes."

Violet’s eyes slid closed in a valiant attempt to save her composure. When she opened them, something faintly knowing had settled into her expression. “Don’t make me regret this personality hire,” she teased, then glanced at Agatha. “And you — workshop the phrasing.”

Silvie laughed and stepped toward Chase. “I told you,” she whispered, bright-eyed, like she’d somehow won this too.

“You didn’t tell me anything,” Chase said, still pink and dazed.

“I did! In my head,” she answered with an enthusiastic nod.

“Pft. That doesn’t count.”

“Oh, well… it counts to me!”

Mrs. G waved her hands. “That’s the spirit!”

Violet sighed and slid the folder across the desk toward Chase, bringing at least some order back into the room. “If you’d like to read through the paperwork, we can get some formalities handled now. Direct deposit if you want it. Benefits eligibility begins after thirty days. The glamorous side of hospitality.”

“Benefits,” Chase echoed faintly, like she’d offered him a private yacht.

Violet’s smile widened. “Yes. Comprehensive medical, dental, and vision insurance. Very glamorous.”

Chase stared at the stack like it was a relic.

Real paperwork.

For a real job.

His hand hovered over the pen before finally closing around it. “I feel like this should come with dramatic music.”

“It can, if you hum quietly?” Silvie offered.

“Silvie, please. Have you met me?” he asked, inclining his head toward her. “I don’t do quiet. But I can belt you a tune if you want. How about—”

Violet pointed at him. “No singing over tax documents. It spooks payroll.”

Chase laughed under his breath and looked down at the first page. His own name stared back up at him in neat print, official and strange.

He signed once.

Then again.

Each line made it feel a little more solid and a little more impossible.

Silvie leaned against the side of Violet’s desk, watching him with open warmth. “You did really good this week, Chase,” she assured. “Seriously.”

Mrs. G nodded so emphatically her earrings swayed. “You did. And not just because your cakes are lovely, though they are. You work hard. You listen. You care. Do you know how valuable that is?”

Chase’s throat tightened all over again.

He shrugged, because anything bigger felt dangerous. “I mean… I try.”

“Yes,” Violet agreed. “You do. And that matters.”

That landed harder than he expected.

He ducked his head and signed the next form.

When he finished the last page, Violet gathered the papers into a neat stack and clipped them into the folder with a small, efficient motion. “Done,” she said.

Done.

The word seemed to open something in the room.

Silvie reached for his hand before he could think too hard about anything and squeezed it with sudden excitement. “We’re going to lunch! I have decided.”

Chase looked up. “What?”

“We’re going to lunch,” she repeated, as if he were the ridiculous one here. “To celebrate!”

Mrs. G clasped her hands together. “Yes! A little luncheon!”

Violet leaned back in her chair and gave them a look. “You are all technically still on the clock.”

Silvie smiled sweetly. “So that’s a yes, then.”

“That is not what I said.”

But she was smiling too, just a little.

“I speak Violet already. That means she’s coming,” Silvie translated.

Chase looked between the three of them and felt something warm and unsteady bloom in his chest.

Not just relief.

Not just gratitude.

Something softer. Stranger.

Like he was being let into something.

Like this wasn’t just a job, but a place where people might actually want him around. A place where he wasn’t tolerated, or pitied — or looked at with obligation, or given scraps.

For once, it didn’t feel like charity.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and this time the words came out right. He looked at Violet first. “For giving me a chance.” Then at Mrs. G. “For not firing me when I haunted the kitchen with flour.” Then at Silvie, quieter. “And for being nice to me when I was kind of a mess.”

Silvie’s smile softened. “You still are.”

Mrs. G nodded. “But now you’re our mess.”

“I’ll call housekeeping,” Violet quipped.

Chase barked out a laugh.

Violet shook her head, though the fondness was plain now. “We can take forty-five minutes,” she said. “Then we’ll come back and you’ll attempt to keep earning my faith in this decision.”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “I’ll do more than attempt,” he promised. “I’ll blow you away with the next Chase Everett, Eat and Savor It creation!”

“Perhaps you could workshop your phrasing as well,” she teased, then waved him off. “Now shoo while I talk to Agatha and Silviana for a bit. We’ll meet you at the staff entrance in ten minutes.”

Chase nodded, and by the time he stepped out of Violet’s office, his face hurt from smiling.

The hallway beyond was quiet, washed in mellow gold from the late afternoon light spilling through the windows at the far end. The inn still smelled faintly of polish, old wood, and baked sugar, with just a hint of cinnamon drifting out from the kitchen like fall had settled into the walls. Everything looked the same as it had ten minutes ago, but something had shifted. Sharpened. Brightened.

Like the whole building had made room for him.

He had a job.

A real one.

At Keyhouse.

He was so busy figuring out how to carry that feeling without dropping it that he didn’t notice the footsteps approaching until it was too late — and he nearly plowed straight into Buddy.

Buddy had a clipboard tucked under one arm and a stack of forms in his hands, like paperwork had simply evolved around him as protective armor. He stopped without stumbling — because of course he did — and stared at Chase like he was a deeply inconvenient obstacle in an otherwise well-managed corridor.

“Watch it, little baker,” he muttered, steadying the papers with one precise hand. “Try not to obstruct the hallway. You are an employee, not a traffic jam.”

The nickname lit its usual little flare of annoyance in Chase’s ribs, but his good mood was too big now for Buddy to dampen.

He aimed his grin somewhere harmless.

“Sorry, Raven Dude,” he countered.

