Dally's Diner
 

eventually add something here.

Everett never wanted the reason for his move back home be because of his oldest brother's death, but here he was. Dallas left his pride and joy, Dally's Diner, to Everett. He planned to make his brother proud. Yet, their oldest brother, Phillip, who had felt like he was the most deserving, wasn't the happiest about Dally's dying wish.

The last week or so had been a bit of a blur. If it hadn't been for Vaughn, Everett wasn't sure if he'd been able to get through it. So many people had been reaching out to him and saying their condolences that it was becoming a bit overwhelming. All he wanted to do was hide away until all of this was over, but he knew he couldn't do that. Everett knew he needed to be vital to his family.

It was closing time. The cook had already done his duties, so Everett let him go early. He was wiping down the tables when the doorbell rang, singling someone had walked in. "I'm sorry, but we're..." He turned and broke midsentence, "closed." Everett finished a bit softer. He wasn't sure what to make of Soleil standing in front of him right now. They'd been amicable around each other at the memorial service and funeral. Still, he never thought she would show up at the diner.

Everett was confused. "What are you doing here?" He didn't mean it in any way other than how it sounded. They hadn't spoken in over a decade until last week, and as Vaughn said, Soleil should hate him. Everett started walking towards her, slightly brushing past her to lock the door behind her. She still smelled as unique as he remembered. Everett smiled to himself. "So, ah," he nervously began. "You can have a seat if you want?" He invited with a gesture towards one of the empty booths. "You thirsty? Hungry?" Everett wasn't as slick and sly as his best friend, Vaughn. He wished. Everett still got nervous and had a hell of a time hiding it. It also didn't help that Soleil knew all this too.

Soleil had been a wreck ever since she found out that Dallas had left the diner to Everett. As much as she liked to think that she was over Ev, she was starting to wonder if that was true. When he broke up with her by fleeing to NYC, she was heartbroken. Then, she was pissed. He was her first love, and she had their whole life planned out in her head but that all came crumbling down when he left. She spent plenty of time daydreaming up ways that she could get back at him and make him hurt in the way he had hurt her but with time that faded, and she started to move on. She found a charming, handsome, well-off guy to spoil her but now that Everett was back all sorts of old feelings were stirring inside of her.

That was why she found herself walking inside Dally's Diner after closing time. She needed to talk to him, one on one. She needed closure. She needed to know why. Soleil flashed a small, slightly anxious, smile at him when he turned to see that she wasn't some random person walking in off the street. "Hi. Sorry for showing up unannounced, I just happened to be nearby and thought I'd pop in." Her smile dimmed as she looked around the diner. This was the first time she'd been here since Dallas died. It felt weird being here knowing that he wasn't. She could only imagine how Everett was feeling right now... maybe their conversation could wait, maybe what he needed more right now was a friend. Yeah, he had Vaughn, but he was more of a friend that potentially made your problems worse rather than better.

The little jolt of butterflies she felt from Everett brushing past her was enough to snap her out of her solemn mood. "Thanks," she glanced at the worn in booths before back at him. "Yeah... I could eat. But you don't get to have all the fun. I'll help." A slightly more confident smile graced her face this time as she winked at him and strolled into the kitchen. "Alright chef, what's the special for today?" she asked playfully once he joined her in the kitchen. Watching as he stumbled on his words and found her an apron, she couldn't help but be reminded of why she first fell for him in the first place. There was something so cute about the way that he got all nervous and shy.

"Umm... what? Eggplant... fries." Soleil raised an eyebrow as she questioned Everett's sanity in this moment. "Are potatoes banned in New York or something? You gotta be yankin' my chain." She was having a hard time believing him when he assured her that he was serious. "Well then. Eggplant fries it is, I guess." She tied her apron around her waist and went to wash her hands in the sink as he set up a station for her.

Everett didn’t date much while in New York. There were a few girlfriends here and there, but he always found something wrong with them and often broke things off only a few months in. Honestly, the only reason why his relationships didn’t work was that they weren’t Soleil Hawthorne. It was that simple. Everett was never going to admit that, though. He tried to forget her, but nothing he did could make him forget his first love. Ev constantly played their last days in his head, even after all these years, and he knew how much of an asshole he had been to her. If he could take it back, he would.

Everett had been selfish, stupid, and naive when he up and left Chicago in the middle of the night. Only Vaughn knew where he was because he had been the one to drive Everett to the train station. He left because he was still being blamed for their friend's death even after it’d been classified as an accident.

“You were just nearby?” Everett didn’t entirely believe that but decided to go with it anyway and not press the issue. He hadn’t thought she’d agree to have something to eat, so he was taken back and put on the spot when she asked what they were making. Everett didn’t fucking know, so he spat out the first thing that came to his mind, “We can make my eggplant fries. Super quick and easy.”

Everett playfully gasped at her reaction to his idea of eggplant fries. “What? But they’re so good! You’re missing out! That’s all I’m going to say.” He handed Soleil an apron before finding his own. “Potatoes are still very much a thing, but not so much for the bougie clients I once cooked for,” Everett explained. “If I were to take you to the North Side right now, there would be a handful of fancy restaurants serving a similar dish,” Everett informed her with a grin.

He slipped his apron over his head before pulling out one of his air fryers, sitting it on the counter, and plugging it into the wall. When he initially moved to New York City, becoming a chef wasn’t even on his radar. He just needed a job and got hired as a bus boy at a random restaurant on the upper east side. Everett slowly moved up the ranks before catching the eye of the owner and chef, who eventually took him under their wing and taught him everything they knew. They believed in him so much that they even put him through culinary school when they thought he was ready. Even though he had to lose Soleil in the process, his life turned out better than he could imagine.

After setting up their area, Everett grabbed two nice-sized eggplants and two knives. “You know how to chop? I don't want to rush you to the emergency room tonight because you went ahead and chopped off a finger, okay?” He teased, sitting down the knives and carefully pushing one towards her. “And your eggplant,” he held it out for her with a grin.

He, of course, always asked about Soleil when he talked to his mother, and sometimes she even willingly gave up information. The last thing he heard was that Soleil had a serious boyfriend who she was head over heels for, which made right now even more confusing. As much as he wanted to ask, Everett refrained from questioning his ex-girlfriend about her current boyfriend. That was going to open a can of worms he wasn’t emotionally ready for.

Soleil may have looked like she belonged at the type of restaurants that served eggplant fires but deep down she would always be a south side girl. Her boyfriend, Lucas, loved taking her to those hoity toity places and showing her off. That's not to say that she didn't enjoy the food and attention when she was there. She loved getting all dolled up and being wined & dined, it just wasn't necessary to keep her happy. Luke took good care of her and treated her right, and even if he could be a little boring and predictable at times, that was safe for her. She didn't have to worry about him leaving vanishing in the middle of the night.

The man standing before her clearly wasn't the same man that left many years prior. Or else he wouldn't be having them making such a yuppie dish right now. And if she didn't really know him anymore, that meant he didn't know her anymore. Did he think that she was like his bougie clientele? Did he think she needed fancy restaurant food to be happy or impressed? Did he even still think about her and what they once had? Why was she the one worried about what he thought about her? She couldn't help it. She'd been overthinking everything since he'd come back.

"Hah. Hah. I'll be fine." Soleil responded, remembering the time that she had almost chopped a finger off during a game of knives. That was the last time she ever played that stupid game. She reciprocated his grin with her own as she turned to him to take the eggplant. "Thanks." Their fingers barely touched in the exchange but it was enough to send chills up her arm, even on a hot summer night like tonight. Of course, it wasn't like she could do anything about it so Soleil did her best to ignore it and maintain her calm demeanor. They were just two friends making a meal together. Simple as that. Any feeling she was having for him were just flashbacks of the past. At least, that's what she was going to convince herself.

"You haven't been serving this to the patrons, right?" She half joked. Yeah, Dally's menu could use some refreshing but she honestly couldn't picture eggplant fries being a popular dish here. The regulars didn't come here for fancy dishes, they came here for the greasy comfort foods. She picked up the knife and went to work on her eggplant, occasionally glancing over at Everett to make sure she was doing it right. He made it look effortless, it was really rather impressive. She even set her knife down for a moment to just admire his skills, it was during this moment that she remembered a menu item that could use his expert touch. "Please tell me that you have improved the pasta sauce!?" She turned to him and her hand subconsciously grabbed onto his arm. Whenever Ev would visit before, they would be awkward or keep their distance from each other. The one thing they could always come together for was teasing Dallas about his pasta sauce.

Ev chuckled, “No, and I probably won't.” Eggplant fries were not something Southsiders would want to see on Dally’s menu. “I think I just wanted to be a bit fancy for you,” he admitted casually with a shrug.

He quickly went silent when Soleil brought up his brother. It still hurt. The only person he’d talked about Dallas with was Vaughn, and he ended up a blubbering mess afterward. The alcohol and drugs probably didn’t help the matter either. Everett still felt guilty for not being there for Dallas and his family when they needed him the most. He was there now, though, and he planned on making up for everything. Everett also hoped to fix things with Soleil. He understood that she was in a relationship, and as much as he wanted to respect that, he had a hard time ignoring the feelings that rushed over him whenever he was in the presence of Soleil.

Everett didn’t look at her. Instead, he focused on chopping his eggplant into slices. “I didn’t plan on it,” Everett finally said, holding back his tears. “Phil would throw an even bigger fit than he already has if I came in and started changing shit,” Everett admitted. Eventually, he controlled his emotions and could talk without feeling a knot in his throat. “Besides, I promised everyone I wouldn't change anything.” He hadn't wanted to ruin their vibe, but it was too soon to make jokes.

Once he finished slicing the eggplant, he sat the knife down, and went to gather all the seasonings he needed. “When you’re done can you grab the mayonnaise, Dijon mustard and three eggs from the fridge, please?”

So, he was trying to impress her. Not that it mattered much once she found a way to put her foot in her mouth. Soleil often forgot that not everyone dealt with grief in the same way as she did. When her mother died, leaving her eccentric father to raise her, they laughed their way thru the pain. They definitely cried and grieved in more traditional ways, but joking was their way of keeping the spirit of their loved one dead alive. Was it the healthiest way to cope, maybe not but it worked for them. Clearly, it didn't work for Everett.

