Baking Hearts

My last semester of college was finally here, and I couldn’t have been more ready to close this chapter of my life. College had been infinitely better than high school—no competition there—but I was ready to move on, ready for it to become a distant memory I’d look back on fondly but without longing.

To celebrate, my best friend Autumn and I had planned a special dinner tonight. Though, let’s be honest, we didn’t really need a reason to treat ourselves. Once a month, we made a point of doing something fun or indulgent, switching off hosting duties. Autumn had thrown a mini–New Year’s celebration at her place last month, so now it was my turn. Dinner, cocktails, dessert, and movies were all on the agenda. A cozy evening in, partaking in our favorite tradition.

A glance at my phone told me it was 7:30 a.m. Plenty of time to prep for tonight, and thank goodness I didn’t have work today. I adored my job at the preschool, but it was nothing short of chaos this time of year. The kids were still running around like sugar-fueled tornadoes, hyped up on leftover Christmas candy and the excitement of seeing their friends again.

As exhausting as it could be, I loved every moment. Those kids were my whole heart. Watching them learn something new or seeing their faces light up when their parents arrived to pick them up made the long days worth it. One day, I couldn’t wait to have my own family—to feel that same joy from a different perspective. But for now, my focus was clear: finish school, pass my licensing exams, and start teaching. After that, I could think about dating and maybe, just maybe, building a life beyond my career.

First, though, I needed to survive this semester. Between the start of the spring term and the endless energy of my students, I was feeling pretty beaten down. A day off was just what I needed.

I stretched my legs, letting them dangle off the side of my purple comforter. The cozy warmth of my bed was replaced instantly by the chilly air swirling from my ceiling fan. I sighed, swinging myself upright as my back gave a series of satisfying cracks.

Yup, definitely needed the day off.

A quick stretch of my arms and another crack from my spine later, I padded into the kitchen, still shaking off the morning haze. Tonight’s plan was clear: movies, cocktails, dinner, dessert. But first, I needed to prep my bread dough. I loved making bread from scratch—it was soothing, almost meditative.

I pulled out the ingredients: instant yeast, salt, and… flour.

I frowned, staring at the almost-empty bag of flour. I could have sworn I had more. I set everything down on the counter, stepping back with a sigh. This was the last thing I needed today.

I stared at the lonely bag of flour on my counter, its contents barely enough to coat a chicken thigh, let alone bake a whole loaf of bread. And just my luck, I had lent my car to my sister for the week—her own car finally biting the dust—and now I was stranded.

DoorDash?

My bank account cemented the fact that going to the store wasn’t even an option, let alone ordering it to be delivered online. I already stretched my budget on ingredients for the night’s meal, a last minute purchase not a mistake I could afford. Rent was looming, and the last thing I needed was to dig myself further into a financial hole.

Maybe I should ask a neighbor?

Without hesitation, I set my plan into motion. Flour wouldn’t magically appear, and if I wanted tonight’s dinner with Autumn to go as planned, I’d have to brave the outside world. With a sigh, I shimmied back to my room, grabbing a pair of yoga pants from the top of my laundry basket. They weren’t exactly fresh, but they’d pass for a quick errand. I slipped them on over my cheeky underwear, tugging them up with the grace of someone half-asleep.

Next came my nightshirt, which I peeled off to throw on a bra—a non-negotiable, considering the last thing I wanted was to accidentally take someone’s eye out. The sweatshirt hanging from my doorknob completed the ensemble. Once I managed to wrangle it over my head, I fluffed out my dusty red hair and pulled the rebellious strands into a scrunchie that had, apparently, been on my wrist all night. My wrist bore those familiar indentations from the elastic band, a small reminder of how I’d fallen asleep without a care.

I gave myself a once-over in the mirror, hands on my hips, scrutinizing the tired reflection staring back at me. My lips curled into a grimace.

“It is what it is,” I muttered, resigning myself to the state of my appearance.

This seemed so simple in theory—the kind of thing that happened all the time in black-and-white TV shows. A neighbor asking for a cup of flour, a smile, maybe a warm laugh exchanged. But now, in practice, it felt absurdly intimidating, like stepping onto a stage with all eyes on me. The very thought made me squirm. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures.