If Buddy was going to keep calling him little baker, Chase figured professional courtesy had already left the building.

Buddy's expression suggested offense.

The slight lift of his chin suggested otherwise.

Chase pressed on. “How about jam donuts instead? I just made a batch.”

Buddy blinked once. Slowly. Like he was deciding whether Chase was a health code violation or just naturally like this.

“Did you fry your brain along with the dough?” he asked. "Burnout is a serious problem."

Chase ignored him, still too happy to let Buddy take a bite out of the moment. “Guess what?”

“You stuffed your brain with jam, too?” Buddy replied, lifting one eyebrow. "Impressive. Truly exceptional pastry work."

Chase recoiled. “Wha— NO. My brain is, like, totally jam-free,” he sputtered, lifting both hands as if he could physically prove it.

Buddy’s lips twitched.

Barely.

A tiny crack in the marble.

“Well done,” he said dryly.

Chase huffed and rolled his eyes.

At least I’m not a bird brain, jerk, he thought, though there was no real heat behind it.

Over the past week, Chase had learned a few things about Buddy: he loved rules, pretended to hate being teased, enjoyed doing the teasing, and — despite all the threatening eyebrows — had never once tried to pull rank on Chase over one of their stupid little arguments.

Which was probably why Chase had gotten entirely too comfortable having them.

And maybe — just maybe — he didn’t mind them as much as he pretended to.

His expression softened, fingers drifting to the back of his neck like he didn’t know where to put all the excitement. “Actually, I— uh… I just got hired. Full-time.”

Buddy’s gaze sharpened.

His lips parted.

And, strangely, his hand lifted halfway from the clipboard — like he’d almost meant to do something with it.

Shake Chase’s hand, maybe.

Pat his shoulder.

Something normal.

He seemed to realize this at the same time Chase did and dropped it immediately.

His grip tightened around the clipboard instead.

“I see,” he murmured at last.

That was it.

No congratulations. No welcome aboard. Not even a begrudging fine.

It wasn’t exactly mean.

But it wasn’t kind, either.

Chase waited anyway — one beat longer than he should have. Maybe Buddy would sigh, roll his eyes, and offer one of those insults that secretly meant good job in whatever miserable dialect he spoke.

Nothing.

Chase’s smile faltered at the corners, then snapped back into place out of habit. He shifted aside, too bright, too polite. “Cool,” he murmured, because he had no idea what else to do with I see. “Well. Yeah. I’ll— I’ll see you, too. Or whatever.”

Buddy didn’t answer.

Chase turned to go — head high, shoulders loose, like he hadn’t just offered someone good news and gotten a spreadsheet in return.

He made it three steps.

Four.

Then something prickled at the back of his neck — the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Buddy was still there, half-shadowed by the hallway light, forms still tucked against his chest like a shield. His expression wasn’t the usual carved-stone annoyance. His brows had drawn together — not in irritation, but in that tight, reluctant way people looked when they were doing math they didn’t like.

And his eyes were on Chase.

Not judging. Not unimpressed.

Almost… unsettled.

Like Chase getting hired wasn’t merely an inconvenience.

Like it meant Chase would still be here tomorrow.

Like that changed something.

Chase’s stomach gave a weird, offbeat lurch — part triumph, part confusion, part something he refused to name. He blinked hard, like he could clear the look away.

When he looked again, Buddy’s face had already smoothed into neutral. Then Buddy looked down at his clipboard, pen moving again, the hallway reclassified as managed.

Chase walked away before his own expression could do anything embarrassing.

But the look — whether it had been real or imagined — followed him for the rest of the day.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

Chase looked up at the sky — where the day had dulled from golden warmth to the color of wet cement — and imagined that God or his parents were having a small laugh, reminding him that good things usually got balanced out by soggy weather.

By the time he reached the elementary school, clouds sagged low over Keysbridge, heavy and swollen with rain they hadn’t quite decided to let go of. The wind smelled like damp leaves and cold pavement, and the chain-link fence around the school rattled softly every time a stronger gust pushed through. Orange paper pumpkins bobbed in the classroom windows, and someone had taped a pale blue ghost to the front door of the office that kept peeling loose at one corner — like it was trying to reject being part of something festive. Kids poured out of the front doors in noisy clumps — backpacks bouncing, sneakers slapping against the sidewalk, voices rising bright and messy into the afternoon.

Chase spotted Prunella almost immediately.

Not because she was loud.

Because she wasn’t.

She stood off to one side near the edge of the front gate, her little backpack hanging crooked off one shoulder, hands tucked into the sleeves of her sweater. Around her, the other kids seemed to flow in little groups — pairs and trios, talking over each other, darting around puddles, waving paper witches and candy-order forms like flags. And Pru stood just outside all of it, like someone had drawn a chalk circle around her and forgotten to tell the rest of the world to step in.

A few yards away, another child lingered near the fence with a book clutched to his chest, waiting with the same careful stillness — not with Pru, but not exactly with anyone else either. Chase only registered him in passing: a dark head bent low, sneakers planted at the edge of the crowd, the look of someone used to being overlooked.

Then his attention snapped back to Prunella, and something in Chase’s chest tightened.

He slowed without meaning to.

He’d been carrying the news all the way there like a lit candle cupped in both hands, trying not to let the wind get at it. He’d planned to tell her the second he saw her. Planned the exact face he’d make, even — dramatic, obviously. Maybe he’d twirl. Maybe he’d say, ‘Guess who is now a fully employed baking professional person? This guy.’ He’d wanted to see her eyes go wide. Wanted a little burst of Pru-joy that made everything feel possible for a minute.

