Ryan Bennett had always believed in control. Control over his time. Control over his body. Control over his life.
Everything was measured, efficient, and on schedule. Sleep was sleep, meals were fuel, and nights were for resting, not wandering in his own apartment like a restless teenager. But tonight was different.
He had gone to bed at eleven sharp, after a long day of endless meetings, phone calls, and reviewing files. His body was sore, his eyes heavy. By all accounts, he should have been asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. Except he wasn't.
By midnight, Ryan was still awake, staring at the ceiling. By one o'clock, the sheets were tangled around him, his jaw clenched in frustration. The clock ticked mockingly on his nightstand.
He muttered into the darkness, "Why can't I sleep?"
The silence didn't answer back, but his mind did—dragging up her voice, unbidden, unwanted… yet impossible to shake.
"Pancakes help with that, you know. Midnight carbs, instant happiness, sweet dreams guaranteed."
He shut his eyes tight, but the memory played on. Maya, sitting cross-legged on her café counter, grinning with a spatula in one hand and a plate of steaming pancakes in the other. Her words were teasing, her tone playful.
She always said ridiculous things like that. Things he dismissed at the time. But right now, at one in the morning, alone in his penthouse apartment, Ryan Bennett—the man who prided himself on never letting nonsense control him was seriously considering it.
"Pancakes," he whispered to himself, as if the word itself might summon sleep.
The idea was absurd. He, in his pristine kitchen, is making pancakes at this hour? He almost laughed at the thought. Almost. But exhaustion mixed with desperation made him reckless.
And so, for the first time in his life, Ryan Bennett slipped out of bed at 1:05 AM and headed to the kitchen.
The lights flicked on, gleaming against the spotless marble counters. Everything was in order, just as he kept it. Organized. Sterile. Lifeless.
He opened the fridge, pulling out eggs, milk, and butter. From the pantry, flour and sugar. He lined them up neatly on the counter, as though preparing for a corporate presentation.
He stared at the ingredients. By 1:20, Ryan Bennett was cracking eggs and whisking milk with flour, looking like a man committing treason against his own personality.
And then it hit him. Music. She had music. Always. She once told him, "A pancake without a song is like coffee without sugar."
So he reached for his phone, hesitating. He didn't remember exactly what song she played that night in the café, but something about Romeo? He typed into YouTube with clumsy fingers: Romeo something pancakes?
Of course, Google judged him. But one link stood out. He clicked. And suddenly, Taylor Swift's voice filled the kitchen.
"We were both young when I first saw you…"
Ryan stiffened. This… wasn't what he expected. But the melody slipped under his skin, soft and nostalgic. Against his will, his lips curved.
"Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone…"
"Yeah," Ryan muttered, flipping the pancake awkwardly, "this must be it."
The ridiculousness of it all almost broke him. Ryan Bennett, the untouchable man, was standing barefoot in his designer kitchen at 1:30 AM, making pancakes while Taylor Swift sang about fairy-tale romance in the background. If anyone saw this, his reputation would be ruined forever. And yet—he didn't stop.
By 1:45, the first pancake landed on his plate. Golden, fluffy, almost professional-looking. He blinked at it, suspicious.
"Not bad," he muttered, pouring syrup over it.
Knife and fork in hand, he sat down at the dining table. The empty penthouse felt strangely full with the faint music still playing, echoing against the walls.
He cut a bite, brought it to his lips, and chewed. His eyes widened.
"…Huh. Tastes good."
Really good, actually. Better than he expected. Maybe better than hers. Ryan smirked to himself, but the smile faded as quickly as it came. Because even as he ate, even as the sweetness lingered on his tongue, all he could think about was her.
Her laughter. Her stubbornness. Her way of making ordinary things, pancakes, songs, and late-night conversations feel like tiny revolutions. She'd laugh if she saw me now. The thought made his chest tighten.
He took another bite, staring at the empty chair across from him. The food was good, but it wasn't the same. Not without her ridiculous commentary, her jokes, her sunshine filling the space.
For the first time, Ryan Bennett realized it wasn't the pancakes that helped her sleep. It was the comfort of not being alone while eating them.
And here he was, at 2 AM, alone with a plate of perfect pancakes that still couldn't fill the hollow inside him.
Ryan sat at the dining table, a plate of pancakes in front of him, the faint glow of the kitchen light illuminating his tired face. The song played low, but in the silence of the night, it carried further than he realized.
On the other side of the wall, Maya was in her own world. She had just finished rinsing off her face mask, patting her skin dry with slow, deliberate care. Her room smelled faintly of rose water and lavender. Nights were sacred to her skincare routine, journaling, and sometimes reading until her eyelids grew heavy. Maya paused in her skincare routine. Her hand, holding a bottle of toner, froze in midair as she listened. A song?
She frowned, tilting her head. It wasn't just any song—it was that song. The one she once teased him about.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. Of all people… Ryan Bennett. Playing music this late at night, and that too after the way he used to treat her whenever she did something similar. Her anger, already simmering since their last confrontation, bubbled up again. This wasn't just music. This was hypocrisy. Slamming the toner bottle on her dresser, she stormed toward the door.
Ryan was just cutting into his pancake when the knock came. His fork clattered against the plate. His shoulders tensed. Another knock. He stood, every movement stiff, and opened the door.
Maya stood there. Her arms were crossed tightly, her eyes sharp, her jaw set. No smile, no amusement. Just anger simmering under her cold expression.
Ryan blinked. "Maya…"
Her voice cut through him like a blade. "Do you usually blast songs at two in the morning, Bennett?"
He shifted awkwardly. "I… It's not blasting."
"Don't," she snapped, her tone cold. "Don't try to play it down. You know exactly how loud it is. The whole corridor can hear it."
Ryan swallowed, guilt prickling. "I didn't realize—"
"Oh, spare me," Maya said, her voice rising a fraction. "You didn't realize? You used to complain whenever I so much as hummed along to my playlist. You used to glare, as if I were some nuisance. And now here you are at two in the morning playing music like the rules don't apply to you."
He winced. There was no way to defend himself. She stepped closer, lowering her voice, but the coldness in it made his stomach twist. "You think you can walk around acting like nothing touches you. That you're always right. That you can treat me however you want. But the moment you decide to break your own rules—it's suddenly okay?"
"Maya,it's not like that—" he tried.
"It is exactly like that," she snapped, her anger sharp and precise. "You never cared when you hurt me with your words, or when you ignored me like I didn't exist. And now you expect me to just… laugh this off? Pretend it's funny that Ryan Bennett is playing love songs at two in the morning?"
His throat tightened. He had never seen her like this—angry, but not shouting wildly. Cold. Controlled. Deadly in her calmness.
"Maya…" His voice dropped, uncertain, almost pleading. "I wasn't trying to—"
She cut him off again. "You don't get it, do you? I don't care why you're doing this. I don't care if it's pancakes, or Taylor Swift, or midnight concerts. What I care about is that you treated me like I was wrong for doing the same things. And now you're standing there, caught in the act, with no explanation."
Her words hit harder than he expected. He couldn't even look her in the eyes. His chest felt heavy, the shame burning through him.
Maya shook her head, taking a step back. "You can enjoy your pancakes, Bennett. Just try not to choke on your own hypocrisy."
And with that, she turned, her footsteps echoing down the hall. Ryan stood frozen in the doorway, his jaw tight, his fists clenching at his sides.
Behind him, the song still played.
"…I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress…"
He closed the door slowly, leaning his forehead against it. His chest rose and fell heavily, the weight of her words pressing down on him. For the first time, Ryan Bennett had no icy remark, no cold defense, no shield. Only silence.