Slipping on a pair of socks (one with a hole) and my sandals, I braced myself and shuffled into the brisk January morning. The cold hit me like a slap to the face, sharp and unapologetic. My breath puffed out in small clouds, dissipating in the still air as I trudged down the narrow path from my townhouse. The world was quiet, the kind of quiet that made you hyper-aware of every creak in the fence and every rustle of dead leaves. The sidewalk was slick with ice, I needed to be careful not to slip.

I stuffed my hands into the pocket of my sweatshirt, glancing at the empty townhouse next to mine. My usual fallback—the neighbor I actually knew—had moved out a few days ago. That left me with the corner unit, the one I had barely even addressed, much less visited.

By the time I passed my car car parked near the curb, doubt had started its relentless attack. I caught a glimpse of myself in the window’s reflection and winced. My cheeks were bright red from the cold, clashing against my pale complexion. Strands of hair were escaping my messy bun, giving me an unkempt look that screamed, “just rolled out of bed.” Add in my socks-with-sandals combo and the rogue bra strap making a break for it, and I looked like someone ready to take on the world armed with nothing but caffeine and pure spite. And today, I was running solely on the latter.

My ambition, once a steady flame, began to waver as doubt crept in. Was this even a normal thing to do anymore? Asking a neighbor for flour? It felt so… old-fashioned, so much like something from the 1800s. People didn’t do this in the age of instant grocery deliveries and Amazon. Did they? My ambition, once steady and determined, began to falter under the weight of self-consciousness.

Still, I pressed on, the corner unit now looming in front of me. I could either retreat and let my evening plans crumble—or knock on that door and hope for the best. I arrived at the infamously uniform red door that adorned each of the townhomes, rhis one belonging to my mysterious neighbor. Its bright paint was chipped in places, a sharp contrast to the black letters stamped across the welcome mat that read GO AWAY.

Charming.

I swallowed hard, my fingers clenching and unclenching inside my hoodie pocket. This was a mistake. Maybe I should go back, crack open that half-bag of stale crackers in my pantry, and call it a day. But no, I was here. I had made it this far. I was doing this.

With a deep breath, I raised my hand, heart pounding in my chest. My hand hovered near the door, knuckles poised, but I hesitated. The words Come on, Kelsy, just knock looped in my head. With one last mental shove, I was going to knock—

And the door flung open.

I yelped, stumbling back as the icy air rushed past me, my feet slipping on the frost-covered welcome mat. Before I could process what was happening, I found myself on the ground, sprawled awkwardly with my hands stinging from impact, braced against the slushy salted pavement.

The world seemed to slow in that moment, my senses heightening as my eyes darted up—way up—to meet the gaze of the person who had opened the door.

“Oh, shoot, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there. Are you alright?” The voice was warm and deep, laced with genuine concern, and it froze me in place and made my breath hitch, My heart beating so loudly I could hardly focus on the words as I met his eyes. Those eyes. They were… stunning. A unique hazel unfamiliar to me, yet they felt like they could see right through me in an instant.

Standing over me was the kind of man you only read about in romance novels or see on magazine covers. Tall, broad-shouldered, and impossibly put-together despite wearing a plain hoodie and joggers. His dark hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just run his fingers through it, and those eyes—My god those eyes, flecked with gold that could make the stars in the night skies jealous—stared down at me with a mixture of worry and perhaps even a hint of amusement.

The man set down the garbage bag and a few boxes he had been carrying, his movements fluid and effortless, like someone who was both used to hard work and unbothered by it. Then there was his hand—outstretched, strong, attached to an arm that could only be described as a masterpiece. If Michelangelo’s David had come to life, it would have envied this man’s form.

“Here, let me help you up,” he said, his voice smooth, with just the faintest edge of warmth that made the cold air seem a little less biting.

My face heated instantly, warmth spreading like wildfire across my cheeks. Between the embarrassment of landing flat on my butt in front of this ridiculously attractive stranger and the frigid January air, I was sure my cheeks were now a shade close to cherry red. I felt vulnerable, like a bird caught in a predator’s gaze—except this predator wasn’t menacing. He was kind, gentle, and, dare I say, safe.

As he leaned down, his arm still extended toward me, I couldn’t help but notice more of him. His arms were toned, his skin kissed with just the right amount of sun—oh my God, his whole body. My mouth felt dry, my brain short-circuiting. I was definitely gawking, frozen and wordless.

Snap out of it, Kelsy!