But Prunella was… off. She didn’t look upset, exactly. Just quiet. Watchful. A little too still for a girl who usually had at least three observations and one emergency fact about moss ready at all times.

A couple of kids brushed past her without really looking. One girl glanced her way, then turned back to say something to her friend. Pru shifted her weight and looked down at the crack in the sidewalk, tapping the toe of her shoe against it like she was pretending that was what had her attention all along.

Chase’s heart sank.

Had someone said something? Had she tried to talk and gotten ignored again? Had she offered one of her weirdly earnest little facts and gotten that look kids got when they decided someone was strange instead of interesting?

He swallowed hard and forced himself to smile before she looked up.

The second she spotted him, her whole face changed — not huge, not dramatic, but enough. Her shoulders loosened. Her mouth lifted. The world let her go, and she stepped out of it and toward him.

There she was.

“Hey, Monkey,” Chase called, keeping his voice light. “How was school?”

Prunella reached him and rolled her eyes with all the sass of someone twice her age. “Normal.”

That wasn’t a good sign.

Chase took her backpack automatically, sliding it off her shoulder and onto his own. It was lighter than it should’ve been. Probably because half her pencils were currently living under desks across the county.

“Normal good or… normal bad?” he asked with very little subtlety as they started down the sidewalk together.

Prunella thought about it. “Normal medium.”

He snorted softly. “That sounds boring. Anything fun about today?”

She glanced up at the clouds. “It might rain.”

“It definitely might rain,” Chase agreed, his smile wobbling at the edges. He forced his voice to stay bright. “It’s for sure cloudy. Think there’s a chance of meatballs? I do not want marinara in my hair. It’ll stain. And if I go pink, I’m fully committed to neon.”

She didn’t take the bait.

His worry sharpened.

He reached for her hand at the curb, and she gave it over with unusual ease. Usually there was at least a token complaint. Today, she just threaded her fingers through his and kept walking.

That hurt more than if she’d pouted.

Chase glanced down at her. Dirt smudged one knee of her leggings. There was a tiny marker streak on the side of her hand. A leaf was caught in the hood of her jacket.

They walked in silence for a moment.

Half the porches they passed had already committed to Halloween — pumpkins on the steps, fake spiderwebs in hedges, one aggressively cheerful skeleton in a lawn chair wearing sunglasses.

“I could totally rock those shades,” Chase tried.

Prunella just shook her head.

“Did… anything happen today?” he asked, gentler now.

She kicked lightly at a pebble. “No.”

A lie.

Or not a lie, exactly. More like a child-sized refusal to name something because naming it might make it heavier.

Chase knew that move. He’d invented half of it.

He looked ahead at the gray street, then down at her again. The good news was still there between his ribs, but it felt different now. Smaller. Or, not exactly smaller — just less shiny. Like he’d been carrying home a handful of sunlight and realized, halfway there, it couldn’t warm everything.

Still… maybe it could warm something.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Well. I was gonna save this for, like, a dramatic reveal with maybe a spin and a bow, but…” He squeezed her hand. “I officially got the job.”

Prunella looked up.

“The bakery job?” she asked.

Chase nodded, and this time the smile came easier. “The bakery job. Full-time. With real paperwork and everything. I’m basically a businessman now, carrying cakes in a briefcase.”

Her whole expression brightened — not all the way, but enough to light her from the inside. “Really?”

“Really.”

“So you work at the hotel place now instead of all over.”

“I do work at the hotel place now,” he agreed, unable to help the fond little laugh in his voice. “It’s like I almost own the place. They’re letting me hang my Mistenwood posters in the kitchen and everything. Or — at least in my own corner.”

Prunella thought about this with proper seriousness. “Do you get to make cookies whenever you want?”

“Not whenever I want,” Chase admitted. “There are probably laws.”

“Are witching hour cookies illegal?”

“Heaven forbid. But probably,” he conceded.

“That’s dumb.”

“Thank you. I agree.”

She hummed in thought. “I think this is the part where Ms. Eddie says I should say good job.”

That was as close to a compliment as Prunella reasonably got, most of the time.

Chase snorted. “I’m touched.”

She nodded, then squeezed his fingers back this time. “Yeah.”

And there it was — small and sincere and enough to make something in him ache.

Because she meant it. Because she was trying. Because even with whatever had happened today sitting quietly behind her eyes, she still made room to be glad for him.

Chase smiled down at her, warmth and grief tangling together in a way that felt unfair. “Thanks, Monkey.”

But the ache didn’t leave.

If anything, it settled deeper.

The job was real. The paycheck would help. The benefits would help. He’d be able to breathe a little easier, maybe stop feeling like every single week was balanced on the edge of a knife.

But it didn’t change this.

It didn’t stop kids from leaving Prunella standing at the edge of the gate by herself.

It didn’t make loneliness less lonely just because the lights stayed on and the fridge was fuller.

Money could fix a lot. It could fix groceries and broken toasters and winter shoes and maybe, if he was lucky, the leak in the ceiling.

But it couldn’t buy her a friend.

That realization hit him with a sharp, shameful little twist — because for one ugly second, he’d had the same thought someone else he knew always seemed to have. As if enough money could sand every hard edge off a life. As if comfort could stand in for closeness. As if being cared for and being less alone were remotely the same thing.

He hated that the thought had even flickered through him.

So he tried a different angle.

“What if,” he began, drawing the words out theatrically, “I made your favorite dinner tonight?”

