Niah's POV
Ever since that wild moment when the book practically exhaled against her palm and the fog whispered her name, Niah felt like the world had tipped sideways. Her thoughts kept rolling, restless marbles gathering in the same quiet corner of her mind, where a strange, persistent hum buzzed behind her ribs, stubbornly refusing to be named.
She shoved open the front door and froze.
The first thing to hit her was the unmistakable scent of burnt sugar. The second was Jules's voice, which was loud and gleefully reckless.
"Do not open that oven!" Jules hollered from somewhere inside. "Unless you want your life to flash before your eyes in a caramelized fireball."
Niah arched an eyebrow. "What exactly are you doing in there?"
Jules spun around, flour streaked across her cheek like some kind of battle paint, wielding a spatula as if she'd just realized it wasn't actually a sword. "I'm rescuing your mood," she declared, all drama. "And, okay, maybe destroying your cookware in the process. But mostly, it's about your mood."
"Since when do you bake?" Niah asked, aiming for casual but not quite nailing it.
"Since about twenty minutes after you texted me, I'm fine," Jules shot back. "Which, by the way, is statistically the least fine phrase in the English language."
Niah let her bag drop onto a chair, and for the first time since the 'incident', something that almost felt like laughter slipped out. "So your therapy method is… baking warfare?"
"Therapy, sugar, chaos, if you add enough flair, it's all the same thing." Jules slid a tray from the oven with the kind of caution usually reserved for bomb squads. "Alright, yes, they look like angry swamp cookies. But if you eat them with your eyes closed, they taste like heaven."
Niah squinted at the tray. "Why are they green?"
"Shhh," Jules hissed, scandalized. "Don't question the process." She hesitated, then admitted, "…Also, I might've confused matcha with what I thought was pistachio powder. Spoiler alert: it was not."
The kitchen felt warmer than it should have, steam curling in the air, cinnamon hanging heavy, the slow, comforting heat rising from cabinets old enough to groan in full sentences.
Niah leaned against the counter, letting the sheer Jules-ness of the scene smooth out the jagged edges of her nerves. The hum in her chest softened.
"Here." Jules pressed a mug into her hands, a mug that looked like it had survived three apartments and one truly disastrous roommate. The cocoa inside was thick, probably haunted, and exactly what Niah needed. "You've been quiet."
"I'm just tired." Niah wrapped both hands around the mug, feeling the warmth seep into her skin the way a kind word does. "My head's a mess."
For once, Jules didn't try to fill the silence with a joke. She just watched, the way Niah clung to the mug a little too tightly, the way her shoulders stayed hunched even in the heat. "Magic headaches are a real thing, huh?" Jules finally said, her voice softer than usual.
Niah's eyebrows shot up. "You knew?"
Jules flashed a crooked grin, the kind that never quite managed to look casual. "Please. I've had a front-row seat to your weirdness for months. The books shine when you walk by, you literally glow when you're mad, and the whole fog thing? Not exactly normal. I've just been waiting for you to catch up."
Niah blinked, and the hum inside her did something complicated and unexpectedly kind. "So you think I'm magical?"
"I think you're you," Jules said, and suddenly the air between them felt threaded with something gentle. "Magic and all. And you don't have to figure it out today." She paused, letting it sink in. "At least not alone when I am here."
The words landed, cleaner than any reassurance, deeper than a joke. The kitchen seemed to shift around them: the kettle ticking as it cooled, the floorboards breathing, the burnt sugar scent finally giving up its edge.
"Thank you, Jules," Niah murmured, because for once, gratitude felt like it actually fit.
"Don't thank me until you try the cookies," Jules shot back, her wicked grin returning. "Seriously, it's good."
Niah took a bite. The matcha hit first, all aristocratic bitterness, while the white chocolate tried desperately to make friends. "I must say, it's… definitely an experience."
Jules beamed, triumphant. "Healing, my dear, almost never tastes good. But it works."
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