I blinked at his hand, the mental fog barely clearing. Oh. Right. Hands. Use them.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” I mumbled, my voice cracking slightly into a small squeak. Mortified, I slipped my hand into his, immediately noting how warm and firm his grip was. With what felt like zero effort, he pulled me to my feet, steadying me as though I weighed nothing at all.

For a moment, we stood there, his hand lingering on mine while I tried to regain my balance and my pride.

“I’m Nathanial, but feel free to just call me Nathan,” he said finally, his lips quirking into a smile that was both boyish and disarming. It sent a jolt through me, and my knees felt like they might betray me all over again.

“I’m Kelsy,” I managed to croak, my voice embarrassingly breathy.

“Well, Kelsy,” he replied, letting go of my hand but not my gaze, “what brings you to my, uh, apparently aggressive unwelcoming door?” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck with an easy confidence. The apologetic look on his face was so genuine that I couldn’t help but smile back, though my heart was still racing like I’d just run a marathon.

“I, uh… I was wondering if I could have some flour,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyebrows arched slightly, and the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Flour?”

“For baking,” I added quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I was… I mean, I’m making something. And I ran out.”

Nathanial’s smile widened, and a dimple appeared in his left cheek. Of course, he had dimples. Why wouldn’t he? “Well, you’re in luck,” he said, his voice light and teasing. “I think I’ve got some to spare. But only if I get a slice of whatever you’re baking.”

I stared at him, torn between embarrassment and something uncomfortably close to anticipation. “Deal,” I blurted before I could overthink it.

Nathanial disappeared inside, and I exhaled sharply, pressing my fingers to my warm cheeks. What was happening? This wasn’t how neighbors interacted, was it? Or maybe it was, and I’d just forgotten what normal human interaction looked like.

Moments later, he returned, holding not one but two bags of flour tucked neatly into a reusable shopping bag. “Here you go,” he said, handing them over as though it was the easiest thing in the world to be this generous.

“Oh, wow, I didn’t need this much,” I said, staring at the bags like they were a gift far too grand for what I’d asked.

“It’s fine,” he replied with a casual shrug. “You can bring back whatever you don’t use.”

I nodded, clutching the bag tightly. “Thank you. Really.”

“No problem,” he said, bending to pick up the garbage bag and boxes he’d set down earlier. As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.

“Hey, wait up!”

I spun around, startled to find him catching up to me, his long strides effortlessly closing the distance.

“Let me walk you back,” he said, the garbage still in his hands.

“Oh, um—”

“Relax, I’m just taking this to the dumpster anyway,” he added with a grin.

I felt awkward and out of place again. “Do you… want help with that?” I asked, gesturing toward the garbage.

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m a big boy. I’ve got it covered.”

My lips twitched into a half-smile as I mentally berated myself for offering. Of course, he didn’t need help. He looked like he could carry all of it and then some.

As we reached my door, he stepped back, giving me space but not before flashing me a radiant smile that made my stomach flutter in the most inconvenient way. “See you around, Kelsy,” he said, his voice warm and impossibly smooth.

“Cya,” I mumbled, heat rushing to my face once again as I fumbled with my doorknob.

I glanced back to see him walking away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the distance. My heart thudded unevenly as I slipped inside, leaning against the door with a shaky breath. I cursed myself silently as I sunk onto the floor, the bags of flour resting beside me.

“I’m doomed.”

Easy Artisan Bread

Ingredients:

3 cups all-purpose flour

½ tablespoon Kosher salt

¼ ounce (2 ¼ teaspoons) instant or active dry yeast packet

1 ½ cups warm water (approximately 105°F)

Instructions:

Dough:

Combine flour, salt, and yeast in a large bowl. Pour in warm water and mix until a sticky dough forms.

Cover with a towel or plastic wrap and let rise for 2–10 hours (or overnight).

Shape:

Turn the dough onto a floured surface. Gently shape it into a round loaf or divide it into two smaller loaves.

Place on parchment paper, lightly dust with flour, and score the top with a knife. Let rest for 20–30 minutes.

Bake:

Preheat the oven to 450°F with a baking stone, pizza stone, or inverted skillet inside.

Slide the dough (on parchment) onto the hot surface. For a crusty texture, add 1 cup of hot water or 5 ice cubes to the oven for steam.

Bake for 25–30 minutes until golden.

Cool and Serve:

Let cool on a rack for 30 minutes before slicing.

Enjoy!