“So, what now?” he asks softly. “About the competition, I mean.”

I sigh, my mind racing back to the hours John and I spent in the kitchen, the relentless pursuit of a

perfection that now seems so utterly… pointless.

“I think I just have to accept that I can’t practice this recipe the right way,” I finally murmur, taking a step

back as I try to ignore the racing of my heart. “I guess not everything can be perfect.”

I fumble with my keys at my apartment door, finally managing to unlock it and step inside for the first time

since this morning.

The weight of the day presses down on me like a ton of bricks. ‘Exhausted’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

And the frustration over the truffles—or the lack thereof—is the cherry on top.

Enter title…

myself, tossing my bag onto the coffee table as

off my heels, letting them thud unceremoniously onto the floor. For a

asleep right here, still in my work

if agreeing with me, my eyelids grow heavy and I start to drift, the stress of the day fading

welcoming arms of

to finally nod off into the sweet embrace

my eyes snapping

table, a notification glowing. Rubbing

my eyes narrowing as I see it’s

subject catch

My heartbeat quickens as I open the

some detail about the competition. But as I skim the

first email in the thread reads. “I’m thinking that we should do

you think?”

replies. “The mafaldine will pair well with the

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