That got her attention.

She looked up at him, suspicious now for a much better reason. “Which favorite?”

“Rude,” Chase replied. “As if I don’t know you have different categories of favorite. Just like I have a favorite Star Brigade album for each day of the week.”

“That sounds not healthy.”

“You’re starting to sound like Uncle Deacon,” he muttered, reaching out to poke her side. “And I know all your favorites. I just like to surprise you sometimes. So you make new favorites.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t sound true.”

“It’s not,” he admitted. “But I said it confidently. And that makes it true in spirit.”

That earned him the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Better.

He nudged her shoulder with his arm. “So? Favorite dinner. Your pick.”

Prunella considered this with the solemn gravity of someone negotiating a treaty. “The mac and cheese with the noodles shaped like unicorns.”

Chase gasped. “An excellent choice. Sophisticated. Bold. Golden.”

“And cookies.”

He put a hand to his chest. “You are a visionary. What kind?”

“Your chocolate chip ones,” she answered immediately, with fresh fire in her eyes.

Chase squeezed her hand softly. “You can even pour in the chips yourself.”

“Really?”

“Most important job,” he assured with a nod. “That’s the step that adds in the love.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”

“You think my love is gross?” he teased, feigning tears. “I’m, like, so wounded right now.”

This time she did smile — or as close as Prunella tended to get. Small, but real.

He clung to it.

And the earlier ache returned.

He wanted more for her than ‘fine.’ More than waiting at the edge of the gate by herself while the other kids clustered together in laughing little knots. More than surviving school like weather.

He wanted someone to choose her.

A friend. A real one.

One that could be there for her when he couldn’t be, without being asked.

Someone who’d look up when they saw her. Save her a seat. Ask her questions about bug books and weird facts and shelter-building and all the things that made Prunella, Prunella.

But for now, he could walk her home, hold her hand, and make her cookies.

It wasn’t enough.

It was what he had.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

“You haven’t had enough of making cookies yet?” Simon asked, appearing in the doorway with a warm to-go cup in one hand and a paper bag in the other. His eyes held that easy curiosity — and the kind of flirty reverence that made Chase’s skin feel hot.

“Just testing a recipe,” Chase replied, shuffling the cookie cutters around to keep his hands busy.

The kitchen was unusually quiet for mid-morning. Prep was mostly done. Silvie had ducked out to check inventory. Mrs. G was outside with Violet and a couple of staff, pacing the grounds and talking through spring weddings and festival plans with enough frantic energy to scare off lesser men.

Chase wiped his hands on a towel, tucked his dough under plastic wrap, and slid the covered bowl into the walk-in before turning around fully.

Then he noticed what Simon was holding. “The cookies might go well with your coffee,” he offered him. “If you stick around to try one.”

Simon lifted the cup and bag a little higher. “It’s for you.”

Chase blinked, caught off guard in the stupidest way. “For me?”

“White chocolate mocha and breakfast sandwich. Happy third week,” Simon added, extending the coffee toward Chase and setting the paper bag on the designated employee shelf beside the door. “Figured you skipped lunch. Again. Eat it on your break before you pass out.”

Chase’s cheeks went warm. “You remembered that’s my favorite?” He took the lidded cup with both hands like it might vanish if he didn’t anchor it. His smile went shy before he could stop it.

It shouldn’t have made his chest do that fluttery thing. But it did.

He wasn’t used to being remembered in small, soft ways. Not favorite drinks. Not casual kindness. Not someone showing up because they thought of him.

He took a sip.

His eyes slid closed on instinct. “Mm. Oh man.” He opened them and stared at the cup like it had betrayed him by being delicious. “Okay. That’s… pretty good. Not as good as Crafted Coffee,” he amended quickly, because loyalty mattered, “but good. From the café?”

“Yep. Garrick made it and told me not to let you pretend you’re too busy to eat. Or, I believe his exact words were: ‘For the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed blond one so that he does not collapse.’”

Chase chuckled and took another sip. “My heroes.”

Simon leaned back against the counter, watching him with open, easy curiosity. “So. Weekend plans?”

Chase set the cup aside before his face got any warmer, then went to the walk-in and pulled out an already-chilled log of cookie dough. Work. Work was safe.

“Halloween carnival,” he answered, brightening the way he always did when he could point at a schedule instead of feelings. “I’m working the bake sale booth.”

He flour-dusted the counter with a dramatic flourish, then turned out the dough. “Shocking, I know. Please— try to contain the fact that you’re so totally shocked, dude.”

Simon laughed. “And your costume?”

Chase’s whole posture shifted like someone had flipped a switch marked NERD. “Only the bestest movie franchise hero there is,” he declared, pointing at him with his rolling pin. “Please tell me you’ve seen Mistenwood or we can’t be friends.”

Before Simon could answer, the kitchen door creaked.

The temperature changed.

Buddy stepped in with a clipboard tucked under one arm. His gaze flicked to Simon’s easy lean, to Chase’s coffee cup, to the way they stood comfortably in each other’s orbit without seeming to care who walked in — then dropped to his notes.

He didn’t say anything overtly rude.

He didn’t have to.

“I don’t believe this is the break area,” he remarked, voice quiet and sharp. Then he turned to the shelves and began writing with more pressure than necessary, as though neat columns could restore some order to the room.

Chase’s chest tightened, the warmth from the mocha draining out of him in a slow, stupid trickle. He stared at the shelf.

Then at Buddy.

“Are you inventorying parchment paper?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t Silvie do that yesterday?”

