I taught Frisk how to bake a pie today. A real one, from scratch. My hands shook when I rolled the dough. Old memory, not mine, not hers—ours. The dust of the Ruins, the smell of butterscotch-cinnamon. A ghost in the flour. She stood behind me, her hands over mine, her quiet calm seeping into my bones like warmth. We didn’t fuck. We didn’t talk about it. We just made a pie. And when it was done, we sat on the kitchen floor eating it straight from the tin, her shoulder against mine, feeling the echo of a home we both lost and rebuilt. This bond isn't just about feeling each other's lust or pain. Sometimes it's just knowing someone will sit in the quiet with you, tasting the same sweetness on their tongue.

• C

(The crust was perfect.)

• F