Blood and Flour

The rain started falling harder just as I pulled the old Ford into the driveway.

I killed the engine and sat there for a second, watching the water bead and slide down the windshield. The house looked the same as it always did. White siding, blue shutters, a porch swing that creaked even when nobody was on it. Home. The word sat strange in my chest after six months away.

My mom would be inside. Aunt Rani too, probably. Uncle Devin's truck wasn't in the driveway, which meant I had at least a few minutes to settle in before the interrogation began.

I grabbed my duffel from the passenger seat and made a run for the front door. The rain plastered my hair to my forehead before I got halfway there. I was soaked by the time I shoved the door open.

The smell hit me first. Cinnamon and sugar and something warm and yeasty. Emilyn's bakery smell, the one that followed her everywhere like a cloud.

"Ethan!"

My mom's voice came from the kitchen. I dropped my bag by the stairs and walked toward it, already bracing myself.

She was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. Her hair was grayer than I remembered. More streaks of silver threading through the brown. She turned when she heard my footsteps and her face did that thing it always did when she saw me. That mix of relief and worry and love that made me feel like I was twelve years old again.

"You're soaked," she said.

"I ran from the car."

"Your hair's dripping on my floor."

I grabbed a dish towel from the counter and rubbed it over my head. "Happy to see you too, Mom."

She crossed the kitchen and pulled me into a hug. She smelled like lavender and dish soap. I let myself sink into it for a second before pulling back.

"You look thin," she said.

"I look the same."

"You look thin. Are they feeding you at that precinct?"

"Mom."

"Don't Mom me. I worry."

I knew she did. That was the problem. She'd been worrying since I was eighteen and told her I wanted to be a cop. She'd worried through the academy, through my first year on patrol, through every case I brought home in my head. She worried like it was her job.

"I'm fine," I said. "Promise."

She gave me a look that said she didn't believe me but she'd let it slide. For now.

"Emilyn's in the back," she said. "She's been baking all morning. I think she missed you."

I felt something shift in my chest at that. Something I'd been trying very hard not to think about for the last six months.

I'd missed her too. That was the problem.

I found Emilyn in the back room of the house, the one she'd converted into a second kitchen when her café started doing well enough to need extra space. She was bent over a counter, rolling out dough with practiced, efficient movements. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a few loose strands falling across her face. She wore a flour-dusted apron over a blue blouse and jeans.

She didn't hear me come in.

I stood in the doorway and watched her for a second. The way her hands moved. The way she bit her lower lip in concentration. The way the light from the window caught the gold flecks in her hair.

She was my cousin. Second cousin, technically, but that didn't matter. We'd grown up in the same house, shared the same family dinners, the same holidays, the same last name. She was family. And I had no business feeling the way I felt about her.

But I did.

I'd been feeling it for years now. A low, constant hum under my skin whenever she was in the room. A pull in my chest that I couldn't explain or justify. I'd tried to ignore it. Tried to date other people, tried to focus on my job, tried to convince myself it was just affection, just fondness, just the natural closeness of two people who'd grown up together.

It wasn't any of those things.

It was want. Pure and simple and completely fucking wrong.

"Are you going to stand there staring or are you going to say hello?"

Her voice pulled me back. She hadn't turned around, but I could see the smile in the curve of her cheek.

"Depends," I said. "Are you going to throw flour at me if I come closer?"

She turned then, and her smile widened when she saw me. "Maybe. Depends on how annoying you are."

"Six months gone and that's the welcome I get?"

She wiped her hands on her apron and crossed the room. She stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell the sugar on her skin. She was shorter than me by a few inches. I had to look down to meet her eyes.

Those warm hazel eyes with the little flecks of gold.

"I missed you," she said.

The words hit me harder than they should have. "I missed you too."

She hugged me. Quick and warm and over before I could really feel it. She stepped back and gestured at the counter. "I'm testing a new recipe. Apple bourbon pie. You're my guinea pig."

"I accept the assignment."

She laughed and turned back to her dough. I watched her work, leaning against the doorframe. This was safe. This was fine. We could do this. We could be cousins who talked about pie and caught up on each other's lives and pretended there wasn't anything else simmering underneath.

"How's the café?" I asked.

"Busy. I hired a new girl to help with the morning rush. She's good, but she keeps burning the croissants."

"Rookie mistake."

"Tell me about it." She pressed the dough into a pie dish with practiced ease. "How's work? Catch any bad guys?"

