Ronan's POV
The kitchen staff looked at me like I'd grown a second head when I ordered them all out. I didn't care. This was something I needed to do myself. My hands trembled slightly as I gathered the ingredients: flour, sugar, eggs, butter, chocolate chips. All for a batch of cookies that meant more than anyone could understand.
Except her.
Seraphina used to love my chocolate chip cookies. Back then, before everything went to hell, I'd bake them for her every week. Even my first attempts—those burnt, misshapen lumps—made her eyes light up. She'd take small, careful bites, savoring each one like it was some gourmet delicacy instead of the disaster it actually was.
"You'll get better with practice," she'd told me once, crumbs on her lips and unwavering faith in her eyes.
And I had gotten better. For her.