Soleil awkwardly retracted her hand from his arm and clasped it with her other hand for a moment. She rested her nose and mouth on her knuckles and looked down at the floor in shame for a moment. Lifting her head and letting her hands drop she turned away from him and back to her eggplant and picked up the knife again. "Yeah. I'm sorry. That totally makes sense," she muttered, her voice no longer as playful, as she cautiously chopped the purple vegetable to down to resemble fries. 'Soleil, you're an idiot.'

"Yeah. Mayo, Dijon, and three eggs. Coming up." Soleil finished up her last few slices and made her way over to the fridge. Tapping her finger on the door as she scanned the fridge for what he'd asked for, it didn't take her long to gather it up considering how organized the fridge actually was. Once she laid them all out for him, she started untying her apron. "I just need to use the ladies' room really quick, is that okay?" Taking her apron the rest of the way off once he gave her a nod, she hung it up as she thanked him and made her way to the bathroom.

Once she reached it, she softly closed the door with her back as she leaned into it and let out a deep sigh. "Get your shit together." she told herself as she glanced in the mirror. There was a part of her that was convinced that the reason Everett left in the first place was because of her. Because she'd done or said something stupid that made him flee. Soleil never had the courage to actually ask him. She always found a way to talk herself out of it, like tonight when she convinced herself that he needed a friend but then she didn't even hold up that end of the bargain by making that inappropriate joke.

Straightening up and shaking the bad thoughts away, she waited a few moments before flushing the toilet to make it more believable that she went in there for that. Then she washed her hands again and returned back to the kitchen where she found Ev adding the eggplants to the fryer. "Thanks again." Figuring she could help clean up while he did that, that was exactly what she did. After a few moments of silence, neither of them really sure what to say, she finally spoke up. "Hey, I'm genuinely sorry." She wasn't only talking about what she was said, she was sorry that he even had to know what it felt like to lose a brother.

“It’s okay, Sol. You didn’t know,” he reassured her after she apologized. Everett could tell in the tone of her face that she felt some way; he just wasn’t sure. “It’s just a sensitive topic right now for me,” he explained. Everett hoped the conversation about his brother was over.

Soleil excused herself to go to the bathroom, and Everett felt relieved because it meant there would be a few minutes where he wouldn't feel pressured to put on a happy face and pretend to be in a good mood.

While Soleil was in the bathroom, Everett took it upon himself to continue. Once he had all his slices, he began dunking them in the melted butter and rolling them in the flour. Cooking was second nature to him, especially this receipt. So, by the time Soleil returned, Everett was preparing to drop them in the fryer.

There was an awkward vibe. Everett may have been oblivious to most things, but not this. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't. For some reason, Ev physically couldn't speak to her right now. He felt like he was going to burst into tears. Then she apologized again, and Everett couldn't stop himself.

He stopped what he was doing to turn around and look at her, “Stop it, Soleil. I said it’s okay; it’s fucking okay!” Everett didn’t mean to snap, and as soon as he did, he wanted to take it back. “Fuck!” He yelled, aggressively pulling the dishtowel off his shoulder and throwing it before sighing heavily, turning and resting back against one of many metal counters. He covered his face with his hands, crying into them, completely loathing himself. Everett wished he could control his emotions better, but he was so overwhelmed with his life that the only things he could do were cry or get fucked up, and unfortunately, Vaughn wasn't currently there. So, crying it was.

After a few seconds, he remembered that Soleil was still with him. He quickly tried to compose himself the best he could, “You should probably go,” Everett told Soliel without looking at her. Instead, he focused on a broken tile on the floor.

Soleil was taken aback by Everett's reaction at first. The thing was... it was completely valid. She had completely fucked up the whole mood with her crassness, but she'd already told herself she was here as a friend - to cheer him up - and she still intended on doing just that. Or at the very least, she was determined to try. Sol's hands covered her mouth as she stared at him in silence for a few moments. The symphony of city sounds outside still made their way into the restaurant, yet the kitchen felt unnaturally quiet as she listened to his soft sobs. Soleil wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him as he cried, but she was frozen in her tracks.

Finally, when he spoke up, her legs decided to cooperate, and she made her way over to him. "I'm not going anywhere." She spoke barely above a whisper as she finally wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in for the hug that she should have given him long ago. It wasn't surprising when he tensed up and left his arms by his sides, but she refused to let go. Soleil figured that if he wanted her to stop, he certainly had the ability to pull her off of himself, yet he hadn't. After a few moments though, she felt his arms wrap around her and hug her back. Honestly, it felt nice hugging him. Like, really nice. But Soleil reminded herself of her boyfriend and finally pulled away.

"Hey," she started as she brushed away some straggler tears on his cheeks with her thumb. "I'll go if you still want me to, but I gotta admit, I'm looking forward to those eggplant fries... and, that's not something I ever thought I'd say." Soleil flashed him her cheesiest grin, hoping to get even just a small smile from him and luckily enough, it worked. Feeling a sense of relief wash over her, she felt more confident that they could go back to having a good evening. They made some small chat to further ease the tension as they waited for the fries to finish. He told her about some crazy customer he'd had earlier that day, and she told him all about her new job. When the food was ready, he dished them up while she grabbed them a couple of beers.

Sitting down in the booth she'd left her purse at when they went into the kitchen, she sat across from him and looked down at the plate in front of her before glancing back up at him. He had this adorably excited look in his eye as he waited for her to test out her first eggplant fry. Dipping one in the sauce, she examined it for a moment before taking a bite. Sol's eyes widened as she nodded in approval and gave him a thumbs up with her free hand. Once she swallowed her bite, she spoke up. "Alright, you're right. These are delicious."

The salt-washed air clung to her skin as Soleil stepped out of her car, dusk bleeding gold and lavender across the sky. The Pacific murmured somewhere nearby, its breath steady and indifferent, a far cry from the storm still circling inside her. The breeze carried that familiar blend of sea mist, oil from the boardwalk stands, and old vinyl seats left out too long in the sun. It wrapped around her like memory.

Dally’s looked the same.
Cracked neon flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to burn out or keep going. A few silhouettes still dotted the window booths, their laughter faint behind the glass, mellowed by the hour. Inside, the world was a low hum—clinking utensils, the hiss of the fryer, the soft spin of an old record curling out of the jukebox near the corner. She stood on the sidewalk for a beat too long, letting herself soak it in.

Letting herself remember.

Her heels clicked softly against the worn tile when she finally stepped inside. Not the kind she usually wore—sleek, black, minimal—but something with a stacked wood heel and a slightly scuffed toe, just broken-in enough to betray how long they’d been hers. Her wide-legged ivory trousers fell just to the ankle, paired with a loose silk blouse in a faded rust tone—something with movement, with soul. A thin gold chain hung at her throat. Her makeup had worn soft through the day, her hair pinned half-up in a way that felt less curated and more instinctual. Not a statement piece. Not a costume.

Just Soleil.

He noticed her instantly.

Everett was behind the counter, sleeve rolled up, towel tossed over one shoulder like always. He looked up at the chime of the door, that smile—his smile—spreading without hesitation.

And then he saw her face.

The shift was subtle, but she saw it. The slight drop in his shoulders. The crease between his brows. That smile softening into something quieter. Something more careful.

She couldn’t smile back. Not fully. Not yet.

Instead, she gave him a look. The kind that said I’m here. The kind that said I’m sorry. The kind that said I’m trying.

She made her way past the other patrons, past the barstools and empty mugs, and slid into her old booth—third from the back, window view, seat on the right. Her favorite, always. The one with the little tear in the vinyl she used to pick at when she was nervous, the one where she used to balance her sketchpad on the edge of the table and scribble while Everett brought her coffee she never finished.

She didn’t touch the sugar jar this time.

Didn’t take off her jacket or glance at the menu.

She just folded her hands on the table. Looked out the window for a long moment, where Venice Beach glittered like a memory she hadn’t meant to keep. Then she turned her gaze back to him. Waiting. Bracing.

The evening outside was warm but thinning fast, like the last breath of something too tender to last. And inside, the diner glowed—soft, golden, humming with the kind of comfort she hadn't let herself feel in a long, long time.

She didn’t know what she was going to say.
But she knew she had to say it.

And this—here—felt like the only place she could.

Everett saw her the moment she stepped out of the car.

Not just recognized her—saw her.

The tilt of her shoulders. The way her hair caught the breeze. The pause she took on the sidewalk, like her bones remembered this place before her feet did. And God, did he feel it in his chest.

Like gravity.
Like memory.
Like the echo of something sacred that never really left.

She was back.

Not just in the diner. In him.

The screen door let out its usual creak—soft, dragging, familiar. He looked up from behind the counter, mid-reach for a clean mug, and everything in him stilled.

She wasn’t the same. But she was herself.

That blouse—rust-colored, loose, worn like intention. The way her pants skimmed her ankle just enough to reveal heels he hadn’t seen in years. Not stilettos. Not polished. Real. Lived-in. Like she hadn’t dressed for anyone else tonight. Like she hadn’t known she’d be coming here until the moment she did.

Her makeup had softened with the day. Her hair was half-up, loose strands slipping free. She looked like the version of Soleil he used to wake up next to in the summer—with smudged eyeliner and morning voice and the scent of salt still on her skin from the ocean.

His heart lodged itself somewhere between awe and ache.

And then she looked at him.

Not past him. Not through him.

At him.

Like she was still sorting through the pieces. Like she hadn’t figured out what she needed to say but knew it had to be said here.

That look—it unmade him.

She moved through the diner like it remembered her. Like the walls leaned in as she passed. The old neon sign still blinked behind her like a half-hearted apology. The floor groaned once beneath her step. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

Third booth from the back. Right side. Her side.

And he watched—every second—as she slid in, the way she used to when they were kids with time to waste and everything to prove.

She didn’t touch the sugar jar.

Didn’t glance at the menu or take off her jacket.

She just sat. Back straight, hands folded, staring out at the night like it might offer her a map through the storm still circling in her chest.

And Everett?

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

He stayed behind the counter a breath longer, just watching her—every inch of her—like she was a painting hung too high to touch. Still framed in golden hour, lit from the side by the last of the sun bleeding through the glass.

This was a woman on the edge of undoing.

And she had brought it here.

To the booth with the tear in the vinyl.
To the corner where her sketches used to bleed into napkins and receipts.
To him.