Buddy’s pen paused. “Inventory changes.”

Simon covered a smile with his coffee.

Chase pressed his lips together.

Technically, bakery answered to Mrs. G. Technically, Silvie had counted the parchment yesterday. And, technically, there was no reason Buddy needed to personally recount it right now.

Chase was smart enough not to point any of that out.

“Right,” he said instead. “Of course they do.”

Then he glanced at Simon, who clocked the vibe instantly — because Simon was charming and perceptive and, unfortunately, knew when to retreat.

“I’ll let you get back to your cookies, Count Bake-a-Lot,” Simon murmured, giving Chase a light nudge with his elbow. He flashed Buddy a grin like it couldn’t possibly bounce off that wall of ice. “Have a nice… whatever this is.”

Then he waved and slipped out.

“Thanks, Simon,” Chase called after him, a little too quick — like he was trying to prove he hadn’t been caught doing anything wrong.

Buddy’s pen stopped only after the door clicked shut.

Chase stared at his dough.

He didn’t owe anyone an explanation. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He had a lidded coffee, a sandwich parked on the employee shelf, and Simon had been talking to him for all of two minutes.

Buddy wasn’t even his department lead.

Which somehow did absolutely nothing to stop Chase from feeling like he’d been caught passing notes in class.

Buddy's eyes stayed fixed to the shelves. The silence stretched thin between them, taut as pulled sugar.

Then the back doors swung again and Violet and Mrs. G breezed in, cheeks pink from the cold. Mrs. G’s eyes landed on the shaped cutters laid out beside the dough and she lit up as if she’d spotted a puppy in a pastry case.

“Oooh! Ghost cookies,” she sang. “How positively adorable. Perfect for Halloween season!”

She paused mid-jazz hands, squinting at Buddy like he was an unsolved riddle. “Now tell me, dear— is your Halloween costume a grumpy ghoul, or is that simply your normal aura?” Then she turned to Chase and beamed. “You, on the other hand, strike me as a happy haunt.”

Violet smirked, lowering her tablet to study Buddy with the air of someone compiling blackmail. “He could go as the Great Ashby,” she suggested.

Buddy’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, I’ll throw on a flapper outfit to match,” Violet added cheerfully. “I’m thirty, flirty, and thriving.”

“Thirty?” he mumbled. “You’re older than—”

She stepped on his foot before he could get another word out.

“Thriving,” she repeated. “And you would be, too — if you relaxed your forehead, let loose, and did something for Halloween. It’s a special day, after all.”

Buddy’s jaw tightened as if the concept of fun had offended him, but his cheeks still went faintly pink — as if he’d imagined dressing up and been immediately mortified by the idea.

Chase glanced between Mrs. G’s grin and Violet’s barely concealed amusement.

Well. If they’d declared open season—

Chase chuckled, patting the dough like it was a pet. “That is his normal face. He’s, like, the ghost of Halloween present and Mr. Scrooge all rolled into one dough and overbaked.” He pointed his floury finger at Buddy with a grin.

“That’s supposed to be a Christmas story,” Buddy muttered stiffly without looking up.

“Same sweet potatoes, dude.”

Buddy looked genuinely offended. “They are not remotely the same holiday.”

Chase stopped cutting dough. “Are you defending Halloween?”

Buddy’s mouth opened.

Closed.

“No.”

“Sounded like it.”

Buddy stilled. Then returned to writing. “Continue mutilating your ghosts.”

Mrs. G cackled.

Violet tapped at her tablet and leaned close to Chase as she walked past. “We’ll let him haunt you in peace,” she whispered, giving him a look like good luck in there. She disappeared down the hall.

“He could use a good scare!” Mrs. G called after her, then sailed off to bother someone else with enthusiasm.

The kitchen settled again.

Buddy’s pen scratched. His jaw stayed tight. The inventory sheet looked… endangered.

Chase cleared his throat. He wasn’t great at letting silence be just silence. Silence was where thoughts got loud.

“Y’know,” he tried, keeping his voice low — partly to be polite, partly because he didn’t trust himself not to sound like he cared. “Would it kill you to smile or say one nice word? We could be friends. Or at least… work friends.”

Buddy’s pen stopped. Just for a fraction of a second.

“This is work,” he replied without looking up. “Not social hour.”

“And yet,” Chase countered, rolling his eyes as he began portioning dough, “we are having a… somewhat friendly non-work conversation. The horror!”

No retort came — just the faintest huff, the rustle of paper.

Chase shook his head, humming under his breath as he worked. A few minutes passed. The dough behaved. His breathing evened out.

Then he reached for the ghost cutter, bumped it with his wrist, and watched it skitter off the counter and clink onto the tile below.

Chase winced. “Okay— rude.”

Buddy exhaled sharply through his nose and crossed the kitchen in two quiet steps.

Chase blinked as Buddy picked up the small steel ghost, carried it to the sink, and washed, rinsed, and sanitized it with gentle, methodical care — like the cutter had been contaminated by Chase’s general existence. He let it air-dry while he inspected one edge beneath the overhead light.

Chase stared.

“...Are you checking it for damage?”

“Thin metal can bend,” Buddy pointed out.

“It fell three feet.”

“Onto tile.”

Chase’s mouth twitched.

Buddy set it down precisely beside his elbow, where it belonged. “Honestly,” he muttered, “you should be more careful with your equipment.”

Chase looked at the cutter.

Then at Buddy.

Buddy — who treated basic warmth like a breach of company policy — had just… helped him. Without being asked. Without making it a thing.

