The week after Frankie's funeral was the longest of Sloane's life.
Not because of the bakery. Not because of the foundation paperwork or the board meetings or the reporters who still lingered outside. Because of Cole.
He stopped talking.
Not completely – he said good morning, good night, passed the salt at dinner. But the real words, the ones that mattered, dried up like old dough.
He stopped eating.
Picked at his food. Pushed eggs around his plate. Drank coffee black when he used to take it with cream and sugar – the way Sloane made it.
He stopped sleeping.
Sloane would wake at 3 AM to find him standing at the window, staring at the city, his back a wall of scars and silence.
He stopped touching her.
Not coldly – he still held her hand, kissed her forehead, wrapped an arm around her in bed. But the heat was gone. The hunger. The want. He was present but absent, a photograph of himself.
On the fifth day, Sloane had enough.
---
She woke at 4 AM – her usual time – and found Cole already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoes on.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Nowhere."
"Cole."
"I said nowhere." His voice was flat. Dead.
Sloane sat up. The sheet fell away. She was wearing his shirt – the gray henley, soft from washing. She reached for his hand.
He didn't pull away, but he didn't squeeze back either.
"You haven't eaten in five days," she said.
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't laughed in five days."
"There's nothing to laugh about."
"You haven't kissed me in five days."
He looked at her then – really looked at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, hollow, the color of whiskey left too long in the glass.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not trying to—"
"I know. You're grieving. I understand." She moved closer, kneeling beside him on the bed. "But you're not just grieving, Cole. You're disappearing. And I can't watch you fade away."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're standing at windows at 3 AM. You're pushing food around your plate. You're here, but you're not here."
His jaw tightened. "What do you want me to say? That I'm sad? That I miss her? That I wake up every morning and forget she's gone, and then I remember, and it feels like someone is sitting on my chest?"
"Yes," Sloane said softly. "That's exactly what I want you to say."
He stared at her. Then his face crumpled.
Not crying – not yet – but close. His mouth opened and closed. His hands trembled.
"I don't know how to do this," he said. "I don't know how to miss someone and keep living."
"Then let me teach you."
She stood up and pulled on her robe. She held out her hand.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
"The bakery."
---
The bakery was dark at 4:15 AM.
The pink neon sign flickered – the broken "N" casting strange shadows on the floor. The air smelled like yesterday's bread and old roses. Frankie's mason jars sat on the tables, the flowers brown and wilted.
Sloane hadn't had the heart to throw them out.
Cole stood in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.
"Why are we here?"
"Because this is where we started. And this is where you're going to heal."
She walked to the prep table and pulled out a lump of dough – leftover from yesterday, proofed once, ready to be shaped.
"Roll up your sleeves."
Cole didn't move.
"Cole. Roll up your sleeves."
Slowly, he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. His forearms were pale. The tattoos seemed faded in the dim light.
Sloane placed the dough in front of him. Then she stood behind him – the same way she had that first morning – and placed her hands over his.
"Push," she said. "Fold. Turn. Remember?"
"I remember."
"Then do it."
He started kneading. Slowly at first, then faster. His movements were mechanical, lifeless.
"Harder," Sloane said.
He pushed harder.
"Again."
He folded. Turned. Pushed.
"Again."
His breathing changed. Faster. Rougher.
"Again, Cole."
He slammed his fists into the dough. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then he stopped.
His shoulders shook.
"I miss her," he said. His voice cracked. "I miss her so much."
Sloane wrapped her arms around him from behind. Her cheek pressed to his back. "I know."
"I never got to say goodbye. Not really. She was there, and then she wasn't, and I—" His voice broke. "I wasn't ready."
"No one is ever ready."
"I should have been there more. Should have visited more. Should have told her I loved her every day."
"She knew, Cole. She always knew."
He turned in her arms. His face was wet. His eyes were red.
"Why does it hurt so much?"
"Because you loved her. That's what love does. It hurts when it's gone."
"I don't want it to hurt anymore."
"Then don't push it away. Feel it. Let it break you open. That's the only way through."
He buried his face in her hair. His arms wrapped around her so tight she could barely breathe.
And then he cried.
Not silent this time. Not controlled. He sobbed – raw, ugly, terrible sobs that came from somewhere deep, somewhere he'd been hiding since he was seven years old.
Sloane held him.
She held him while the dough dried out on the counter. She held him while the sun rose and the pink neon sign flickered off. She held him while the city woke up and the first customers knocked on the door, and Jade let them in, took one look at them, and turned everyone away.
She held him until there was nothing left but breath.
---
At 8 AM, Cole pulled back.
His face was a mess – swollen eyes, red nose, tear tracks down his cheeks. But his eyes were different. Lighter. Clearer.
"I think I'm hungry," he said.
Sloane laughed – a surprised, watery laugh. "I'll make you breakfast."
"Pancakes?"
"Pancakes."
She walked to the kitchen. Cole followed. He sat on a stool at the counter and watched her cook.
She cracked eggs. Whisked milk into flour. Poured the batter onto the griddle.
"You're not wearing the pink apron," he said.
"It's in the wash."
"Good. I don't think I could handle the pink apron today."
She smiled. "Tomorrow, then."
"Tomorrow."
They ate at the counter – pancakes with too much syrup, coffee that was a little too strong, bacon that Sloane burned because she was too busy watching Cole take his first real bite in days.
"This is good," he said.
"It's burned."
"I don't care."
He ate three pancakes. Then four. Then he set down his fork and looked at her.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For shutting down. For pushing you away. For—"
"Stop." She reached across the counter and took his hand. "You don't have to apologize for grieving. You just have to let me in."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
He smiled – a small smile, weak but real. "Yes, ma'am."
---
Later that morning, they walked to the farmers market together. Cole held Sloane's hand. His grip was firm. Present.
They bought strawberries and fresh honey and a loaf of bread from a vendor who recognized Sloane and asked for a selfie.
"That's new," Cole said as they walked away.
"She recognized me from the press conference."
"You're famous."
"I'm a baker who yelled at a billionaire. Same thing."
He laughed – a real laugh, short but genuine. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now help me carry these strawberries. I'm going to make Frankie's shortbread."
"The shortbread that was too hard?"
"The shortbread that you ate every piece of anyway."
He kissed her temple. "That's my favorite kind."
---
They spent the afternoon in the bakery kitchen, flour dusting every surface, the radio playing old jazz. Cole rolled dough. Sloane cut it into shapes – hearts, stars, roses.
"When we have kids," Cole said, "they're going to be covered in flour all the time."
"I hope so."
"I hope they have your curls."
"And your eyes."
"And your stubbornness."
"And your heart."
He set down his rolling pin. "Sloane."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to be okay. Eventually. Because of you."
She walked around the counter and kissed him – soft, sweet, tasting of honey and strawberries.
"That's all I've ever wanted," she said. "For you to be okay."
"I'm getting there."
"Then let's bake."
They baked until the sun went down. The shortbread came out golden – not too hard, not too soft. Just right.
Sloane put a piece on a small plate and set it on the windowsill, next to Frankie's roses.
"For you," she said quietly.
Cole put his arm around her waist.
The pink neon sign flickered.
The night was quiet.
And somewhere, Sloane believed, Frankie was smiling.