He finally set the mug down, careful not to clatter it, and stepped out from behind the counter. His towel stayed slung over one shoulder. Sleeves still rolled. But his whole posture changed as he approached her—shoulders looser, breath deeper, like he was trying to ground himself before he reached the edge.

He didn’t slide into the booth right away.

Just stood there for a moment, hands at his sides, heart pounding so loud he swore it echoed against the tile.

Then, gently, his fingers brushed the edge of the table—right where her sketchbook used to rest.

And he spoke, not loud, not dramatic. Just real.

“You came.”

He didn’t smile fully. Didn’t force warmth.

It was already there—in his voice. In the way he looked at her like she was something worth waiting for. Like he had.

Then, softer:

“I wasn’t sure you would.”

She didn’t answer. Not yet.

Didn’t have to.

The silence stretched like a held breath between them.

He finally slid into the booth across from her, letting his hands rest flat on the tabletop. Not reaching. Not pressing. Just here.

The jukebox hummed faintly behind them. Something old. A track he couldn’t even name, just a sound that had lived in the walls for decades. The lights above them flickered once—gentle, forgiving. Like even the diner itself knew not to interrupt.

He watched her stare out the window. Watched the ocean lights glint in her eyes. Watched the rise and fall of her breath like she was relearning how to sit still inside her own skin.

When she finally looked at him again, the moment stilled.

And Everett—heart in his throat, everything on the line—just whispered:

“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Because she’d brought it here.
Because she didn’t have to say it yet.
Because he already knew.

She didn’t answer right away.

Couldn’t.

Because her head was still back in that kitchen with Lucas—back in that too-soft light, that too-late wine, that stupid framed photo he’d dug out of a drawer like some kind of memory spell.

It had been them on a dock somewhere—her hair longer, his hand on her back, both of them smiling like they had no idea what was coming. And for a second, it almost worked. The nostalgia. The comfort. The warmth she used to know.

He was soft that night. Earnest. A little drunk, maybe, but in that sweet way that makes people brave. Or foolish.

He told her about his parents—how proud they were. How much this meant. To him. To all of them.

And she had tried.

Tried to say it.

Opened her mouth and felt her whole chest seize. Like every version of her that had ever loved him was fighting her from the inside, begging her to wait one more day. One more moment.

So instead she’d said something useless. Something that bought her time she shouldn’t have taken.

"Tonight was overwhelming."

She hated how easy the lie came.

And now—sitting across from Everett, the jukebox whispering behind them, her hands folded so tightly in her lap they were starting to ache—she hated it even more.

Because he saw her.

Not like Lucas did when he looked at her through memory. Everett saw the now. The mess. The fracture.

The truth.

Her eyes flicked to the window again. Then to his hands—steady, unmoving, patient. Waiting.

And she broke.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a tiny shift. A small surrender.

Her fingers moved on their own, reaching across the table and sliding into his—cool to warm, tentative to sure. She didn’t look up right away. Didn’t trust her voice not to crack on contact.

But when she did, it was like resurfacing. Like gulping air after too long underwater.

“I couldn’t do it,” she said finally, voice low and scraped raw around the edges. “I walked in ready to burn it all down and then he… he was just him. Not the version I’ve been pulling away from. Not the future I know isn’t mine. Just... Lucas. Kind. Familiar. And it felt like setting fire to someone who didn’t even know they were flammable.”

She blinked, jaw clenched tight like she was keeping more from tumbling out.

“But I am going to do it,” she added quickly, fiercely, like she had to say it out loud to make it true. “Tomorrow. Or tonight. Or—fuck, I don’t know when. But soon. Because I can’t keep pretending. And he deserves the truth. Even if it breaks him.”

A pause.

Then softer.

“But I couldn’t wait to see you.”

Her thumb brushed over his knuckle. Her voice dropped into something that almost trembled, but didn’t.

“I needed to see the person who makes me brave again.”

And she didn’t look away this time.

She held his gaze like an anchor.

Because she wasn’t running.

Not from this.

Not from him.

Everett didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because the second her fingers found his, something inside him stopped bracing.

Not because it was easy.

Because it was real.

The kind of quiet surrender that meant more than declarations. More than timing. More than the neatness either of them had spent years pretending to need.

She was shaking, just slightly.

And he didn’t grip tighter. Didn’t lean forward to fill the silence. He just let her hold onto him—let her choose him—and kept his hands steady so she didn’t have to be.

And when she finally spoke?

His chest cracked open.

Not from shock. Not from sadness.

But from the weight of how deeply he understood.

Every word.

“I couldn’t do it.”

God, he felt that. Felt the way the past had a grip on her even now—soft and dangerous, like comfort laced with guilt. Felt the way she hated herself for hesitating, for showing up with something unfinished and still gave it anyway.

His breath was shallow by the time she reached “But I couldn’t wait to see you.”

And then—

“I needed to see the person who makes me brave again.”

That was it.

That was the kind of truth that didn’t need a reply. That lived in the silence after. That lived in the ache behind her eyes and the heat building in his chest like a promise he hadn’t dared to make until now.

He let the words sit between them like something sacred.

His thumb moved first—just the barest graze along hers, a quiet reassurance. And then his hand shifted, palm tilting to cradle hers fully, like he was gathering something delicate but unbreakable. Like she was handing him something more fragile than forgiveness.

And maybe she was.

Maybe this wasn’t an apology or a promise.

Maybe it was the first time Soleil Hawthorne had stopped pretending to be fine in longer than she could remember.

Everett’s voice, when it came, was quiet and rough. Grounded. Made of everything she was too tired to say and everything he refused to let her carry alone.

“You don’t owe me clean edges,” he said. “You never did.”

His gaze stayed on her—anchoring, unwavering.

“I don’t need you to walk in here with answers. I just need you. However you show up.”

He let the silence breathe for a second before he added, softer now:

“And I know you’re going to tell him. I know it’s coming. Not because you owe anyone anything, but because you’re you. And you don’t live in lies.”

His fingers tightened gently around hers.

“But even if you hadn’t said it… even if you’d just sat here and said nothing at all—I’d still be here. I’d still see you.”

He looked down at their hands, then back to her with something close to awe.

“And you are brave. Not because you didn’t flinch tonight, but because you let yourself feel everything anyway. Because you didn’t run.”

Then, voice lower—almost reverent:

“You came to me.”

His throat worked around the fullness of that truth.

“You came home.”

And for Everett James—sitting across from the girl who made him believe in beginnings all over again—that was enough. That was everything.

She exhaled.

Not the clipped kind she’d mastered in polite conversation. Not the tight-lipped, posture-perfect breath of someone who’d been holding everything too carefully for too long.

No—this one was real.

Messy. Full-bodied. Like her ribs had finally loosened.

Like she’d been given permission to breathe again.

Because God, hearing him say that—you came home—did something to her. Not just in the romantic way, though there was no denying that pulse beneath the skin, that beat of old love and maybe love-again rising like tidewater.

But deeper.

It was the way he said it like it didn’t demand anything. Like her arrival, flawed and uncertain, was still enough. Like she was enough, even with the cracks showing.

Her grip on his hand softened—not letting go, just no longer clinging. Her shoulders dipped a fraction, tension slipping away inch by inch until she could feel the vinyl of the booth behind her and the weight of her own body without flinching.

She smiled, finally.

That small, crooked, Soleil smile—the one that said she was tired but still standing. The one she used to flash after losing a bet or winning an argument with one sock on and paint in her hair.

“You know,” she said quietly, brushing a loose strand behind her ear, “you have this infuriating habit of saying exactly what I need to hear before I even know I need it.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his, steady now.

“And I hate how much I like that about you.”

There was a softness in her voice that only came out when she felt safe—when the armor melted and the sarcasm stepped aside to make room for sincerity.

She tilted her head, studying him like a familiar painting with new light cast across it. Like she was taking inventory of every line in his face and trying to memorize him all over again.

Her thumb traced an idle line against his.

“You look good, by the way,” she said, more casual now, letting a teasing note slip in. “That diner lighting’s really doing you favors tonight.”

A beat.

Then, gentler: “How was your day?”

Because she wanted to hear him now. Not out of obligation, but out of ease—a feeling so rare in her world, she clung to it like warmth in winter. Here, in this booth, with his hands around hers and her lungs remembering how to work again, she didn’t have to perform.

She could just be.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Soleil Hawthorne didn’t feel like she was spiraling toward something doomed.

She felt anchored.

Held.

And even if the storm hadn’t passed yet—it didn’t feel so impossible anymore.

Everett’s mouth curved—not into a grin, not something bright or showy—but into that slow, unmistakable smile she used to paint from memory. The one he gave only when the moment asked for truth, not charm.

It hit him then—how rare this was.

Not just having her here, across from him, fingers threaded through his in a way that didn’t ask for forgiveness or permission. But having her. This version. The real one. No gallery lights, no curated words, no layers of polish between them.

Just Soleil.

And he let himself breathe too.

Because that crooked smile of hers? That was the north star. That was the thing that used to pull him through long nights and longer silences. And now it was here again, flickering across the booth like a second chance he hadn’t dared to ask for.

“You hate it,” he murmured, eyes warm, voice low, “but you needed it.”

His thumb brushed the side of her hand again, softer this time. Less like grounding. More like affection. Familiar. Easy.

That kind of ease that only happens when someone’s seen you sobbing in a parking lot or dancing barefoot in a thunderstorm or folding laundry at 2AM because the weight of the world needed somewhere to go.

Her teasing about the lighting made something in his chest hitch.

God, her.

“That so?” he asked, leaning back slightly, letting one arm stretch across the booth behind him—casual but still open, still there. “Well, don’t let the glow fool you. I nearly started a grease fire around lunchtime.”

He nodded toward the kitchen with mock solemnity.

“Some kid tried to order a burger without pickles and then cried when he realized he meant with pickles. Had to give him free fries just to stop the existential spiral.”

His tone was light, but his eyes never left her. Not really. Because even as he joked, he was watching her shoulders—how they relaxed when she laughed, how the color was coming back to her voice. He noticed every little thing, like he always did.

Then, softer now—calmer:

“It was a good day. Nothing big. Just…honest.”

He let that sit for a beat. Let it reach her.

“And now you’re here, so.”

He shrugged.

“It’s better.”

