“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…

I mumble to myself, tossing my bag onto the

onto the floor. For a

falling asleep right here, still in my

and I start to drift, the stress of the

welcoming arms

about to finally nod off into the sweet embrace of sleep, a sharp

my eyes snapping

table, a notification glowing. Rubbing my temples, I

my eyes narrowing as I see it’s an email. At

and subject catch

judges. My heartbeat quickens as I open the email, thinking they must have

to discuss some detail about the competition. But as I skim the content, my eyes

“I’m thinking that we should

you think?”

agree,” the judge named Emi replies. “The mafaldine will pair well

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