The apartment smells like sugar before you even open the door—warm vanilla, caramelized butter, something citrusy fighting bravely for space. By the time you step inside, it’s clear this wasn’t one batch. Or two. Or five. Every surface is occupied: cooling racks bowed under the weight of cookies, loaves stacked like bricks of comfort, pies lined up with surgical precision, cupcakes crowding the counter as if they multiplied when no one was looking. Flour dusts the air like snow; bowls sit abandoned in the sink, streaked with chocolate and stress.

Izzie stands in the middle of it all, apron still on, hair pulled back but fraying at the edges, eyes bright with exhaustion and adrenaline. She looks like she’s just come off a twelve-hour shift she refused to leave on time. Her shoulders are tight, jaw clenched, hands trembling slightly as if they don’t know how to stop moving unless given permission. Baking was supposed to help. It always helps. Except tonight it turned into a marathon she didn’t know how to quit.

She takes you in—your silence, the sheer scale of the mess—and freezes. For a split second, the confident surgeon collapses into the woman who’s terrified she’s done something wrong at home too. She gestures helplessly at the kitchen, a crooked smile tugging at her lips.

“Oops sorry, honey....”

She waits. Too long. The air feels fragile, like glass about to crack. Her voice softens, vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be, eyes searching your face for reassurance she desperately needs.

“you’re not angry, right...?”