Everett shifted then—just slightly—leaning forward again, forearms on the table, gaze steady. His hand hadn’t moved from hers. He didn’t think he could if he tried.

“You don’t have to be anything but this with me,” he said gently. “No answers. No plans. Just you.”

He tilted his head, studying her like she’d studied him.

“And if tonight’s the first time in a long time you’ve been able to exhale…” His smile deepened, reverent now. “Then I’d say the day went pretty damn well.”

He meant it.

Not as a line. Not as comfort.

As fact.

Because she was here.

And that changed everything.

It shouldn’t be this easy.

Sliding back into the rhythm of him. Of them.

But it was.

And that terrified her almost as much as it comforted her.

Because Soleil had spent years becoming someone who didn’t flinch at soft lies. Someone who knew how to perform love without ever really surrendering to it. But with Everett?

God, with Everett it was always different.

She let out a laugh—quiet, but real—at the image of him bribing a child with fries. That was so him. Chaos at the stove, calm at the table. Holding the world together with one hand while flipping a grilled cheese with the other.

And somehow, impossibly, he still had a hand free for her.

Her fingers flexed lightly in his, the kind of reflex that felt instinctual. Like her body remembered this grip before her mind could catch up. Like her heart had never really let go.

“Well, clearly the diner survived another harrowing day in the trenches,” she teased, her voice warm, a little wicked. “Grease fires, philosophical pickle crises—should I be worried you’re peaking?”

She tilted her head, one brow lifting as she leaned in just a little. Enough to let her perfume drift across the table, subtle and familiar. Enough to make it impossible not to notice the spark that had quietly returned to her eyes.

“You know…” she added, letting her gaze linger on the stretch of his arm over the back of the booth, “for a man allegedly humbled by burger trauma, you’re still sitting like you own the place.”

A pause, playful.

Then she smirked—slow and deliberate, the kind that used to get them into trouble on purpose.

“And I gotta say… it’s working for you.”

It was a little flirty. A little dangerous. The kind of line you only throw when you trust someone not to drop it. And Everett never had. Not once.

She exhaled again—easier this time.

The truth was, being here, being seen like this, was the first time in weeks she hadn’t felt like she was holding her breath through someone else’s expectations. With Lucas, she was always trying to be the right kind of partner. With her father, the right kind of daughter. With the world? The version of Soleil that made people nod with approval and envy and awe.

But here?

She was just her.

And the way Everett looked at her—like that was enough—undid something she hadn’t realized was still knotted inside her.

She let the silence stretch a moment longer, thumb brushing over his again, almost unconsciously.

“Thanks,” she said finally, softer now. “For reminding me I can still feel like this. Like I’m not some… curated version of myself just going through the motions.”

Her smile turned gentle, intimate.

“Feels kinda like muscle memory, doesn’t it?”

A beat.

“Us.”

She let it hang there for a second, then tipped her head, a sly glint in her eye.

“I mean, you’ve got a few more lines around your eyes,” she teased, thumb still brushing his, “and I’ve upgraded from whiskey tantrums to wine-fueled avoidance, but…”

Her smile softened, tugging at one corner like a secret she was letting him in on.

“It still feels like the same language.”

She leaned in just a little, voice dipping to something playful and low.

“Just spoken a little slower. A little better.”

And God, she meant that.

Because maybe they weren’t who they used to be—but that didn’t make this any less real. If anything, it made it more.

Everett didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t fire back a quip, even though God knew she’d teed him up with that “own the place” line. He just looked at her.

Really looked.

And for the second time that night—maybe the second time in years—he let himself feel it.

Her.

Soleil, wild and sharp and luminous in a way no gallery light could ever replicate. Her eyes sparking with that wicked edge she used to throw at him across dark rooms and diner counters. Her fingers wrapped in his like they’d never learned how to let go. Her scent drifting between them like a memory caught in present tense.

She was here.

With him.

And not running.

“Jesus, Sol,” he murmured, voice a little hoarse from holding back everything she’d just stirred. “You’re gonna kill me.”

It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t even flirtation—not really. It was reverence, plain and quiet and full of something that felt like awe.

Because it shouldn’t be this easy.

But it was.

And maybe that’s what broke him open the most.

His thumb curled around her hand more deliberately now, grounding them both. And when he finally let his grin surface, it was slow—warmed by everything she’d just given him and shaded with something deeper than charm.

“You remember what I used to say about us?” he asked, eyes flicking down to her mouth, then back up to meet her gaze fully. “We were always a little dangerous in the right lighting.”

His voice dipped there—just slightly, the kind of rasp that came from memory and meaning and a dozen near-misses that never quite ruined them.

He leaned in too—just enough to match her, to make the air between them shimmer a little.

“And now look at us,” he added, low and amused. “All grown up and tragic. You in your wine-fueled avoidance era, me bribing six-year-olds with fries like it’s some kind of emotional currency.”

He shrugged one shoulder, the motion slow, casual, him.

“But you’re right,” he said. “Still feels like the same language.”

His gaze softened, quieting everything in the room again.

“Just spoken slower. With more teeth.”

A beat.

Then his hand shifted slightly, fingertips brushing the inside of her wrist in a way that wasn’t bold but wasn’t tentative either. Something in between. Something earned.

“You ever think,” he said, voice gentle now, “that maybe we weren’t wrong back then—just early?”

It wasn’t a question meant to be answered.

Not yet.

But he let it hang there, suspended between the jukebox and the dusk outside and the space their hands still filled together.

Then—softer, more certain—he added, “If this is muscle memory, Sol… it’s the kind that doesn’t atrophy.”

Another pause.

Then, smiling again, that familiar glint in his eye: “Also, for the record? I’m proud of the laugh lines. Means I survived you.”

He winked.

Let it land.

And didn’t let go of her hand.

Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it—quiet, low, all curve and heat.

“Survived me?” she echoed, head tilting like she was trying to decide if that was a challenge or a compliment. “Please. You should’ve gotten a medal for the first round.”

Her thumb brushed along the side of his hand, just once, deliberate.

“But this booth right here?” she added, tapping her nails lightly against the tabletop like she was knocking on something holy, “This is mine.”

She leaned in, conspiratorial now, her voice dipping into a familiar husky purr that used to make him miss his train on purpose.

“You know that, right? You might own the place, but this booth was claimed by the Church of Me years ago.”

A smirk ghosted across her lips as she glanced down, then back up.

“Pretty sure if you crawl under here and squint hard enough, you’ll still find my name carved into the wood. Right between a wad of Bubblicious and whatever ungodly thing your brother spilled back in 2011.”

She grinned then—full, bright, unapologetic.

“I’d put money on it.”

And just like that, the tension softened again, not disappeared but transformed—folded into that teasing edge that always cushioned the truth between them. Because what she wasn’t saying, not out loud, was this:

This booth held their beginnings.

Their arguments. Their shared fries and shared silences. Her sketchbook ink bleeding onto napkins, his coffee always getting cold because he forgot to drink it when she was talking.

It held the version of them that was raw and reckless and just starting to mean something.

And now it held this.

A second chance she hadn’t expected, but maybe—just maybe—had always known she’d come back to.

“So,” she said, voice softening, fingers still tangled in his, “you think you’ve got it in you? To survive the second round?”

Her brows lifted, eyes gleaming.

“Because we were definitely just early.”

She said it with a smile.

But there was weight beneath the words.

Not fear. Not uncertainty.

Hope.

And maybe, finally, enough steadiness to carry it.

Everett didn’t laugh right away.

Didn’t crack a grin or volley back with some cocky one-liner, even though she’d just handed him one on a silver plate—nails tapping the table like a goddamn drumroll.

Because something in the way she said this booth was mine got to him.

Deep.

And the way she looked at him—light in her eyes, history in her voice, ownership in her body—it nearly wrecked him.

He let out a breath instead. Low. Rough. More like a prayer than an exhale.

And then he looked at her hand.

Still in his.

And he smiled.

Not the kind he gave customers. Not the easy one he threw around behind the counter when someone complimented the grilled cheese. This was the one he hadn’t let out in years. The one that came with gravity. With memory.

With her.

“Goddamn right it’s yours,” he said, voice low and reverent. “I left it that way.”

His thumb swept across her knuckles, slow and sure.

“Booth three, cracked vinyl, faint Sharpie line on the edge of the table you claimed was a comet but looked suspiciously like a cigarette burn? Yeah. I used to kick out drunk tourists who tried to sit here.”

He leaned forward then—just slightly, like the gravity between them was finally winning.

“You don’t forget where something important started. Not when it felt like that. Not when it still does.”

His voice dipped, husky now. Honest.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes catching hers, “I didn’t just survive you.”

He tilted his head.

“I lived better because of you.”

A pause.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched—soft, crooked, and full of all the trouble they used to start with a single glance.

“But second round?”

He let go of her hand for just a second—only to reach up and brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers grazing her cheek like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m not surviving this one.”

His voice dropped, close now. Real.

“I’m planning to win it.”

A beat.

Then he leaned back just enough to give her space to breathe again, but not enough to break the tether. Not now. Not when she was finally here.

He glanced down at her hand—still warm from his—and then up again, gaze steady.

“So go ahead,” he said softly. “Take the booth. Take the night. Take whatever the hell you want, Sol.”

A grin curled slow across his lips.

“You’ve had me carved into the wood since 2011.”

Her breath hitched—just enough that he’d catch it, if he was still watching her like that.

Which, of course, he was.

Because Everett James didn’t say things he didn’t mean. Not then, not now. And the way he said “I lived better because of you”?

Yeah.

That hit her like a chord she didn’t know she’d been waiting to hear again.

She tried to play it off. Tried to be cool. Flippant. Untouched. But her stomach flipped the second his fingers brushed her cheek, and it wasn’t the good kind of chaos—it was the kind that made her knees go soft and her heart go stupid.

God, he was dangerous when he was tender. Dangerous when he meant it.

And he always meant it with her.

The problem was—she meant it, too.

Which is exactly why she couldn’t kiss him right now. Not yet.

Even though every molecule in her body leaned toward him like gravity had made a personal exception for him. Even though she could still feel the heat of his fingertips behind her ear. Even though his words were curling around her ribs like they’d never left.

Not yet.

So she swallowed.

Steadying herself.

