“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…

my bag onto the

onto the floor. For a

asleep right here,

with me, my eyelids grow heavy and I start to drift, the stress

arms of

just as I’m about to finally nod off into the sweet embrace of sleep, a sharp ding pierces

eyes snapping

up on the coffee table, a notification glowing. Rubbing my

eyes narrowing as I see it’s an

subject catch my

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

to discuss some detail about the competition. But as I skim

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

you think?”

named Emi replies. “The mafaldine will pair well with the dessert

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