Chapter 7 - Saturday Morning Pancakes
The Saturday morning sun was bright and warm, spilling through the dusty windows of apartment 3B on 24th Street.
There was a tentative knock at the door.
Clara paused by the stove, where she was flipping blueberry pancakes in a worn iron skillet. Leo and Maya were sitting at the small laminate kitchen table, coloring in their picture books with Crayola crayons.
"Mommy, is that the mailman?" Maya asked, looking up with her big honey-colored eyes.
"I don't know, sweetheart," Clara wiped her hands on a dish towel and walked slowly toward the door. She hadn't seen Ethan since their encounter at the historical society three days ago, though Sarah Vance had dropped off legal documents yesterday—documents granting Clara sole and undisputed legal and physical custody, backed by a multi-million-dollar irrevocable trust fund for the twins, signed by Ethan without a single condition or demand.
She pulled the door open.
Ethan stood in the hallway. He wasn't wearing a three-thousand-dollar Italian suit. He wore a simple gray cotton t-shirt, dark jeans, and clean white sneakers. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, and in his hands, he held a massive, clumsy cardboard box overflowing with fresh strawberries, powdered sugar, and a professional-grade Belgian waffle maker.
He looked tired, but the cold, dead look in his gray eyes was entirely gone.
"Can I come in?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "I brought breakfast materials. And... I promise I won't talk about real estate, stocks, or restructuring."
Clara stared at him for a long, silent moment. She looked at the waffle maker, then up at his face, noticing the slight stubble along his jawline—something she hadn't seen since the early days of their marriage before the corporate madness consumed him.
From the kitchen table, little Leo popped his head around the corner.
"Mommy, who's that?" the boy asked, tilting his head with that exact, unmistakable frown that Ethan wore every time he concentrated.
Ethan’s throat tightened. He looked past Clara into the small, warm, chaotic kitchen, where flour dusted the counter and children's drawings covered the refrigerator door.
Clara took a slow breath, a faint, complicated smile touching the corners of her mouth. She stepped back, opening the door wider.
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"You're going to have to share the stove, Hayes," she said softly. "The pancakes are almost burning."
Ethan stepped across the threshold, dropping the box of strawberries onto the counter.