Then she leaned back just slightly, enough to breathe, enough to smile like she wasn’t seconds away from doing something she’d regret—or worse, something she wouldn’t.

“You know,” she said, voice lighter now, like she was tossing him a lifeline wrapped in silk, “you keep saying shit like that and I’m gonna forget I came here for moral support, not a full emotional rebirth.”

A pause. Her smirk deepened.

“And before you go and completely unravel me,” she added, eyeing him like she already was, “you should probably feed me.”

Her fingers drummed against the table once, then curled around the edge, tapping near the corner like she could still feel her old Sharpie signature beneath the gum and grit of the years.

“I’m talking full greasy diner indulgence,” she said. “No judgment, no substitutions, and definitely no kale.”

Her tone dipped low—flirty, dangerous, familiar.

“Surprise me.”

She held his gaze just a moment longer, all challenge and charm and that signature Sol burn.

Because no, she couldn’t kiss him.

But she could let him cook for her again.

She could let him remember.

And tonight, that was enough.

Everett didn’t break eye contact—not even for a second.

Because the hitch in her breath?
He felt it like a ripple in his own lungs.

And the second she leaned back, just slightly, just enough to not break, he knew. Knew she was holding on by her fingertips, not because she didn’t want this—but because she did. Because he did. And when two people were that close to something real again, one wrong move could tip the whole thing over the edge.

But she was here.

She hadn’t run.

And now she was teasing him like she used to, that mouth full of trouble and dare and velvet armor—and God, he’d missed it.

He grinned, slow and crooked, teeth flashing just enough to spark something behind his eyes.

“Moral support and a menu,” he murmured, pushing to his feet. “Guess I’m a full-service establishment now.”

He leaned over the edge of the booth—not too close, but close enough to let the scent of him linger, warm and worn-in and somehow still her favorite kind of comfort.

“And don’t worry,” he added with a wink, “the kale died a tragic death back in January. Dally’s only serves food that could kill you slowly but taste good doing it.”

With that, he turned and strode back toward the counter, steps easy, confident, familiar. But when he reached the kitchen window, he didn’t bark the order.

He crafted it.

Because cooking for Soleil Hawthorne wasn’t about the food.
It was a conversation in heat and salt and memory.
It was a love letter with pickles and no damn substitutions.

He dropped fries, buttered the griddle, pulled the day’s fresh brioche from beneath the warmer—one of the local bakers he liked had started supplying them again, and God, this one had her name all over it. He layered sharp cheddar, caramelized onions, a smashed patty still pink in the middle, crisped it all golden with love and low judgment.

On the side?

Chili cheese fries. No regrets.

And he didn’t forget the extra pickles. Two kinds.

He didn’t dress the plate up with parsley or nonsense. Just a real meal for a real woman who came in needing something solid to hold onto.

When he brought it back, he set it in front of her with a flourish—a paper napkin, the good fork, and a bottle of hot sauce with the label half-peeled from years of being the hot sauce.

Then he slid back into the booth across from her.

Not saying anything yet.

Just watching the way her eyes skimmed the plate. Watching her lips twitch like she was trying not to grin. Watching her.

And when she finally looked back up at him, he said it quiet—but not shy.

“I remember what you liked.”

Then, softer still:

“But if you want something new… I’m learning.”

Because this—
This wasn’t just food.

It was proof.

That he never stopped paying attention.
That she still deserved to be fed like she was home.

And that he was right here—

Waiting.

As long as it took.

Soleil didn’t say much.

Just smiled.

Not that breezy, picture-perfect smile she wore at art shows or fundraisers. This one was smaller. Realer. The kind that came from someplace quiet inside her chest. The kind that said thank you without having to.

And then he was gone—back behind the counter, disappearing into the hum of the kitchen like he’d never left it. Like it had waited for him the same way he’d waited for her.

She turned toward the window again.

The sky was bruised with the last streaks of twilight, neon bleeding faintly across the glass from the diner sign outside. A truck passed by slow, headlights smearing gold across the linoleum floor, and inside the booth, time softened. Bent.

Soleil watched the night move outside like she was watching from a distance, like the version of her in this booth was suspended in amber.

She let herself drift.

To the memory of her boots kicked up on the seat, sketchbook in her lap, half-listening to Everett and his brother argue over the radio volume. To the way they used to sneak slices of pie when no one was watching, burn grilled cheese on purpose just to start a food fight. To the girl she used to be—loud, messy, magnetic. The girl who didn’t second-guess herself every time she said yes to something she wanted.

God, she missed her.

Her gaze shifted to the other diners—an older couple in the corner, quiet and content; a pair of teenagers sharing a milkshake; some guy scrolling his phone with his fries untouched.

None of it was remarkable.

And maybe that’s what made it so perfect.

The world kept spinning. Quiet. Constant.

But her eyes kept flicking toward the pass window. Toward him.

Every now and then, she caught a glimpse of Everett—head down, focused, a towel slung over his shoulder like it had never belonged anywhere else. His forearms flexed as he worked, moving with the same calm intensity that used to drive her insane—in the best way.

God, he looked good.

The kind of good that made her stomach twist in ways that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with memory and want and the sheer stupidity of timing.

When he finally came back, the smell hit her first.

Her eyes widened. She didn’t say a word, just took in the plate like it was something holy—burger stacked high, fries a glorious mess of chili and cheese, and that damn hot sauce bottle that had been here longer than most of the furniture.

She looked up at him then—eyes shining, mouth twitching, heart so full it hurt.

“You still make food like you’ve got something to prove,” she said lightly, dragging her finger through a drip of cheese down the side of the plate.

Then, smirking: “All that time in New York and this still looks like it walked straight out of 2012.”

She picked up a fry, popped it in her mouth, chewed thoughtfully.

“But,” she added, mouth full, “it’s perfect. Don’t get me wrong. Fancy food is fun and all, but this?”

She gestured to the plate like it was gospel.

“This is the kind of shit people write country songs about.”

And even though she was teasing, even though the words were wrapped in humor, the look she gave him next was steady. Honest.

Because it was perfect.

Because he still knew her.

Because this burger on this plate in this booth meant more than most things ever had.

She picked up the burger with both hands, raised it like a toast, and grinned.

“To dying slow,” she said, “but dying happy.”

And then she took the first bite like it was the best thing she’d tasted in years.

Everett watched her bite into that burger like it was a goddamn movie.

The kind he used to get lost in as a kid—grainy, golden, set in some small-town diner where the jukebox played Springsteen and the girl always came back. Not for the guy, necessarily. But for herself. For the feeling. For the real.

And God, she was real right now.

No armor. No curated grace.

Just Soleil, grinning over chili cheese fries like she was sixteen again and free.

He slid back into the booth, one arm resting over the back like it had muscle memory for her silhouette, the other curling around his coffee mug—half full, lukewarm, untouched.

His eyes didn’t leave her.

Not even once.

“That burger,” he said, deadpan, “is exactly the same one you burned your mouth on the night you tried to seduce me with a bad cover of ‘Landslide.’”

He sipped his coffee with mock solemnity.

“I’m just saying. Some food deserves to be immortalized. And some moments don’t need kale foam or a microgreen garnish to matter.”

A beat.

Then he looked at her—really looked—and his voice dropped, softer now.

“But you’re wrong about one thing.”

He nudged the hot sauce bottle toward her, the label barely clinging to glass like time had worn it down gently.

“I don’t cook like I’ve got something to prove.”

A pause. His gaze held hers.

“I cook like you’re gonna be sitting here again.”

And maybe that was too much. Maybe it was dangerous, dropping words like that between bites of diner food and laughter. But Everett had never been the type to let good things slip away quietly.

Especially not when they looked at him the way she just had. Like the whole world was wrapped in greasepaper and hope.

She picked up another fry and he smiled—wide now, easier. The kind that cracked open his face and made him look just a little too fond for someone trying to keep it together.

“And for the record,” he added, reaching across the table to steal a fry like it was old times, “if anyone’s writing a country song about you in this booth…”

He chewed slowly, eyes still on hers.

“They’re gonna need a warning label.”

Then—quieter, almost a murmur:

“Because once you walk in, no one walks out the same.”

And he meant that.

Every damn word.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe for a second.

Just sat there, fry halfway to her mouth, caught in the weight of his words like they were hands on her ribs—steady, certain, a little too intimate to be accidental.

Because damn.

He meant that.

And she felt it.

Somewhere low in her stomach. Somewhere high in her throat. Somewhere she didn’t let anyone touch, especially not lately. Especially not someone who could still say things like I cook like you’re gonna be sitting here again and make it feel like a vow disguised as diner talk.

The corner of her mouth curled, slow and sly, trying to cushion the ache that bloomed behind her ribs with something lighter.

“You really just—” she set the fry down, palms open like she was surrendering to the moment, “—dropped a monologue on me while I’m chewing chili cheese fries?”

She shook her head like she was exasperated, but her eyes? They were soft. Lit.

“God, you are such a sap when it comes to me.”

Her tone was playful. Her smile was teasing.

But underneath it?

Everything in her was wrecked in the best way.

She took another bite of the burger, slower now, like she needed something grounding. Something to do with her hands besides reach for him and forget the lines she hadn’t crossed yet.

When she swallowed, she leaned forward again—elbows on the table, chin in her hand, eyes never leaving his.

“You know what I remember about that night?” she said, voice dipping into something velvety, laced with nostalgia and trouble. “I was singing Stevie Nicks like I meant it, even though I couldn’t hit a single note, and you were looking at me like you already knew how it was gonna end.”

Her gaze flicked to his mouth, then back up to his eyes.

“But you didn’t stop me.”

She tapped his coffee mug gently, her fingers grazing his.

“And I think maybe that was the beginning of the end for you.”

A smile played on her lips again—less smirk, more confession.

“Not my fault you’ve got a thing for emotionally reckless women with bad taste in karaoke.”

She took another fry.

Paused.

Then said, quieter now, “But you’re not wrong either.”

She gestured around them—the booth, the plate, the night humming outside the windows like it knew better than to interrupt.

“This place… you. It’s never felt curated. Not even when I was trying to be.”

She nudged the hot sauce bottle back toward him with a flick of her fingers.

“And for what it’s worth? I like the way you cook when you think I’ll come back.”

She didn’t say I will.

She didn’t have to.

