There are moments in life where you just know things are going to go wrong.
Like when you agree to bake with your wildly chaotic stepmother even though she once melted a plastic spoon trying to boil pasta. Or when your dad leaves town for a business trip and says, "You two behave," like that ever meant anything.
Spoiler: we didn't.
It all started because Elena found an old baking kit under the sink.
"Look!" she said, holding it up like she'd discovered buried treasure. "It's fate."
"It's expired," I pointed out.
She frowned at the box. "It's only a year old."
"It literally says best by last March."
She waved me off. "That's a suggestion. Like stop signs."
My hand went instinctively to my forehead. "You're going to kill me before the summer's over."
"You're so dramatic," she said, grabbing a mixing bowl like she knew what she was doing. "We'll use fresh ingredients, genius. I bought marshmallows yesterday, remember?"
"You mean your emotional support marshmallows?"
"Exactly." She grinned. "Now preheat the stove thing."
"Stove thing? You mean the oven?"
"Whatever."
This was already a mistake.
But for reasons I didn't want to unpack, I found myself dragging the bag of cereal out of the cabinet and lining up the ingredients like I cared.
We made a weird team. She was all chaos and big gestures. I was sarcasm and reluctant competence. She stirred with enthusiasm. I stirred with fear.
She dropped two marshmallows on the floor. "Those are for the ghosts," she said solemnly.
"Right."
"And these," she said, holding two more up to my face, "are for us."
I opened my mouth to argue, but she shoved one into it before I could speak. Then she ate hers with a loud, dramatic chew like we were at a wine tasting.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered.
"I can," she said, dumping cereal into the pot without measuring. "You secretly love spending time with me."
I scoffed. "I'd rather be stabbed with a toothpick."
She smiled. "Cute. That's what your dad said on our second date."
I gagged. "Why would you tell me that?"
"Because it's funny."
"Because you're evil."
She flicked a marshmallow at me. It hit my forehead and stuck there.
"I will retaliate," I warned.
"I welcome it."
So I threw a puff at her. She ducked, but it bounced off her bun and into the bowl of melted marshmallow goo.
"Ten points!" I declared.
She grinned. "Lucky shot."
"I'm a sniper."
"You're a nerd."
"You're literally wearing oven mitts backwards."
She looked down. "They're cozier this way."
That was the moment the mixture boiled over. Gooey white marshmallow lava spilled over the sides of the pot and onto the stove.
"Crap!"
"Turn it off!" she shouted.
"I am!"
She grabbed the wooden spoon and stirred like she was fighting a demon. "It's okay! We can fix this! Rice krispies are forgiving!"
"You say that like they have a soul!"
We ended up scraping the mixture into a tray using a spatula, a spoon, and eventually her bare hands. It looked like the aftermath of a marshmallow explosion.
She stood back, breathing hard. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair frizzed out of the bun, and she had marshmallow streaked across her wrist.
And I'll admit it — she looked weirdly beautiful in that moment. Like some domestic disaster goddess. I hated that I noticed.
She caught me staring.
"What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "You have goo on your face."
She wiped it off with the sleeve of her hoodie, which made it worse.
"Did I get it?"
"Not even a little."
She frowned. "You do it."
"What?"
"Wipe it off."
"No."
"Yes."
"Elena—"
"Are you afraid of touching my face?"
"No."
She stepped closer. "Then do it."
I hesitated. Big mistake.
Because now we were standing way too close, and I could smell her shampoo — cinnamon and coconut and chaos — and her eyes were locked on mine like she was daring me not to care.
So I reached up and brushed the smear from her cheek. Quick. Casual.
Except it wasn't quick or casual. My hand lingered.
Her breath hitched.
And then — of course — the doorbell rang.
We both jumped like we'd been caught doing something illegal. She scrambled to wash her hands. I took a big step back and pretended to care deeply about the rice krispie tray.
"I'll get it!" she called, already halfway to the door.
I stayed in the kitchen, staring at the tray like it might save me from the spiral in my brain.
That didn't mean anything.
She's your stepmom.
It was just an accident.
You were wiping marshmallow, not making a move.
Shut up.
A minute later she came back in, holding a paper bag.
"Mail guy dropped this off. Your dad's vitamins."
"Exciting."
She nodded. "He's aging like an emotionally constipated avocado."
I snorted. "Wow. I can't un-hear that."
"Good."
We stared at each other for a beat too long.
Then she looked away, back at the tray.
"So," she said, clearing her throat. "We let this sit for twenty minutes, then slice."
"Cool."
Silence again. Not awkward. But not not awkward.
Finally, she said, "I'm gonna take a shower. Don't eat it all."
"Why would I—"
But she was already gone, barefoot and humming as she walked down the hall.
And I was left alone in a kitchen that smelled like melted sugar and trouble.
That night, I lay in bed pretending not to think about her.
I failed.
I wasn't supposed to like her. I wasn't supposed to notice her. She was married to my dad. That should've been the biggest red flag in the world.
And yet, my brain was a mess of images: her laughing with marshmallow on her face, her saying "it's a date," the way her eyes softened when I offered to make treats with her.
This was stupid.
I needed to get out of this house.
The next morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of muffled singing.
It was coming from the kitchen.
I dragged myself out of bed, shirtless and half-asleep, and padded down the hallway.
What I found was — somehow — worse than yesterday.
Elena, standing in the middle of the kitchen in one of my dad's oversized band T-shirts, holding a mug that said "World's Okayest Stepmom," dancing in fuzzy socks to Stevie Nicks.
She saw me and froze mid-spin.
I blinked. "Is this… normal for you?"
She grinned. "Only when I'm caffeinated."
"You're not allowed to be this chipper before 9 a.m."
"Sue me."
I poured myself a cup and leaned against the counter. "You always dance like nobody's watching?"
She sipped. "I thought nobody was."
"Guess I ruined it."
She shrugged. "You'll have to watch now."
And then — like a freaking movie character — she twirled again, singing under her breath.
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. Because the way she moved — light, loose, untamed — it made me feel like I'd walked into someone's dream.
"Victor never dances," she said quietly, still swaying.
"Yeah," I said. "I can't imagine him doing that."
"He used to. Once. On our first date. I dared him."
I raised my eyebrows. "Did he suck?"
"Horribly."
We both laughed. Then the timer on her phone went off.
"Rice krispies," she said.
I followed her to the fridge. We sliced the tray in silence. She handed me one on a plate and took one for herself.
We stood side by side at the counter, chewing.
"This is… surprisingly good," I said.
She smiled. "I'm full of surprises."
"I'm starting to believe that."
She looked at me — and for once, no smile. Just something softer. Deeper.
"I like having you here," she said.
I swallowed. Hard.
"You're weird," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.
She smirked. "Takes one to know one."
And for once, I didn't argue.