"One or two."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the answer you're getting."

She looked at me over her shoulder. That look. The one that said she could see right through me. "Something happened."

"Nothing happened."

"Ethan."

"Emilyn."

She turned fully, crossing her arms. "You've got that look. The one you get when you're carrying something you don't want to talk about."

I didn't say anything. Because she was right. There was something. A case I couldn't shake. A kid who'd gone missing and turned up dead three days later. A mother who'd looked at me with hollow eyes and asked me why I hadn't found him sooner.

I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to bring that darkness into this kitchen, into this warm space she'd built for herself.

"It's fine," I said. "Really."

She didn't push. That was one of the things I loved about her. She knew when to let things lie. She turned back to her pie and changed the subject.

"Baileigh's coming over later. She wants to see you."

My cousin Baileigh. My best friend since we were kids. The one person who knew me better than anyone, including the parts I wished she didn't.

"Great," I said. "I can't wait for her to make fun of my haircut."

"Your haircut's fine."

"It's the same haircut I've had for ten years."

"Exactly. She'll find something else to mock you about."

"She always does."

The front door slammed. Heavy footsteps in the hallway. A voice that carried through the whole house like thunder.

"Lila! Get your ass in here!"

Uncle Devin.

I felt my spine straighten involuntarily. Old habit. The man had that effect on people.

I found him in the living room, pulling off a wet jacket. He was massive. Six five, broad shoulders, arms thick with muscle. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, his beard trimmed close to his jaw. He looked like he could break me in half without breaking a sweat.

He looked at me with those piercing blue eyes. "You're back."

"I'm back."

"Good." He tossed his jacket over a chair. "I need your help with something."

I blinked. "You need my help?"

"Don't look so surprised. I'm not asking you to solve a murder. I need you to move a couch."

"A couch."

"Upstairs. Your aunt wants to rearrange the guest room."

I could have said no. I could have pointed out that I'd just driven six hours and I was tired and I wanted to sit down and not think about anything for a while. But you didn't say no to Uncle Devin. Not unless you wanted to spend the next hour listening to him explain why you were wrong.

"Fine," I said. "Lead the way."

The couch was heavier than it looked. We wrestled it up the stairs, Devin taking the brunt of the weight while I tried not to get my fingers crushed. By the time we got it into the guest room, I was sweating and my arms ached.

"Not bad," Devin said. "You've gotten stronger."

"I work out."

"Clearly." He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "How's the job?"

"It's a job."

"That's not an answer."

I sighed. "It's fine. Busy. Lots of cases."

"You always had a nose for trouble. Even when you were a kid."

I remembered. I remembered the summer I was twelve, when I'd followed a stray dog into the woods and gotten lost for six hours. Devin had been the one to find me. He'd carried me home on his shoulders, telling me I was an idiot but not to tell my mother.

"Some things don't change," I said.

"No. They don't." He looked at me for a long moment. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything."

The words hung in the air. I knew what he was offering. An open door. A chance to unload whatever I was carrying.

But I couldn't tell him. Not about the case. Not about the kid. Not about the thing I really couldn't say, the thing that burned in my chest every time I looked at his daughter.

"I know," I said. "Thanks."

He nodded. Clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. "Dinner's at seven. Don't be late."

He left. I stood in the guest room for a minute, staring at the couch we'd just moved, trying to figure out why I felt like I'd just dodged a bullet.

Baileigh showed up at six thirty.

She let herself in the front door like she owned the place, which she basically did. She'd grown up in this house same as me. Her voice carried through the hallway, loud and familiar.

"Ethan! Where are you hiding?"

I came down the stairs and found her in the living room, hands on her hips. She was tall and sharp-featured, with dark hair cropped short and a smile that could cut glass. She was wearing a flannel shirt over a band t-shirt, ripped jeans, combat boots. She looked exactly the same as she had the last time I saw her.

"There you are," she said. "You look like shit."

"Nice to see you too."

She crossed the room and hugged me. Hard. She smelled like cigarettes and cheap perfume. "I mean it. You look exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

She pulled back and studied my face. Her eyes narrowed. "Something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

"Bullshit."

"Baileigh."

"Don't Baileigh me. I know you. Something's eating you."

I looked away. She was too good at this. Too good at reading me.

"It's nothing," I said. "Just a case. A bad one."

Her expression softened. Just a little. "Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Want to get drunk and pretend it doesn't exist?"