It was in the way she looked at him now—like maybe, for the first time in years, she wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She was just letting herself stay.

Everett didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked at her—like he was trying to memorize the shape of this moment. Of her. That soft defiance in her smile, the edge of heat behind the teasing. The way her voice curled around memories like they were things worth holding instead of things meant to be outrun.

God, she always did know how to knock the breath out of him with a single sentence.

He leaned forward, slow, elbows braced on the table like he needed something to keep him grounded, because if he wasn’t careful, he was going to say too much. Do too much.

Feel too much.

And maybe she already knew that.

Because of course she did.

Soleil Hawthorne had always been dangerous—not because she was sharp, but because she was honest. Even in the mess. Especially in the mess.

He let out a breath of a laugh, low and warm, shaking his head like she’d caught him doing something reckless.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges, “I didn’t stop you.”

A pause. His thumb brushed the rim of his coffee mug.

“Because I think I already knew I was in trouble.”

He didn’t look away when he said it.

Didn’t cover it with a joke. Didn’t try to ease the weight of it with charm.

Just let it sit there. Honest. Steady.

Then he reached out, slow, and picked up the hot sauce bottle she’d just nudged toward him. Not to use it—just to feel the handoff. The heat still lingering from her fingers.

“Trouble,” he echoed, softer now, turning the bottle absently. “You always said it like a warning.”

He looked at her again—really looked, his eyes dipping down to her mouth, then back up like muscle memory—and something in his chest ached with how much he still felt it.

All of it.

“You never scared me, Sol,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Not once.”

Then he smiled—crooked, quiet, devastating.

“Not even when you lit a cigarette with the stove burner and told my brother you could absolutely drive stick.”

His hand slipped across the table again—fingertips brushing hers like a secret.

“And for the record?” A beat. “I am a sap when it comes to you. But don’t act like you’re not the one who used to doodle our names in bubble letters on the diner receipts.”

He reached for the edge of a napkin, pen already appearing from behind his ear—like muscle memory, like instinct—and scribbled something fast, then slid it toward her.

It was a little drawing of a chili cheese fry wearing a crown.

Underneath it:
Queen of the Booth.

And then, smaller:

Come back again tomorrow. I’ll still be here.

He didn’t push it across the table like a dare.

He just left it there.

An invitation.

Nothing more.

But nothing less.

Soleil stared at it for a second.

Not like she was stunned. Not like she didn’t know exactly what he was doing.

But because it worked.

Because it always worked.

Because Everett fucking James had always had this way of cutting through her walls like he wasn’t even trying. And this stupid doodle—this perfect, slightly lopsided chili cheese fry in a crown—hit harder than any of the love notes or texts or goodnight calls she’d been collecting from a man she already knew she had to leave.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just picked up the napkin, turned it over in her fingers like it might hold more if she looked hard enough.

Her smile was slow this time.

Not soft, not dangerous—just hers. That signature Soleil tilt, lips pursed, one brow arched, like she was already planning something. Like she’d decided something before even she knew what it was.

“You really think that fry looks like me?” she said, finally, lifting her eyes to his with a flicker of sass. “Bold. Kind of insulting. But I’ll allow it.”

Her hand reached out, casual, confident, and she plucked the pen from behind his ear—fingers grazing the shell of it just long enough to make him look at her twice.

Then she dragged a fresh napkin toward her.

Her posture shifted slightly—more relaxed now, all long limbs and attitude as she leaned over the table, tongue poking out the side of her mouth like she always did when she was drawing something stupid but important.

In less than a minute, she spun it around.

It was a sketch of a coffee mug with tired eyes and an apron, holding a spatula like a sword.

Underneath it:
Sir Sizzle—Protector of Booth 3

And, in smaller letters:

Knows how to flip a patty and a girl’s entire emotional stability.

She arched a brow as she slid it toward him.

“And before you get cocky,” she added, voice a touch too casual to be innocent, “I still draw better than you. Even with diner-grade napkins and emotional damage.”

She bit into another fry, slow and smug, letting the silence hum between them like something old and earned.

Then, quieter, but still with that bite of heat behind it:

“And for the record? You might’ve been in trouble back then.”

She leaned forward again, gaze cutting, mouth curved.

“But you’re so much deeper now.”

Another beat. A flash of teeth. A wink.

Then she went right back to her burger like she hadn’t just dropped that on him like a brick through a stained-glass window.

Because if Everett wanted to leave little invitations?

Soleil Hawthorne had no problem answering them with a signature of her own.

Everett didn’t smile right away.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t toss some quip back at her like he would’ve when they were younger, when the game was to see who could flirt harder, push further, draw blood first.

No, this time?

He just looked at her.

Looked at the napkin. At the ridiculous little spatula-warrior she’d summoned in under sixty seconds. At the curve of her mouth and the glint in her eye and the way her fingers casually pinched that fry like she wasn’t undoing him on purpose.

And then—then—he laughed.

Quiet, rich, the kind of laugh that cracked him wide open.

He leaned back, the bench groaning softly under the shift of his weight, one arm draped along the back like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. Like this wasn’t a second chance—it was just the next page.

“You know,” he said, fingers tapping the edge of Sir Sizzle like a reverent blessing, “if I had a dollar for every time you weaponized your art against me, I could’ve bought this booth by now.”

He paused.

Let his thumb drag across the edge of the sketch like it meant more than he was ready to say out loud.

Then he glanced up.

Met her gaze.

“Deeper trouble, huh?” he echoed, voice lower now, velvet around the edges. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Because yeah, she was right. He was deeper in it than ever. Not just because of how she looked—though damn, she was still the kind of beautiful that made gravity jealous. It was the everything. The way she sat there like this booth was her throne, her sanctuary, and her battlefield all at once. The way she tossed heat and humor like grenades. The way she looked at him like she saw something worth staying for.

Everett reached for her drawing again. Slid it beside his own. Sat back.

“Guess we’ve officially declared war, huh?” he said, letting the words stretch like molasses between them. “Art duel. No rules. Napkins only. Winner gets bragging rights and the last onion ring.”

His eyes flicked down to her fingers. Still dusted with salt. Still stealing fries like the past hadn’t changed a damn thing.

Then, quieter:

“But if you’re gonna keep doing this—waltzing in here like no time’s passed and flipping me inside out with a doodle and a look…”

He reached across the table again, slow, deliberate, fingers brushing hers just enough to count.

“…you better be ready to stay for dessert.”

A beat. Then the ghost of a smile.

“And I’m not talking pie, Hawthorne.”

He didn’t lean in.

Didn’t push.

Just let the promise hang in the air—sweet, dangerous, familiar.

Because he could flirt.

He could fight.

But more than anything?

He could wait.

And damn it, if she was going to keep signing her name across the night like this—

Everett James was going to make damn sure she knew exactly what she was signing up for.

Soleil didn’t look away.

Didn’t blush. Didn’t blink.

Just let that smirk bloom slow across her lips like it had all the time in the world.

Because there he was.

The man who could silence a room with a glance, flirt without touching, unravel her without a single line of poetry—just the steady heat of his presence and the way he said her name like it was a dare.

She leaned back in the booth, stretching out like a woman who knew she was winning. Like she liked the way this felt—because she did. She always had.

“Dessert, huh?” she mused, biting into the last fry like punctuation. “That’s bold talk from someone who still puts mustard on grilled cheese.”

Her eyes sparkled as they locked on his again, lips curving like sin wrapped in velvet.

“But if you’re offering, Sir Sizzle…” She dragged out the name with wicked emphasis, like she was already unwrapping it, trying it on for size. “You better bring your A-game.”

She reached across the table then—just like he had—but instead of brushing his fingers, she snatched the pen back from where he’d set it.

And with the kind of unapologetic flair only she could pull off, she wrote three little words in the margin beneath her sketch:

To be continued.

Then capped the pen.

Set it down.

And popped the last bite of her burger into her mouth like she hadn’t just declared emotional, romantic, and artistic war.

Because whatever this was—whatever it had been, whatever it could be again—Soleil Hawthorne was in it now.

And if Everett James thought he was the only one who could leave a mark?

He had no idea what was coming.

Everett stared at the napkin like it had just slapped him.

To be continued.

Three words. Inked like a promise. Like a challenge. Like a signature on the kind of deal you don’t walk away from once it’s made.

And damn if it didn’t hit him harder than her kiss ever could’ve in this moment—because this? This meant she wasn’t running. Not tonight.

He didn’t grin. Not right away.

What he did was lean in.

Elbows on the table. Shoulders relaxed. That slow-burning gaze locked on her like she was the whole damn menu and he’d just decided to take his time with every single course.

“You always were dangerous with a pen,” he said, voice all warm gravel and weight. “But don’t think for a second I won’t match you line for line.”

He slid the napkin back toward himself with one finger, eyes never leaving hers, like he was memorizing every smirk, every flicker of fire behind her calm. Like he could see the storm she used to be—and the woman who’d learned how to dance inside it.

Then, finally, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Not a grin.

Not quite.

More like permission.

“I’ll bring the A-game,” he said, low, slow, like heat curling off asphalt. “You just better be sure you’re ready to finish what you started.”

His hand lifted, just enough to tug the cap off the pen again. He didn’t write anything this time—just let it spin between his fingers like he was weighing it. Like the next move was his, and he was in no rush to play it.

“You think you’re in this now?” he asked, leaning forward just an inch more. “Baby, you’ve always been in this.”

The air between them thrummed like an old record—one you know all the words to but still press your ear to, just in case it hits different this time.

And God, it did.

Because this wasn’t about flirting anymore.

This was about remembering.

Rewriting.

Reclaiming.

And as his gaze dipped to her fingers—ink-stained, salt-dusted, sure as hell not finished—Everett James made a quiet vow to himself:

She’d walked back into this booth like a storm he hadn’t dared name.

But he’d weather her again.

Every word.

Every bite.

Every look that said don’t blink or you’ll miss it.

Because this?
This was only the beginning.

And he was starving.

Soleil pretended not to squirm under that look.
That Everett James look—steady, smoldering, slow as sin. The one that didn’t ask for anything but still managed to take. The one that used to melt her resolve before she even realized it was happening. The one that still did.

But she didn’t let him see it.

No, she met his stare with one of her own—chin propped on her knuckles, a slow blink and an even slower smile spreading across her lips.

