Chapter 52

Abigail woke up slowly, the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtains. She blinked, her eyes adjusting as she looked around the room. Emma’s bed was warm and comforting, the familiar scent of lavender still lingering on the sheets. But something was missing. She reached out instinctively to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty.

The absence hit her like a small ache, but it was quickly overtaken by another sensation—the unmistakable smell of bacon drifting through the air. Abigail frowned for a moment, confused, before a faint smile tugged at her lips. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, stretching and rubbing her tired eyes before slowly padding out of the room.

The house was quiet, save for the faint sizzle of something cooking. Abigail followed the smell toward the kitchen, her bare feet cool against the wooden floors. As she turned the corner, her steps faltered, and her breath caught in her throat.

There, standing in front of the stove, was Emma. Completely naked.

Abigail froze, her heart doing a strange flip in her chest as she took in the scene before her. Emma’s back was to her, her long, toned legs and bare skin glowing softly in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. Her hair was pulled up messily, a few strands falling loose around her neck, and she moved with casual ease, flipping the bacon in the pan with a focus that was almost comical given the circumstances.

“Good morning,” Abigail finally managed to say, her voice raspy from sleep.

Emma glanced over her shoulder, a playful smile already spreading across her face. “Well, look who’s awake,” she said, her tone light. “I was starting to think you’d sleep all day.”

Abigail’s cheeks flushed as she crossed her arms over her chest, torn between amusement and disbelief. “You’re cooking naked?”

Emma shrugged, turning back to the stove. “I didn’t want to wake you by looking for clothes. Besides, I was feeling inspired.”

“Inspired?” Abigail raised an eyebrow, stepping farther into the kitchen, though her gaze stayed firmly on Emma. “To do what… get third-degree burns?”

Emma laughed softly, shaking her head as she grabbed a plate and began transferring the crispy bacon onto it. “Don’t worry. I’ve got excellent reflexes.” She turned back around, holding the plate of bacon in one hand and leaning against the counter with a self-satisfied grin.

Abigail bit her lip, trying not to smile too hard. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“And yet you love me anyway,” Emma replied, smirking as she set the plate on the table.

Abigail shook her head, finally closing the distance between them. “I can’t believe this is my life right now.” She slid her arms around Emma’s bare waist, pressing her forehead against her shoulder. Emma’s skin was warm beneath her touch, her body soft and familiar. “Cooking bacon naked… what kind of chaos are you?”

Emma tilted her head back, laughing quietly. “The kind you signed up for,” she teased, resting her hands over Abigail’s.

Abigail sighed contentedly, pressing a soft kiss to Emma’s shoulder. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to scold you properly for this.”

“Mmm, or maybe you’re just grateful for the bacon.” Emma turned in her arms, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she wrapped her own arms around Abigail’s shoulders. “Admit it… you’re impressed.”

Abigail rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. “I’m definitely something,” she muttered.

Emma leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss against her lips, and Abigail melted into her touch.

“Cinnamon and vanilla,” Abigail murmured softly against Emma’s skin, her voice barely audible.

Emma tilted her head slightly, as if hearing something she wasn’t sure she understood. “Hmm?”

Abigail swallowed hard, the memory of her parents still lingering like a ghost she couldn’t quite shake. “The pancakes,” she said, her voice steadier now. “You put cinnamon in them.”

Emma smiled faintly, turning in Abigail’s arms to face her. “Yeah, I did. I thought you’d like it. Why?”

Abigail hesitated, her eyes darting down to the stack of pancakes, then back up to Emma’s face. “It just… reminds me of my mom. She used to make pancakes like that.” Her voice cracked slightly, and Emma’s expression softened instantly.

“I didn’t know,” Emma whispered, reaching up to tuck a strand of Abigail’s hair behind her ear. “But I’m glad it made you think of her—of something good.”

Abigail nodded faintly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes as she smiled. “It’s a good memory. One of the best.”

FLASH BACK

The house smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, a comforting blend that always reminded Abigail of home. The sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, spilling golden light across the countertops where her mother stood, humming softly as she prepared breakfast. Abigail sat at the small table in her pajamas, swinging her legs under the chair as she happily colored in a picture with her crayons.

“Abby, are you drawing us again?” her father’s voice boomed warmly as he entered the room. He had that easygoing smile Abigail loved so much—the one that always made her feel safe. He was wearing his usual work clothes: a pressed shirt and tie that Abigail thought made him look like a superhero.

“Yeah! It’s me and you and Mommy on the plane!” Abigail said proudly, holding up the picture. The drawing was bright and colorful—three stick figures sitting in an airplane with big, happy smiles. “I even drew clouds!”

Her mother turned to look, wiping her hands on a dish towel before leaning down to kiss Abigail’s forehead. “That’s beautiful, sweetheart. Are we going somewhere special in the drawing?”

“We’re going to the beach!” Abigail beamed. “You promised we would go!”

Her father chuckled and ruffled her hair. “We did, didn’t we? Next week, kiddo. It’s a promise.”

The sound of the phone ringing interrupted the moment. Her mother sighed and moved to pick it up, leaving Abigail to bask in the warmth of the promise. A week at the beach—building sandcastles, splashing in the waves, and eating ice cream until her stomach hurt. She couldn’t wait.

The memory shifted, blurring around the edges like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. Abigail was sitting on the edge of her bed, clutching her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Flopsy. The house felt different now—silent and empty, like the air had been sucked out of it. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla had disappeared, replaced by something unfamiliar and sterile.

There were voices coming from the hallway, hushed and heavy. Abigail couldn’t make out the words, but she recognized the tone—the way adults spoke when something was wrong. She didn’t understand why her aunt and uncle were here, why no one had picked her up from school like usual, or why her father’s laugh wasn’t echoing down the hallway.

Finally, the door creaked open, and her aunt walked in. Her face looked strange, like she’d been crying but was trying not to show it.

“Abby,” her aunt said gently, kneeling down in front of her. “Sweetheart, there’s something we need to talk about.”

Abigail clutched Mr. Flopsy tighter. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

Her aunt’s eyes glistened with tears, and she reached out to brush Abigail’s hair back. “They… they’re not coming home, honey.”

The words didn’t make sense. Not coming home? That wasn’t right. They had a beach trip planned. Daddy had promised.

“But… they promised,” Abigail whispered, her voice shaking. “They promised we were going to the beach.”

An accident.

The plane.

Not coming home.

Her parents were gone. Just like that.

Years later, the memory still haunted her, coming in flashes during quiet moments or dreams. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla could still make her stomach twist. Airplanes made her uneasy. And promises… well, Abigail had learned not to put too much faith in promises anymore.