"That I can do."

She grinned. "That's my girl."

Dinner was loud and chaotic and exactly what I needed.

My mom had made pot roast. Aunt Rani had brought a salad that nobody touched. Emilyn's pie sat on the counter, cooling, filling the house with the smell of apples and bourbon. Uncle Devin dominated the conversation, telling stories about his construction crew that got more exaggerated with every retelling. Baileigh interjected with sarcastic comments that made my mom laugh. Emilyn sat across from me, quiet, picking at her food, occasionally meeting my eyes and smiling.

I watched her without meaning to. The way she pushed a piece of carrot around her plate. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The way her fingers wrapped around her water glass.

I shouldn't have been watching. I knew that. But I couldn't stop.

After dinner, Baileigh cornered me on the porch.

The rain had stopped. The air was cool and damp, carrying the smell of wet earth and grass. She lit a cigarette and offered me one. I took it.

"So," she said. "Are you going to tell me what's really going on?"

"I told you. Bad case."

"That's part of it." She exhaled a cloud of smoke. "But it's not all of it."

I took a drag of my cigarette. Let the smoke fill my lungs. "Why do you always have to push?"

"Because you're my best friend and I love you and I can tell when you're lying."

"I'm not lying."

"You're not telling the whole truth. That's the same thing."

I didn't say anything. I stared out at the yard, at the wet grass glinting under the porch light.

"It's Emilyn, isn't it?"

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I turned to look at her. She was watching me with knowing eyes.

"What?"

"Don't what me. I've seen the way you look at her."

"I don't look at her any way."

"Bullshit. You look at her like she's the last glass of water in the desert."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. There was no point in denying it. Baileigh knew me too well.

"How long?" she asked.

"Years."

"Years?"

"I didn't want to feel this way. I tried not to."

"But you do."

"Yeah." I crushed my cigarette against the railing. "I do."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "That's fucked up."

"I know."

"She's our cousin."

"I know."

"Your mom would lose her mind."

"I know."

"And Devin would kill you."

"I know."

She looked at me. Her expression was unreadable. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing. There's nothing I can do."

"You could tell her."

"And ruin everything? Destroy the family? Get myself disowned?" I shook my head. "No. I'm going to bury it. Pretend it doesn't exist."

"That sounds healthy."

"It's the best I've got."

She put a hand on my shoulder. Squeezed. "I'm sorry, Ethan. That's a shitty hand to be dealt."

"It is what it is."

"It doesn't have to be."

I looked at her. "What does that mean?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. Just... think about it. What's worse? Telling her and dealing with the fallout, or spending the rest of your life wondering what if?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

I couldn't sleep that night.

I lay in my old bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the house settling around me. The creak of floorboards. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant sound of someone moving in another room.

I thought about what Baileigh had said.

What's worse? Telling her and dealing with the fallout, or spending the rest of your life wondering what if?

I knew the answer. I'd known it for years. But knowing and doing were two different things.

I got up. Pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Went downstairs to get a glass of water.

The kitchen was dark. I didn't bother turning on the light. I knew this house well enough to navigate it blind.

I was filling my glass at the sink when I heard a sound behind me.

I turned.

Emilyn was standing in the doorway.

She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts. Her hair was loose, falling around her shoulders. In the dim light from the window, she looked soft and sleepy and so beautiful it hurt.

"Can't sleep?" she asked.

"No. You?"

"Same." She walked into the kitchen, barefoot, and leaned against the counter beside me. "I keep thinking about things."

"What things?"

She shrugged. "Life. The future. Whether I'm happy."

"Are you?"

She looked at me. Her eyes were dark in the low light. "I don't know. I thought I was. But lately I've been feeling like something's missing."

"Maybe you need a vacation."

"Maybe." She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "Or maybe I need something else."

The air between us felt thick. Charged. I could feel the pull again, that magnetic force that drew me toward her no matter how hard I tried to resist.

"Emilyn," I said.

"Yeah?"

I didn't know what I was going to say. I didn't have words for what I was feeling. I just knew that I couldn't stand here, so close to her, without doing something.

I took a step back.

"I should go back to bed."

"Ethan."

"Goodnight, Emilyn."

I left her standing in the dark kitchen. I could feel her eyes on my back the whole way up the stairs.

The next morning, I woke up early and went for a run.

The town was quiet at six in the morning. The streets were empty, the businesses still closed. I ran past the café where Emilyn worked, past the park where we used to play as kids, past the school where Baileigh and I had gotten detention more times than I could count.

