Chapter 145 SATURDAY COOKIES

Chapter 145 SATURDAY COOKIES
MAYA’S POV

I had decided to spend the whole day with my son today. Saturday morning sunlight filled the new apartment. We had finally finished arranging and tidying the house. I stood in the kitchen wearing an old T-shirt and soft shorts, my hair pulled back in a messy bun. The radio played quiet music in the background. Damon sat on a stool at the counter, wearing one of my oversized aprons that reached almost to his ankles. Flour already dusted his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

“Okay, chef,” I said, smiling at him. “Today we’re making chocolate chip cookies. Think you can handle the important job of pouring the chocolate chips?”

He nodded seriously. “I can do it, Mommy. I'm a big boy now.”

Mom had left early to visit a friend and run errands that morning. It was just the two of us for the whole morning. I had decided we would clean the apartment together and then bake some pastries. It was simple, ordinary, and the kind of day that made our new home feel real.

We started with the living room. Damon “helped” by picking up his toys and putting them in the big blue bin. He talked the entire time. About his new school, about a boy who shared his crayons, about the girl whose name is Lily and about the stars we still needed to stick on his ceiling. I listened and answered every question, my heart full in the quiet way only he could make it.

After the living room we moved to his bedroom. We changed the sheets together. He insisted on helping tuck in the corners, even though most of them came loose again. I pretended not to notice and let him feel useful. When we finished, the room smelled like clean cotton and the faint sweetness of the laundry detergent we both liked.

“Mummy, we need to get Robert his own blanket and bed” he said looking at his stuffed toy on the bed.

“Alright, we'd look into that.” I responded, ruffling his hair with a smile.

By mid-morning the apartment looked better. I wiped down the counters while Damon carefully arranged his toy cars in a neat line along the windowsill. Then I clapped my hands.

“It’s cookie time.”

His face lit up. We washed our hands side by side at the sink. I lifted him onto the stool so he could reach the counter. I measured the flour and sugar. He poured. A small cloud of flour puffed up and made him giggle. I showed him how to crack the eggs without getting shells in the bowl. He concentrated so hard his tongue stuck out a little between his teeth.

I watched Damon carefully pressing a chocolate chip into the top of each cookie dough ball, his small face serious with concentration. Flour dusted the tip of his nose and one of his curls. In moments like this the apartment felt complete.  just the two of us, the smell of vanilla in the air, the soft music playing, and the quiet certainty that we had built something good together. 

I reached over and gently wiped the flour from his cheek with my thumb. He looked up and grinned, the same bright, open smile that always made my chest feel too full. 

Saturdays like this had shaped us into a real family.  Mornings like this reminded me why I had protected it so fiercely. He was happy. He was safe. And for now, that was enough. I kissed the top of his head and whispered that he was the best helper I had ever had. He puffed up with pride and went back to placing the last chocolate chips, humming under his breath.

We mixed the dough together. I let him add the chocolate chips one handful at a time. Some landed on the counter. Some landed on the floor. Most made it into the bowl. When the dough was ready, we scooped little balls onto the baking sheet. Damon insisted on making one extra-big cookie that he declared was for Grandma.

While the first batch baked, the warm smell of vanilla and chocolate filled the kitchen. Damon sat at the table with a glass of milk, swinging his legs and telling me a long story about a dragon who only ate cookies and how he stole them from the village near the mountain where he lived. I leaned against the counter and watched him, feeling the ordinary happiness of the moment. 

The oven timer beeped. I pulled out the first tray. The cookies were golden at the edges and still soft in the middle. We waited the required two minutes so he wouldn’t burn his tongue, then I broke one in half and we shared it. He closed his eyes and made a happy sound.

“Best cookies ever,” he declared.

We were starting the second batch when the doorbell rang.

I was up to my elbows in flour and did not immediately move. Damon, always faster, slid off the stool.

“I’ll get it!” he called, already running toward the door.

I wiped my hands on a towel and called after him, thinking it was Mom coming back early.

“Mom? Is that you? How was Mrs. Penelope?” 

But I didn't get a response.

From the entryway I heard Damon’s small, polite voice.

“Hello, sir.”

My stomach dropped. I stepped out of the kitchen, still holding the towel.

“Who is it, Damon?”

I walked into the living room and stopped.

Luca stood in the open doorway. He was dressed casually in a dark sweater and jeans, a small paper bag in one hand. His eyes were fixed on the little boy who had opened the door. The little boy with dark curls, the same shape of face, the same serious expression when he was being polite.

Damon looked up at him, curious and unafraid.

Luca looked at Damon.

And for a long second, neither of them moved.