Chase carefully took the cutter and pressed it back into the dough, gave it a little wiggle, then glanced at Buddy again.

“I absolutely and completely meant to do that, for the record,” he murmured, forcing more energy into his voice.

Buddy watched him for one long beat, and something in his expression changed — not softened exactly, but sharpened into a strange, quiet understanding.

“You know,” he said at last, voice quiet and clipped, “you don’t have to prove yourself every second you’re in the room.”

Chase’s smile faltered.

And for once, the perfect comeback didn’t arrive on time.

Buddy seemed to hear his own words a moment after saying them, and something tightened behind his eyes.

Like the advice had come from somewhere too familiar.

“…Thanks,” Chase managed, more quietly than he meant.

Buddy still refused eye contact, but he gave a minimal nod, like gratitude was paperwork he didn’t want to file. “Be more careful, little baker.”

Then he turned toward the back exit. His Oxfords tapped against the tile. The clipboard stayed tucked under his arm.

Chase stared after him, because he was apparently incapable of not watching him go.

“You know,” he called, because needling Buddy was more familiar than whatever strange vibe had settled between them, “you’re really bad at pretending to be a complete jerk.”

Buddy didn’t look back.

But the tips of his ears reddened as he pushed the door open and vanished down the hall.

A tiny grin lit Chase’s face.

Not quite victory. But proof.

“Happy almost Halloween, Mr. Scrooge,” he teased, turning back to his dough.

Still…

He watched the door a second longer than necessary.

For a guy who barely smiled, Buddy sure had a way of sticking in Chase’s head — like the ghost cutter to the dough when he didn’t add enough flour.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

Chase paused in front of the hallway mirror for a moment, and his reflection offered up bed head, a wink, and a bright orange sweater printed with a grinning ghost that read ‘I NEED A BOO’ in big block letters. He adjusted the straps of his black overalls and padded into the kitchen in socked feet.

Prunella looked up from the rug, where she’d already spread out crayons, markers, and three pieces of paper for what appeared to be a topographical survival map. Lady Lovalorn flickered across the TV behind her, the volume low. The screen’s glow lit her face in shifting color, somehow making her look even more judgmental than usual.

She squinted. “You look dumb.”

“Wow, okay. Wicked brutal, kid.” Chase put a hand to his heart. “I look seasonal.”

That got the tiniest eye roll.

Good enough.

It was Saturday now, and they had both survived another week.

Another week of a new job. Another week of kindergarten. Another week of at least having each other.

The week had brought new orders, too — a couple side bakes for neighbors, enough to make a little extra and help the math of things breathe easier.

“I’m making peanut butter banana muffins for Mrs. Abernathy,” he said, reaching for the flour. “Do you wanna help, Monkey?”

She kicked her feet in the air as she circled something on her map with intense concentration. “I’ll help taste them.”

Chase chuckled, adjusted the speaker on the counter, and scrolled to his Halloween playlist with sudden purpose.

A moment later, music crackled through the house — jaunty, campy, the kind of song with fake spooky sound effects and too much organ.

Prunella’s head popped up from the rug again.

“Really?” she called.

“Yes, really,” Chase called back, already opening the fridge. “It’s October. Spooky month. This is, like, culturally appropriate.”

“I like Lady Lovalorn better, and I can’t hear it.”

“Monkey, that unicorn-cat thing was literally dressed like a pumpkin and singing about trick-or-treating two seconds ago,” he countered. “You’ve got no room to judge.”

“I have lots of room to judge,” she argued. “I’m tiny.”

Chase considered that for a moment, then laughed. “Got me there.”

He watched her small form curled on the rug for another few seconds, then turned back toward the counter — only to pause as his gaze caught the window, dark clouds pressing close to the glass as the rain started in earnest.

It ticked first, then tapped, then settled into a steady patter against the windows and roof. Chase’s shoulders tightened before he could stop them.

He… didn’t like that sound.

Didn’t like what it meant — thunder, leaks, stains you couldn’t erase.

Like the new water stain on the ceiling.

His eyes flicked toward it automatically: that soft-edged bloom of discoloration above the breakfast nook, ugly as a bruise.

Great.

One more thing to fix. Another expense to juggle.

He sighed, turned the music up a notch, then set the overripe bananas and peanut butter on the counter and started moving before the mood could settle into something heavier. Shoulders first. Then hips. Then a little bounce in his knees once the rhythm caught him.

From the living room, Prunella groaned.

Chase smiled and exaggerated his movements immediately.

He grabbed a bowl, spun back to the island with a dramatic flourish, and started mashing bananas with all the focus of a man refusing to move through life like a normal person. When he cracked an egg against the side of the bowl and missed slightly, he had to fish out a bit of shell with the resigned dignity of someone who would not let his audience see him break.

The song changed — something even bouncier now, with a chorus Chase immediately loved on principle.

He started stirring with one hand and snapping dramatically with the other.

“Pru,” he called, drawing her name out like bait. “Come dance with me.”

“No.”

“Counteroffer: yes.”

“No.”

He clutched his chest. “Wow. So cold. So cruel. I slave over a mixing bowl for this family and receive nothing but disrespect.”

“And you make me catch spiders,” she called back. “I help.”

He pointed the spoon at her. “Fair point. But if you don’t join me, I won’t tell you the secret ingredient.”

That did it. Curiosity beat resistance, as it usually did.

Prunella trudged into the kitchen and planted herself in the doorway with her arms crossed, looking him over from head to toe with immense suspicion, like he might start doing something even more embarrassing if she blinked.