Everything was the same. But I wasn't.

I got back to the house at seven. The kitchen smelled like coffee. My mom was at the stove, making eggs. Emilyn was sitting at the table, a mug in her hands, staring at nothing.

"Morning," I said.

My mom turned. "There you are. I was starting to think you'd run away again."

"Just went for a run."

She handed me a cup of coffee. "Drink. You look like you need it."

I took it. Sat down across from Emilyn. She looked up at me, and for a second, I saw something in her eyes. Something that made my heart stop.

"Good morning," she said.

"Morning."

Neither of us said anything else.

The morning passed in a blur.

I helped my mom with some chores. Fixed a leaky faucet in the bathroom. Mowed the lawn. Did all the things I used to do when I lived here, trying to pretend like I'd never left.

But I couldn't stop thinking about last night. The way Emilyn had looked at me. The way she'd said she felt like something was missing.

I wanted to be that something. God, I wanted it so bad it hurt.

But I couldn't. She was my cousin. It was wrong. It was forbidden. And no matter how much I wanted her, I couldn't cross that line.

At lunch, Baileigh showed up again.

She found me in the backyard, sitting on the porch steps, staring at nothing.

"Still brooding?" she asked.

"Always."

She sat down beside me. "I talked to Emilyn this morning."

I turned to look at her. "What?"

"She called me. Asked if she could talk."

"What did she say?"

"She said she's been feeling strange lately. Restless. Like she's waiting for something."

I felt my stomach drop. "Did she say what?"

"No. But I could guess."

"Baileigh."

"I'm just saying." She held up her hands. "Maybe you're not the only one feeling things."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Or it means everything."

I shook my head. "I can't. You know I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because she's my cousin. Because my family would disown me. Because it's wrong."

"Wrong according to who?"

"According to everyone."

She looked at me. Her eyes were serious. "You only get one life, Ethan. One shot. If you spend it being afraid of what other people think, you're going to miss out on everything that matters."

I didn't have an answer for that.

She stood up. Brushed off her jeans. "Think about it."

She left me sitting on the steps, alone with my thoughts.

That night, I found Emilyn in the back room again.

She was cleaning up from the day's baking, wiping down counters, putting away ingredients. She didn't hear me come in.

I watched her for a long moment. The way she moved. The way she hummed under her breath. The way she looked so completely at home in this space.

"Emilyn."

She turned. Her eyes widened when she saw me. "Ethan. I didn't hear you come in."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't." She set down the towel. "What's up?"

I didn't know what I was going to say until I said it.

"I need to tell you something."

She tilted her head. "Okay."

"I've been feeling something. For a long time. Something I shouldn't feel."

Her expression shifted. I couldn't read it.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." I took a breath. "I mean I have feelings for you. Romantic feelings. And I know it's wrong. I know you're my cousin and I shouldn't feel this way. But I do. And I can't keep pretending I don't."

The silence stretched between us. I could hear my heart beating in my ears.

She didn't say anything for a long time. She just stood there, looking at me, her face unreadable.

Then she crossed the room.

She stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her skin.

"Ethan," she said.

"Yeah?"

"I feel it too."

The words hit me like a wave. I couldn't breathe.

"What?"

"I feel it too. I've been feeling it for months. Maybe longer. I didn't know how to say it. I didn't know if you felt the same."

"Emilyn."

"I know it's wrong. I know we shouldn't. But I don't care."

She reached up and touched my face. Her hand was warm against my cheek.

"I don't care," she said again.

I should have stopped her. I should have stepped back and told her this was a mistake. I should have done the right thing.

But I didn't.

I leaned in and kissed her.

Her lips were soft and warm and tasted like sugar. She made a small sound against my mouth, and I pulled her closer, my hands finding her waist, her hips, pulling her against me.

It was wrong. It was forbidden. It was everything I'd ever wanted.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

"This is crazy," I said.

"I know."

"We can't tell anyone."

"I know."

"Emilyn."

She looked at me. Her eyes were bright, determined.

"I don't care," she said. "I don't care what anyone thinks. I want this. I want you."

I kissed her again. Harder this time. And I let myself fall.

Later, I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of her lips on mine.

I knew this was a mistake. I knew it was going to end badly. I knew there was no future for us, not really.

But for the first time in months, I felt alive.

And that was worth the risk.

Wasn't it?