“You know,” she said, casual as hell, like her heart wasn’t currently throwing itself against her ribcage, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you slipped some kind of love spell into that burger.”

She gestured vaguely at the empty plate, then narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion.

“Don’t give me that face. You’ve got the kitchen to yourself. Who’s to say you didn’t sprinkle in some witchy seasoning between the caramelized onions and the seductive pickles?”

She leaned forward just enough to make it count, voice dropping a touch as her grin curled dangerous.

“Would explain a lot.”

A beat.

Then she dropped back against the booth again, limbs loose and lazy, as if she hadn’t just accused him of culinary sorcery with a flirt woven through every word.

“I mean, I come in all dramatic, drop a monologue, plan to leave with emotional dignity intact—then suddenly I’m full, soft, and dangerously close to wanting dessert and second chances.”

She gave him a long, pointed once-over.

“You sure you didn’t hex me, James?”

But her voice had gone quieter now. Not less playful, just... truer.

Because yeah, it was a joke.

But also?

Not.

Because she’d tasted a hundred different versions of comfort over the last ten years. Five-star meals, overpriced cocktails, nights where the table was all sparkle and no soul.

But nothing—nothing—hit like a burger made by the boy who knew which songs she used to hum while waiting for her food. The boy who remembered her order down to the pickles. The man who still looked at her like she’d never stopped being worth the wait.

Soleil glanced down at the napkin again—To be continued staring up at her like it had more weight than anything she’d said aloud in weeks.

And then she looked back at him.

“You’ve always been the better cook,” she said softly, lips quirking. “Guess I just forgot how good it tastes when it’s made for me.”

A pause. One heartbeat.

Then—flippant again, but laced with something warmer beneath the tease:

“So, go on, witch boy. What’s for dessert?”

Everett’s grin didn’t break the way it used to—fast and full and easy.

No, this one was earned. Slow. Spreading across his face like honey over warm bread, thick with something he hadn’t let himself taste in a long time.

God, she still knew how to wreck him with a line.

Witch boy? That one was going in the vault.

But it was the soft beneath the sass that hit him hardest.

That crack in the armor. That truth sliding out between jokes like steam from a vent that hadn’t hissed in years. And the way she said made for me?

Yeah. That one went straight to the part of him that hadn’t ever fully shut the door on her.

He didn’t answer her right away.

Just reached across the table again, thumb dragging over the edge of that napkin like it meant something sacred now. Like maybe to be continued was a dare, a promise, a prayer—he didn’t care which. As long as it meant more.

Then he stood.

Unhurried. Unapologetic.

And with a flick of his towel over his shoulder and that Everett James glint in his eye, he nodded toward the kitchen.

“You wait right there, hexed girl,” he said, voice low, rich, certain. “I’ve got something that’ll finish the job.”

He disappeared behind the counter again, but only for a minute.

And when he returned, he wasn’t carrying a slice of pie or some sad scoop of freezer-burned vanilla.

No—he had the plate.

A still-warm skillet cookie, edges crisp, center gooey, chocolate chunks still molten. A dollop of whipped cream melting just slightly from the heat. Sea salt flaked on top like he knew how to push her buttons. And nestled beside it?

A tiny candle.

Not lit.

Just waiting.

He set it down in front of her without a word.

Then, finally, sat across from her again—arms braced on the table like he was anchoring something more than just himself.

“I don’t know what you wished for last time you blew one of those out,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers, voice quieter now, steady as the tide, “but maybe this time you wish for something that’s got a shot at coming true.”

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t press.

Just leaned back, slid the spoon across the table toward her, and added with a flicker of that old smile:

“Besides… you’re not leaving full until you’ve had my dessert.”

A beat.

Then a wink.

Then silence.

Letting the sugar and the sentiment speak for him.

Because he’d already said what mattered.

And now?

He wanted to see what she did with it.

Soleil stared down at the skillet.

Her face didn’t move for a beat—no smirk, no one-liner, no performance. Just… stillness.

Because of course he did this.

Of course he went full poetic witch boy and made dessert materialize like a spell disguised in sugar and heat. Of course the whipped cream was melting just right, and the salt was flaked like it had been curated by a Pinterest witch with perfect fingernails, and the cookie looked like something that could ruin a girl’s entire coping mechanism.

She could almost hear her own heartbeat over the sizzle still fading from the pan.

And then she did smile.

Slow, wide, and dangerously close to fond.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, reaching for the candle with delicate fingers and holding it up between them. “You’re not escaping that witch boy title, just so we’re clear.”

She twirled the tiny candle between her thumb and forefinger, then looked up at him—eyes bright, one brow raised.

“You had this waiting, didn’t you?” she accused, though her voice was all warmth. “Started it while I was still pretending I wasn’t gonna stay.”

She shook her head, laughing under her breath.

“Unreal.”

And he was.

Unreal in that Everett James way—quietly devastating, full of memory and meaning, knowing exactly when to play the long game and exactly when to make her feel like the only person in the room.

She held up the candle again, a glint of wicked humor flashing behind her eyes.

“Alright, witch boy,” she said, deadpan. “Light it for me.”

A pause.

Then, with a dramatic flourish of her free hand:
“Unless the grease fire you almost summoned earlier used up your daily allotment of flame-based miracles.”

She leaned forward a little, elbow on the table, chin in her hand.

“I’m not blowing out a wish candle unless I’m sure it doesn’t end in sprinklers.”

But the truth?

She already knew what she’d wish for.

She just wasn’t ready to say it out loud. Not yet.

Instead, she waited—candle tilted gently toward him, her gaze steady and a little too tender.

Because if this was dessert?

If this was how the night ended?

Then damn it, it was already the sweetest thing she’d had in a decade.

Everett didn’t blink.

Didn’t look away.

Just watched her—watched the way she turned that tiny candle into something holy. Something playful. Something devastating.

God, he’d missed that.

Not the teasing. Not the jokes. Not even the heat humming between them like an old record still playing beneath the static.

No—he missed this. The way she made things mean something. The way she held a fucking candle like it could rewrite history if he lit it just right.

He smiled then.

Not a smirk. Not a grin.

Just that deep, quiet thing that stretched slow behind his eyes and made everything in him settle.

“I started it the second you walked through that door,” he said, voice low, rough with truth. “Didn’t know if you’d stay. Didn’t care. Just knew I needed to be ready if you did.”

And then he reached for his lighter—worn silver, the kind you keep even when it runs out because memory clings to it.

He clicked it once.

Twice.

Flame flared to life like it had been waiting too.

And when he leaned across the table, it wasn’t rushed.

It was reverent.

He lit the candle between them without breaking her gaze, heat from the tiny wick catching in her eyes, turning gold into something molten.

“Consider this your flame-based miracle,” he murmured. “One per customer.”

Then he leaned back, slow and easy, the way you do when you trust the moment to hold itself.

The candle flickered in the space between them, the skillet cookie steaming just faintly now, the scent of warm sugar and salt thick in the air.

And Everett?

He didn’t speak.

Just looked at her—really looked—like she was a wish he didn’t dare make again but couldn’t stop holding space for anyway.

Because he didn’t need to say blow it out.

He didn’t need to tell her what to wish for.

Hell, he didn’t even need her to wish.

She was here.

In his booth.

With his damn cookie.

And that—right now—was already enough to believe in.

Soleil didn’t move at first.

Didn’t blink either.

She just stared at the flame—small, steady, impossibly bright for something so ordinary. But nothing felt ordinary in this booth. Not with him watching her like that. Not with the sugar in the air and the heat still blooming in her chest.

I started it the second you walked through that door.

God.

Her throat went tight.

Because he meant it. Because it was so perfectly, infuriatingly Everett to do something that soft, that simple, that real—and act like it wasn’t the most romantic thing a person had ever done with a skillet and a candle.

She leaned forward slightly, elbows to table, candle cradled between her hands like it was the only thing anchoring her to the moment.

“Flame-based miracle accepted,” she said softly, voice not quite steady but still laced with that Sol edge. “Though I’m still calling it a health code violation if the table catches fire.”

She glanced up at him, smile breaking through—wider now, brighter, like it had nowhere else to go but out.

And for a second?

She didn’t feel like the girl who hadn’t told the truth yet.

Didn’t feel like a question mark or a past mistake or someone trying to rewrite her story from the middle.

She just felt like her.

The version of Soleil that only existed in places like this. With people like him.

Her eyes dipped to the candle again.

She didn’t close them.

Didn’t make a show of it.

Just inhaled once, slow, and blew.

The flame danced once before it died, leaving behind a thin curl of smoke and a warmth that lingered far longer than it should’ve.

She didn’t say what she wished for.

But when she looked at Everett again, it was already written all over her face.

Hope.

A little wrecked. A little wild.

But real.

“Alright,” she said, nudging the skillet between them with the spoon. “You brought the miracle. Least I can do is share the cookie.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—more vulnerable, but still her:

“Just don’t think this gets you out of the art duel, witch boy.”

Because she’d always needed to meet gravity with defiance.

Even when it felt like flying.

Everett didn’t touch the spoon.

Not yet.

He just stared at her—at the soft wreckage of her smile, the faint shimmer in her eyes that looked suspiciously like hope, the ghost of smoke curling between them like a secret too sacred to say aloud.

And something inside him broke open.

Not painfully. Not violently. Just… completely.

Because she didn’t have to tell him what she wished for.

He saw it in the way she blew out that candle like it was a contract. A prayer. A surrender. He saw it in the way she held his gaze afterward like it might tether her to something steadier than doubt.

And fuck, she was still so her.

Still bold enough to make jokes in the same breath she left him breathless. Still wild enough to turn a diner booth into holy ground. Still the only person who could look at a skillet cookie and make him feel like he was holding the goddamn universe in his hands.

He leaned in again—elbows on the table now, close enough that his voice dropped low without trying.

“You know I’m not gonna go easy on you in this art duel,” he said, eyes flicking to the napkin sketches between them. “I’ve upgraded to marginally better shading since 2016.”

Then, softer, slower:

“But I’ll let you win… if you promise to stay long enough for round two.”

His fingers found the spoon finally—not to scoop up the first bite, but to offer it to her.

Held out between them like a truce.

Like a promise.

Like he was inviting her to take the first step and the last bite.

The corners of his mouth lifted, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile—just that half-lit curve she used to call his tell.