Then she climbed onto one of the stools and peered into the bowl. “What’s the secret ingredient?”

“Love,” Chase declared at once, smirking and blinking innocently.

She stared at him. “I’m leaving.”

He barked out a laugh and handed her a stack of measuring cups instead. “Oh no you’re not. You’re in too deep now.”

Prunella accepted them with the grave resignation of a tiny employee who had not agreed to the terms of her apprenticeship. Her gaze drifted to the bag of chocolate chips on the counter, and she reached for it on instinct.

Chase caught her wrist lightly and nudged her hand away before shimmying in place again to the music. “Nice try, kid.”

“You’re weird,” she decided.

“I am charming,” he corrected, grinning as he turned up the music again. “And you are too, Monkey. Pretty sure it runs in the family.”

That softened her in the small, quiet way things sometimes did when one of them brushed up against missing people by accident.

He softened too.

The moment stretched for half a second — not awkward, just tender enough to hurt if he let it sit there too long.

So, naturally, he didn’t.

Chase lifted the spoon and wiggled it toward her like a microphone. “Okay, serious question, tiny menace. If you were a Halloween icon, what would you be?”

Prunella blinked. “A bat.”

“Love that.”

“With a knife.”

He paused. “Concerning sequel. But okay.”

The chorus hit again. Chase smiled at her and held out one hand with a ridiculous formal bow. “Come on. One dance. For, like, morale.”

Prunella slumped dramatically. “I don’t dance before dessert.”

“Objectively correct priorities,” he agreed. “But make an exception for your fabulous and amazingest brother. I don’t dance with just anybody, y’know.”

Prunella stared at his hand. Then at his face. Then at the speaker.

She sighed the deep, world-weary sigh of a tiny person forced to tolerate nonsense from a larger one. “Fine. But only a little.”

“A little is all I need.”

He helped her off the stool and guided her into the open patch of floor between the table and the counter. At first she barely moved — just a reluctant shuffle, shoulders tucked in, all visible reluctance.

Chase, of course, committed fully.

He spun once, one suspender strap slipping off his shoulder. He did a terrible little monster walk. He pointed at her dramatically on the beat like she was the co-headliner of the kitchen.

Prunella lasted maybe fifteen seconds before the corners of her mouth started twitching.

“There she is,” Chase said triumphantly.

“There who is?”

“Your groove.”

To prove it, he caught both her hands and bounced them up and down until she gave in with a little huff-laugh and started hopping with him.

For one bright minute, the kitchen became its own little universe — music too loud for the space, pumpkin lights half-hung, rain at the windows, oven preheating, batter waiting on the counter, Prunella looking pleased despite herself while Chase spun her clumsily beneath his arm like they were in a ballroom and not their leaky house.

His leg protested when he pivoted too quickly — a sharp pull that made him catch his breath.

It didn’t ruin the moment.

But it did slow it down.

He eased out of the spin more carefully after that, disguising it as part of the dance and dropping into a silly zombie shuffle instead.

Prunella noticed anyway, because of course she did.

“You did the old man noise and the old man face,” she informed him.

Chase put a hand to his chest. “Ouch. Betrayed in my own home.”

She looked up at him with that grave, searching expression kids got when they didn’t yet know how to carry worry casually.

Chase smiled quickly and booped her nose. “Nothing dramatic. I’m okay, Monkey.”

She squinted. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

She studied him one beat longer, then seemed to accept it — or at least file it away for future concern.

“Okay,” she declared. “Again.”

Chase blinked. “Again?”

She rolled her eyes. “The dance, Chase.”

His grin came back full force. “Oh, absolutely.”

So they did.

They danced badly and without shame while the muffins baked and the rain tapped at the windows and the cheap plastic pumpkin lights blinked half-alive on the table. And for those few minutes, Chase let himself live inside the warmth of it — the music, the silliness, the way Prunella’s laugh could still make the whole room feel fuller.

By the time the muffins were cooling on a rack, the house had gone softer around the edges.

Chase sank onto the couch with a mug of warm chai cradled between his hands, letting the heat seep into his palms the way the ovens always did — steady, familiar, and grounding.

He tugged his favorite Star Brigade blanket over his legs, the faded one printed with the band’s logo and badly washed pictures of their faces. Across the room, Prunella was sprawled on the rug again, barefoot and loose-limbed now, half-watching Lady Lovalorn and half-scribbling on a sheet of paper with intense focus. Crayons and markers were scattered around her map supplies, and from the dramatic underlining and tiny doodles, Chase could tell she’d moved on from survival plans to Halloween costume ideas.

Outside, rain ticked against the porch in steady, impatient rhythms. Inside, he could almost tune it out. It softened under cartoons and lamplight — Lady Lovalorn flickering across the TV, tea steaming in his hands, the whole living room smelling faintly of warmth and spice and something that felt a little too much like childhood.

Back when rain had meant jumping in puddles.

Back when the tea drawer was always full.

He breathed in.

Cinnamon. Clove. A little vanilla.

It had been his mom’s favorite, this time of year — when the leaves changed, the air crisped, and the blankets got cozier.

He stared down into the swirl of brown and foam and wondered, very quietly, if they’d be proud of him.

His parents.

At the life they’d made, patchwork and imperfect and theirs. Halloween chaos and all.

He’d take Prunella shopping later, probably. Or maybe they could DIY something for her costume if it was easy enough. There wasn’t much in this world you couldn’t accomplish with hot glue, glitter, and a little stubborn optimism.

