Baking was always accompanied by a nice warm feeling in his chest.

Frankie didn't know how to describe it, something warm and comforting? Something nostalgic? But when he thought about it now, it was like Ezra. Milder but very similar.

Frankie didn't need comfort, he was already in quite a good mood, so that wasn't why he decided to bake something right after waking up from his evening nap. He was baking because he was in a good mood, and that, was rare.

Muffins, chocolatey ones. That's what Frankie decided on, he'd never made them before but the recipe he followed looked quite nice. It was on an obscure website but had decent views and high ratings. It wasn't the best one he'd seen but it was the one he liked most. The recipe started with a passage from the author, talking about their love for baking. The other ones he'd found talked about how they made the muffins with their mothers or for their fathers.

He worked with the batter, it was thicker than a cupcake. Shiny, a glossy dark brown, and decadent. His mouth watered as he poured them into the liners and then popped them into the pre-heated oven. They were gonna be in there for a while and the thoughts of how the house would smell of chocolate made him all too happy.

Frankie turned his attention to the clean counters, there was nothing like having clean counters after having cooked—they always reminded him of Grandma.

Cynthia Stahl, Maiden name Cynthia Leighmann. She always liked to introduce herself like that.

When she was alive, she looked like any other old person. Thinning white hairs, glossed-over eyes, and thin skin freckled skin— She'd been thin, scarily so, and yet, was never not on a diet. Cynthia had eyes that looked softly on Cedric and Foster but rarely cast that same look on Frankie and never held anything but contempt for Pheobe.

Even though Phoebe made sure to show the best sides of herself to her mother-in-law, sides she hadn't shown her husband nor her children, Cynthia hadn't cared for it much. She either saw through the bullshit or simply disliked the woman that had taken her son away from her.

There was only one place that Cynthia ever looked kindly on Frankie, the kitchen. Foster and Cedric were banned from the kitchen as long as Cynthia was around, she thought it was improper for the men in the family to even step foot in the kitchen— let alone cook. You could imagine her displeasure when Foster started making his own lunches, he argued that putting together a turkey sandwich wasn't cooking and while she didn't agree with it she was getting too sick to do anything about it.

But she let Frankie in the kitchen and he didn't care about the implications of that as long as he got to be around her. As long as he finally got something that Foster didn't have.

Cynthia taught him things she couldn't give to the daughter she never had nor could she give her 'bitch of a daughter-in-law' her words and Frankie agreed with them.

If she had to give them to someone and it had to be someone in her family, the weird grandchild she never really liked would do.

So it was always just the two of them.

There were a lot of odd dishes that would never see the light of day after she died—alot of Jelly and Frankie didn't like that stuff at all. She taught him Cedric and Foster's favourites, and she taught him a bunch of her favourites. They even made up their own dishes, Jellied Spam. She said they'd make it into a cookbook—they didn't.

Cynthia was nicer to him then, so much so he wondered if it was the heat of the oven that made Grandma so warm. That by some strange miracle the heat shed her of her cold indifference and brought about a much softer recognition.

She could never love him like she did Cedric- her only living child, nor Foster who looked the spitting image of Cedric. She could only give the scraps of her love but Frankie was not picky.

He was content with what he had then Phoebe had to ruin it.

The front door opened and Frankie jumped.

Foster was in his bedroom for sure, sleeping at this time of night. He had practise tomorrow morning and there was nothing he took more seriously than getting enough sleep before it.

Frankie doubted a robber would have a key to his front door and no one else had a spare key— Cynthia was cold in her grave.

So it was Cedric, no matter how much he wished it wasn't.

Frankie grabbed a sponge and began washing dishes that were already sparkling.

The last time he'd seen the man they'd argued but it wouldn't make much difference to how they normally interacted. If they ever spoke more than 20 words to each other it couldn't be anything but an argument.

Every step the man took towards the kitchen made Frankie's skin crawl, and his stomach turn. An awkward conversation was to come.

His steps halted at the doorway to the kitchen. He probably thought it was Foster in the kitchen—even though he would be asleep—if he knew it was Frankie there, he might have avoided him altogether.

"Oh" Cedric spoke out, "...You're normally in your room at this time."

Cedric wore scrubs, light blue ones. A thick black jacket was over them and he wore shoes just as dark. His hair was cut short unlike the mess that was Foster's hair.

When their hair was the same it was hard to tell the difference between them. They had the same frame and face- Cedric was only 33, having become a father young so he didn't look much older than Foster. Foster was shorter by just an inch but you couldn't tell unless they weren't standing right next to each other.

"Yeah," Frankie replied.

Cedric walked slowly towards Frankie, stopping at the counter just a sink away from him. He held up a bag in his hands."I bought some fruit."

They were probably oranges, Foster's Favourite, Frankie didn't like those much.

"That's nice."

He set down the blue plastic bag and the fruits hit the counter harshly. Cedric winced and tried to rectify whatever damage he'd done to the fruits even though you couldn't undamage a piece of fruit. He opened the bag and inspected then while frowning, he sighed and then he turned to Frankie.

"I'm home early, again, they didn't need me," Cedric said, "Still got paid the full amount...so...was wondering if you two wanted anything. Pizza?"

"I don't like Pizza," Frankie said.

"I thought you did."

Frankie did like pizza, but only Neapolitan. He didn't like the heaviness of the pizza places that Cedric and Foster liked eating at. But he rarely ate Neapolitan; they didn't deliver, and Foster and Cedric didn't like it.

"Anything else then?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Sure...?"

"Yes."

Cedric said "Goodnight" before leaving the kitchen and walking upstairs.

When he left, Frankie felt like he could breathe again. The odd heaviness in his chest was gone and his restlessness disappeared.

He looked down at his hands and realised he'd been scrubbing the same plate since Cedric walked in. Washing it off and setting it down, he wanted to grab his phone and check the timer for the muffins—then the blue bag caught his eye.

Frankie mulled it over for a moment but grabbed the bag impulsively.

He didn't like oranges much but they'd do for his spontaneous fruit craving. He dipped his hand into the bag and frowned when he touched something that felt nothing like an orange.

He pulled the thing out of the bag and into his line of sight.

It was round-ish, smooth, and green.

A pear?