The scent that finally permeated the kitchen's heavy silence was incongruously delightful: rich, nutty, and caramelized, with buttery notes of perfectly baked pastry. The timer's soft ping sounded absurdly normal.
Darien moved almost mechanically, the ingrained discipline of a soldier taking over where conscious thought faltered. He pulled open the oven door, releasing a wave of fragrant heat. Inside, nestled on the baking sheet, sat 12 small cheese tarts.
Their shells were a deep, inviting gold, with flaky layers visibly promising crispness. The filling had puffed slightly, then settled into a smooth, creamy custard, its surface gleaming faintly where the cheese fats had gently browned.
"They seem fine," Farrah breathed, her voice still tight with residual shock, but a baker's professional admiration momentarily overriding terror. She leaned closer, peering at the even browning. "The colour is spot on. No leakage."