And, if he were being honest, that was exactly the sort of sentence Simon would’ve flirted with him over — and the sort Buddy would’ve scowled at like optimism was a personal attack.

The thought made the corner of his mouth twitch, and his eyes drifted toward his phone on the coffee table — then away again, like it might catch him looking.

Simon’s last message still sat unanswered.

Chase liked the attention more than he wanted to admit. Simon had been sweet and funny and just charming enough to make Chase nervous. That was the problem, really. Flirting was easy. Being known was not. And Chase still hadn’t told him about Prunella.

He reached for the phone anyway, just to check the time.

His thumb stalled over the screen.

Two missed calls. Two voicemails.

The first was from the elementary school — chipper, automated, and relentless.

“Reminder! Our Halloween Carnival is next weekend! Don’t forget to join us for our annual fundraiser that’s fun for the whole family! Rides, games, bake sales—”

Chase winced, because he’d signed up to contribute baked goods and help man the booth, like a fool with ambitions and no calendar skills.

“—the Mommy Mummy Wrap, and the Pumpkins and Papas carving event!”

Chase groaned and let his head fall back against the couch cushion with the weight of a man being personally attacked by a school newsletter.

His thumb hovered over the second voicemail.

The transcript preview read: Good afternoon, Master Hollow. On behalf of Mrs. Hollow, I’d like to arrange a convenient time for—

Delete.

Chase scoffed under his breath. “Yeah, right.”

He slumped deeper into the cushions, jaw tight. Convenient time his ass. Convenient if you were a snake in pearls with terrible taste in dining room chairs and a hobby of pretending you didn’t know how to ruin lives.

Prunella blinked up at him curiously, like she’d been watching him quietly this whole time.

Chase flashed a half-hearted smile. “Spam call.”

Her head tilted. “They want to give you spam? Sarah brought spam to school once and it looked like a weird meat cube. It was cool. More things should be cubes.”

Chase’s mouth parted as his brain tried to follow that sentence to its natural conclusion, failed, and gave up.

Then he laughed — real, helpless.

“No,” he managed, wiping at his face like the chuckle had surprised him. “Not that kind of spam, kid.”

He set his mug down carefully, slid off the couch, and settled cross-legged beside her on the floor, because the ground felt steadier than his thoughts did.

“So,” he said, nudging her knee lightly, “what’d you come up with for your costume?”

Prunella thrust the paper at him like a formal presentation. The drawing looked like a stick figure on a good day, but her confidence was flawless.

“A survivor explorer person,” she announced. “With survivor gear.”

Chase smiled, warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth.

His dad used to put on nature documentaries and narrate along as if he was hosting his own show. He used to take Chase to the zoo and point out the animal facts on plaques like they were sacred texts.

Prunella probably didn’t remember any of that.

But she’d inherited it anyway — this hunger to know things, to be prepared, to build forts and plans and worlds.

“Like… with a compass?” Chase asked, holding the paper carefully by the corner like it was priceless.

Prunella nodded. “And a spear.”

Chase snorted. “Yeah, no. Nice try.”

She crossed her arms immediately, pout locked and loaded. Chase rolled his eyes like he wasn’t charmed to death.

“Maybe a stuffed monkey pinned to your shoulder, Monkey,” he suggested, tapping the page. “But he’d need a really good name.”

Prunella considered this a moment, the scent of freshly baked muffins still in the air. “I’m naming him Mr. Bananas.”

“Is his best friend Mr. Peanut Butter?”

Prunella narrowed her eyes at him like he’d insulted her future monkey husband.

Chase pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Moments like these made the exhaustion feel worth it. He ruffled her hair gently and leaned back against the couch.

“You know,” he mused, glancing toward the cooling muffins on the kitchen counter, “if I find one in time, you could bring him to the carnival next weekend.”

Rain pattered harder against the windows.

Something tight flickered again in Chase’s chest. He tried not to look toward the ceiling stain this time. Tried not to think about thunder, leaks, stains you couldn’t erase.

He reached for his mug instead and took another sip.

“Mr. Bananas might even help you make a new friend,” he added, aiming for light.

Prunella shrugged with exaggerated casualness, like she hadn’t been thinking about it.

“There’s a boy in class who reads bug books,” she said. “His name’s Robin. He sits by himself.” She considered this gravely, then concluded, “I think he might be friend-shaped.”

Chase’s heart did something warm and quiet.

He smiled without trying to make it bright. “That’s a good shape to be,” he murmured. “Sometimes it’s nice to be alone. But everyone should also have a friend. He might like some company one day, Pru.”

She nodded solemnly, as if she’d been given a mission briefing — then frowned at him like she’d remembered an important detail.

“What about you?”

Chase blinked, caught, and his smile went a little too quick. “Me? I’m an adult. I’m, like, legally required to be fine.”

He tapped her nose lightly. “You worry about your mission, Agent Monkey. I’ll handle mine.”

He pushed himself up before the question could become real and crossed to the kitchen, where the muffins were finally cool enough to split open.

A few minutes later he came back with two warm peanut butter banana muffins — because some problems could be softened, if not solved, by simple things.

“One monkey muffin for the monkey,” he announced.

Prunella took hers with proper ceremony, the chocolate chips still a little melty on her fingers.

“Are these still the love part?” she asked.

Chase smiled. “Obviously.”

Then they ate in the warm yellow glow of the living room while rain tapped at the windows and Lady Lovalorn went on saving the world.

For tonight, it was enough.

Or close enough to pretend.