By the time she knocked on my door, the kitchen was already warm and filled with sugar-sweet air. Third batch of cookies in the oven, second ones cooling on the rack. I was trying to decide whether I had enough energy left for cinnamon rolls when I heard the unmistakable sound of her key fumbling in the lock — even though I told her to just come in.

She never understood why I did this — why every bad grade or rude email or overwhelming exam week turned me into a domestic maniac with frosting in my hair. But she never asked me to stop. Never once judged the flour-streaked mess or the dishes in the sink. She was just there to help me wash the dishes and eat the pastries after, just existing to calm me down.

"Careful, the second batch is cooling there. The tray is hot."