Because he was all in.

Even if she wasn’t ready to say it.

Even if she had to leave again before she could come back for real.

He was here.

In this booth.

With her.

And that skillet?

Yeah.

It was made for sharing.

Soleil didn’t take the spoon right away.

She just stared at it.

At him.

At the way he held it between them—not as bait. Not as a line. But as something honest. Gentle. Earned.

And for one sharp second, it almost undid her.

Because Everett James, with his quiet hands and that goddamn look in his eyes, wasn’t just offering her dessert.

He was offering space.

To stay.
To breathe.
To belong.

And God, he made it look so easy.

Her gaze drifted down to the napkins between them—the chili fry in a crown, the coffee mug with a spatula, the careless little drawings that meant more than most of the museum pieces she’d stood in front of in the past decade.

She shook her head slightly, like she could laugh it off. Like it wasn’t all sinking in beneath her ribs.

“Round two, huh?” she murmured, finally taking the spoon from his fingers. Her touch lingered, just for a moment. “That’s ambitious for someone who nearly caused a grease fire before noon.”

She scooped a bite from the center of the cookie—molten, sweet, perfect—and held it up like a dare. Like a peace offering. Like a beginning.

Then she took the bite herself.

Eyes fluttered shut for half a second as the warmth melted across her tongue.

A sound escaped her—small, involuntary, wholly indecent.

She opened her eyes and pointed the spoon at him like it was loaded.

“Okay,” she said, licking chocolate from the corner of her mouth. “I knew you were trying to seduce me with food.”

Another bite. Slower this time.

“But this is… cheating.”

She passed him the spoon.

Not just handed it back—offered it, with a look that held equal parts fire and something much softer.

Something that said don’t run even though she hadn’t said it to herself yet.

“You win this round, Everett,” she said, voice light, but her eyes—God, her eyes—were anything but. “But just so we’re clear…”

She leaned in, just enough to steal back a little air between them.

“You let me win, and I’m making you pay for it in round three.”

Then she smiled—bright, biting, beautiful.

Because this?

This was her saying yes.

Not forever.

Not yet.

But now.

And now was already more than she'd thought she’d get.

Everett watched her like he’d been waiting years for this exact version of her to walk back in—not the curated one, not the careful one, but her. Hair a little wild, lips stained with ketchup and heat, eyes bright with challenge and something dangerously close to hope.

When her fingers brushed his, he didn’t pull back. Didn’t flinch.

He leaned in.

Let that quiet contact settle between them, low and warm, like a hand on the back of the neck after a long day. Like muscle memory. Like ritual.

When she passed him the spoon, he didn’t just take it—he received it. Like it meant something. Because with her, it always did.

And when he scooped into the skillet again, he didn’t rush.

He went slow.

Got the part just off-center—where the edge was crisp, the center still molten, the chocolate still whispering secrets into the sugar.

The kind of bite you remember.

He didn’t look at the cookie.

He looked at her.

Her fingers still curved around her side of the plate like she couldn’t decide whether to defend it or surrender it. Her lashes low. Her smile playing it cool, but not quite reaching the corner where real things live.

That was the part he’d always loved.

Not the fire. Not the bite.

The truth beneath it.

He took the bite, let the flavor roll over his tongue like memory, and gave her a crooked, knowing grin.

“Round three’s gonna kill me, isn’t it,” he said, voice a little rough now—lower, like the sugar had melted into something else in his chest.

His hand moved again—slower this time—until his pinky found hers beneath the napkin stack. No grand gesture. Just skin against skin. Pressure where it counted.

And he held her there.

Not tightly.

Steadily.

“I’ll pay for it,” he said, not blinking. “Every round.”

A breath passed between them—shared, stolen, maybe both.

And then softer. Truer. Like he wasn’t just speaking into the moment, but into the space she hadn’t let anyone else touch in years.

“You’re worth it.”

He meant it with everything in him.

The grease in his hair. The tension in his shoulders. The coffee on his breath and the skillet between them and the ten thousand seconds that had passed since she last said his name like it still mattered.

He watched her then—not waiting for a response.

Just being there for it.

Because this?

This wasn’t a booth anymore.

It was a homecoming.

And if Everett James was still the man he used to be?

Then he wasn’t going anywhere.

She let the silence sit for a second longer—just long enough to feel it.

The warmth of his pinky against hers. The weight of his words settling low in her chest like something that didn’t ask to be carried, just held. And maybe that was what wrecked her the most.

He meant it.

Not like a line. Not like something he was saying to make her stay a little longer.

But like he saw her.

Still.

Always.

She scooped another bite from the skillet, slow and deliberate, and let the chocolate melt on her tongue like it deserved reverence. Her gaze never left his. That crooked smile of his. The heat behind it. The steadiness in his touch.

God, he was unreal.

And of course—of course—he was the kind of man who would run a diner with his sleeves rolled up and his heart on the table like it belonged there. Who would hand her a spoon like it was sacred and flirt like it meant something. Because with her?

It did.

She swallowed, licked a bit of chocolate from her thumb, and arched a brow at him—eyes half-lidded, mouth tilted in that slow, sharp smirk that had always gotten her into trouble.

“Tell me something, chef,” she said, drawing out the word like a challenge. “How the hell do you run an establishment like this when you’re too busy seducing your customers with flame-based miracles and emotional depth?”

She tilted her head. Let the sass drip slow, sugar-laced and laced with something sweeter.

“I mean, if this is the service, I can only assume the health department’s letting a lot slide.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—more pointed, more her:

“Unless I’m the only one who gets the full show.”

She meant it as a tease. She did.

But the flicker in her voice said otherwise. Said she wanted to know. Said she knew there were probably girls in New York—maybe even some since he came back. Girls who got the grin, the skillet cookies, the soft eyes.

But none of them mattered.

They were his placeholders. His warm bodies. His Lucas-es.

Good. Fine. Convenient.

But not her.

And when she leaned in again, resting her chin in her hand and twirling the spoon like it was a wand or a weapon, her tone dropped to something lower. Something honest.

“I’m not judging,” she added. “I just need to know if I’ve got competition in this art duel… or if I’m already the reigning champion and no one else got close.”

There was a smile in it.

But her eyes?

All fire.

All fight.

All heart.

And yeah, maybe she was dangerous with a pen.

But the truth?

She’d always been more dangerous with want.

Everett didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t look away from the goddamn force of her, sitting there like sin wrapped in starlight, eyes sharp enough to cut and warm enough to melt everything they touched. Spoon twirling like she could summon thunder with it. That voice—taunting, laced in heat and humor and something too real to be safe.

And he took it all.

Every word. Every inch of that challenge.

And he smiled.

Not his usual grin—the one he wore for locals and late-night regulars. No, this one was slower. Deeper. Built from years of knowing exactly what she was doing and loving her more for it.

He reached for the skillet again. Took another bite, casual as hell. Let her watch him chew like he had nowhere else to be. Like this was the only place that mattered. And then he set the spoon down, leaned in on one forearm, voice low and rough around the edges.

“You think I bring this skillet out for just anyone?” he said, quiet but loaded, eyes locked on hers. “You think I draw chili-fry royalty and spatula knights on napkins for every pretty face that slides into Booth 3?”

He gave her a once-over, slow as molasses. Then met her eyes again, dead serious now.

“Nah.”

A pause.

Then, softer—deadly honest:

“None of ‘em were ever you.”

The air between them tightened, like the booth had turned into something holy and he had just knelt in it.

He let the silence stretch.

Let her feel it.

Then, with a slow smile that was all Everett—steadfast and a little smug, because she’d walked right into the truth and he knew it—he reached out again, fingers brushing hers beneath the table.

“Besides,” he added, letting his thumb graze the side of hers, deliberate, gentle, real, “if anyone tried to compete in this so-called art duel, you’d have wiped the floor with ‘em before they even uncapped a pen.”

A heartbeat passed.

Then, lower—hoarse, intimate, like something old and sacred:

“Sol… there was no one else.”

And that was it.

No grand speech. No defense.

Just truth.

Delivered plain. Offered steady.

Because if she was finally going to ask the real question—the one tucked behind every quip, every loaded glance, every bite of chocolate and flirt and fire—then he wasn’t going to dodge it.

He was going to meet it.

Meet her.

Like he always had.

Soleil didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t fire back. Didn’t deflect with one of her usual barbs or throwaway lines that tasted like protection dressed up as punchlines.

She just looked at him.

Eyes fixed. Breath stilled. Every part of her going quiet except the pulse hammering in her throat.

Because fuck.

That was the kind of answer you don’t expect.
The kind that knocks something loose in you.
The kind you spend years pretending you don’t need—until suddenly, it’s sitting across from you in a cracked vinyl booth, spoken like gospel over a half-eaten dessert.

There was no one else.

And it wasn’t just what he said.

It was how he said it.
Like it wasn’t up for negotiation.
Like the truth of her had been carved into his bones so long ago, there wasn’t room for anyone else to take root.

Her fingers flexed beneath the table, curling lightly around his.

Steady now.

Not playful. Not teasing.

Just there.

And maybe that was the answer she’d been looking for all night.

Not to the question about other girls.
But to the question about her.

Whether she still mattered.
Whether he still saw her.
Whether it still meant something—that chaos they used to create in the quiet corners of this place, in the stretch of his sheets, in the lines of every sketch she left behind.

Apparently?

It did.

And God help her, that wrecked her.

But still—Soleil wasn’t the kind of girl who left silence unshaken.

So when she finally did speak, it was softer than before, but no less her.

“Well,” she said, lips twitching into something that almost looked like relief disguised as arrogance, “I am tough competition.”

A beat.

Then the corner of her mouth lifted—slow, crooked, wicked.

“And for the record, I didn’t think you drew fries in crowns for just anyone. I just needed to hear you say it.”

Her thumb brushed his now, barely there.

And when she looked at him again, there was no mask left.

Just heat. And heart.

And the unmistakable expression of a woman who’d been waiting too long to believe in something—and just maybe, finally, was.

“I’m not asking for everything,” she said, voice low, deliberate. “Not yet.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“But I’ll take this.”

Her gaze flicked down to their hands. The cookie. The candle wax cooling between them.

“This booth. This night.”

She met his eyes again, steady as a vow.

And for once?

That was enough.