The Great Laundry Flood of Tuesday night had left a tangible chill in the hallway, or at least, Sienna told herself that's why the air felt different. For two days, she'd perfected the art of strategic avoidance. She timed her exits by his class schedule, listened for his door before leaving her apartment, and kept her earbuds firmly in place whenever she was in shared spaces. It was exhausting.
On Thursday afternoon, her defenses were down. She was sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by open art history textbooks and a half-finished essay on Neoclassical influences, when a knock sounded at the door.
Tasha, who was painting her nails a violent shade of purple on the couch, looked up. "Pizza?" she asked hopefully.
"We didn't order pizza," Sienna whispered, herbody tensing. She knew that knock. It was firmer, more confident than a delivery driver's.
"Maybe it's a surprise pizza! A shirtless, pizza-bearing surprise?" Tasha wiggled her eyebrows.
Sienna shot her a withering look and crept to the door, peering through the peephole. Confirmed. Jace Rivera stood in the hallway, holding a small, white pastry box. He wasn't shirtless, thankfully. He wore a faded Titans basketball hoodie, and he looked… uncharacteristically unsure.
She considered not answering. She could just slide down to the floor and wait him out. But he knocked again, a little softer this time.
"I know you're in there, Cole. I can hear your music." A slight pause. "Bach's Cello Suite No. 1, right?"
Her jaw dropped. She ripped the door open. "How do you know that?"body tensing. She knew that knock. It was firmer, more confident than a delivery driver's.
"Maybe it's a surprise pizza! A shirtless, pizza-bearing surprise?" Tasha wiggled her eyebrows.
Sienna shot her a withering look and crept to the door, peering through the peephole. Confirmed. Jace Rivera stood in the hallway, holding a small, white pastry box. He wasn't shirtless, thankfully. He wore a faded Titans basketball hoodie, and he looked… uncharacteristically unsure.
She considered not answering. She could just slide down to the floor and wait him out. But he knocked again, a little softer this time.
"I know you're in there, Cole. I can hear your music." A slight pause. "Bach's Cello Suite No. 1, right?"
Her jaw dropped. She ripped the door open. "How do you know that?"He looked unfairly pleased with himself. "What, you think jocks can't appreciate classical? My mom's a music teacher. It was the soundtrack to my entire childhood." He held up the box. "Truce offering."
She eyed the box with deep suspicion. "What is it?"
"Open it and see." He thrust it toward her.
Hesitantly, she took it. Lifting the lid, she found a dozen perfectly iced sugar cookies, each decorated like a little piece of laundry: a sock, a t-shirt, and even a bubble.
Tasha, who had crept up behind her, let out a gasp. "Oh my god. Is that a soap suds cookie? That's the most adorable apology I've ever seen."
Sienna stared at the cookies, a war raging inside her. It was a ridiculously thoughtful, ridiculously charming gesture. It was also a blatant tactical maneuver.
"I come in peace," he said, his hands shoved in his pockets. "Look, I'm sorry about the other night. The music, the jump rope… I can be a little oblivious. And I'm sorry for the 'princess' thing. It was condescending."
Sienna's carefully constructed wall of annoyance developed a significant crack. He was apologizing. Sincerely. And he'd brought cookies that referenced their shared, bubble-filledmoment.
"You weren't entirely wrong about the machine," she admitted quietly, not looking at him. "It is… temperamental."
"See? Common ground." He grinned, and this time it wasn't smug, it was… hopeful. "So? Truce?"
Tasha nudged her hard in the ribs. "Say yes, you stubborn artifact. The man brought you artisanal shame cookies."
Sienna looked from the cookies to his face. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a boyish earnestness that was far more dangerous. She could hold her ground, refuse the peace offering, and maintain the cold war. Or she could take the cookie.
Her stomach, deprived of real food in favor of academic panic, growled loudly.
The corner of Jace's mouth twitched."Fine," she said, her voice tight. "Truce. But the next time your music is on after eleven, these cookies become a weapon."
"Duly noted." He gave a little salute, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Enjoy, Cole."
He turned and walked back to his apartment, the swagger back in his step. Sienna closed the door slowly, leaning against it, the cookie box held tightly in her hands.
Tasha was already prying the lid open again. "Okay, we need to analyze this. This is a multi-layered gesture. It's an apology, it's a callback to an inside joke, it shows he listens, he remembered the laundry! and it demonstrates a willingness to be vulnerable. This is advanced-level flirting."
"It's a peace offering," Sienna corrected, though her protest sounded weak even to her own ears.
"Peace offering, my ass. This is a declaration ofwar on your resolve. And it's working." Tasha held up the bubble cookie. "You're smiling."
"I am not."
"You are! It's a tiny, repressed, 'I-hate-that-I-find-this-charming' smile, but it's there." Tasha took a triumphant bite of the t-shirt cookie. "He's breaking down the walls, brick by sugary brick."
"They are good cookies," Sienna admitted, finally picking up the bubble-shaped one. It was almost too detailed to eat.
"Good? They're phenomenal. Where'd he even get these? The bakery downtown? That's a solid twenty-minute drive." Tasha pointed her half-eaten cookie at Sienna. "He didn't just grab these. He planned this."
The thought sent a strange flutter through Sienna's chest. He'd not only remembered their laundry room disaster, but he'd gone out of his way to findthese specific cookies. That was… a lot.
"So," Tasha pressed, "what are you going to do now that the truce is officially in effect?"
Sienna looked down at the cookie in her hand. "I have no idea."
She brought it to her lips and took a small bite. It was sweet, buttery, and absolutely delicious.
A traitorous thought, as soft and insidious as the cookie melting on her tongue, whispered that maybe, just maybe, a truce could be the start of something far more interesting than war.