The Evergreen Community Center sits just off Main Street, tucked between the library and the old post office, its brick exterior softened by climbing ivy and the pale glow of string lights that stay up year-round. The sign out front — Evergreen Community Center & Ice Pavilion — is painted forest green with gold lettering, a little weathered at the edges but always freshly polished before each winter season.

Inside, the building hums with the low buzz of everyday life. The main lobby smells faintly of coffee and pine-scented cleaner, the air always cooler than it should be. Flyers cover the corkboard by the front desk — everything from pottery classes to youth hockey schedules to “Family Skate Fridays.”

Down the hall, the sound of laughter and skate blades against ice drifts through the doors to the rink. The Evergreen Ice Pavilion is the heart of it all — a full-size indoor rink enclosed in aged glass panels and steel beams that echo every cheer, whistle, and scrape. The overhead lights cast a soft white glow over the ice, and a vintage scoreboard hangs from the rafters, its red numbers flickering now and then like it knows the building’s history.

Wooden bleachers line one side, filled with families, friends, and the occasional pair of bundled-up locals sipping cocoa from the concession stand. Behind the boards, the smell of Zamboni fuel mixes with popcorn and cold air — a scent anyone from Evergreen could recognize in a heartbeat.

The community’s rec hockey teams practice here most weeknights. Kids chase pucks in hand-me-down gear while coaches shout encouragement from the bench. Adults skate later in the evenings — the “Rec League Regulars,” a mix of former players, teachers, and firefighters who show up for the love of the game more than the score.

On Saturdays, when the rink lights dim and the sound system kicks in, it turns into public skate night — all pop songs, twinkle lights, and shy first dates holding hands in the center circle.

It’s more than a rink — it’s the pulse of the town in winter. The place where everyone ends up eventually, whether for practice, cocoa, or the comfort of knowing that even in the cold, there’s always warmth here.

The Evergreen Community Center was colder than she remembered — that kind of clean, crisp cold that made her breath cloud as soon as she stepped inside. The hum of the overhead lights, the scrape of blades on ice, the sharp whistle that cut through the chatter — it all hit her at once, familiar and foreign at the same time.

Ellie adjusted the scarf around her neck, balancing two steaming coffees in one hand and a small white paper bag in the other. The bag smelled like cinnamon sugar and guilt — mostly because she’d already eaten half a donut on the way here.

Through the glass, she saw him before anything else.

Tyler Harrison.

He was out on the ice in a black team jacket and joggers, skates carving clean lines across the surface. The whistle hung loose around his neck, the name tag on his chest slightly crooked. He wasn’t there for a game or a workout — this was his day off from the semi-pro circuit, but apparently “day off” didn’t mean much when someone asked for help. His friend Mark, the youth league coach, had lost his voice midweek, and Tyler had agreed to fill in for a couple of sessions.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. That was who he was now — the version of him who showed up, quietly, without fanfare. The one who didn’t need to prove anything, just liked being useful.

Ellie hadn’t planned to come. But she’d been up early, the bakery had opened with a new batch of cider donuts, and somehow she’d ended up here — with two coffees, a bag of sugar-dusted bribes, and no real excuse other than wanting to see him like this.

He moved differently here — not like the showboating twenty-year-old she used to watch under flashing lights and roaring crowds, but easy and sure. Steady. The kind of presence that made everyone around him a little calmer.

Ellie stood near the glass, the cold biting through her gloves as she watched him crouch to adjust a kid’s helmet, point out a better stance, and offer a small nod of approval. The kids were a mess of energy — helmets crooked, gloves oversized, one of them clearly trying to sneak a snowball onto the ice — but Tyler handled it all with a patience that made her chest ache a little.

He looked good out there. Like someone who finally knew how to stay still without feeling trapped.

When he finally spotted her through the glass, she raised one of the coffees in a small wave. His grin came easy, instinctive, the kind that warmed her faster than the cup in her hand ever could.

He said something to the assistant coach, handed off the whistle, and skated toward the boards.

Ellie waited, shifting her weight to one hip, pretending she wasn’t counting the seconds it took for him to step off the ice.

He crossed the short distance toward her, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair damp under the overhead lights. She handed him the coffee before he could reach for it, her smile half teasing. “Breakfast delivery for the hardest-working man on his supposed day off.”

The paper bag rustled as she pulled it open, holding it out between them. “And donuts,” she added. “Because I’m a good influence like that.”

He didn’t respond — just gave her that look, the one that always carried a trace of amusement, a little bit of disbelief, and something else softer beneath it.

She grinned, unbothered. “Don’t argue, Harrison. You’ll lose.”

The whistle blew again from across the rink — one of the assistants calling the kids back into line. Ellie glanced toward the ice, then back at him. “Go on, coach,” she said, her tone lighter than she felt. “They’re about to mutiny.”

He hesitated just long enough for her to notice before turning back toward the ice, the easy rhythm of his stride making the whole thing look effortless.

Ellie sank onto the bench near the boards, coffee warming her hands as the kids shuffled back into position. Tyler gave a few quick pointers, corrected someone’s stance, then let the whistle fall around his neck again.

Watching him like this — calm, steady, quietly sure — felt different. Not the ache of missing him or the sharp relief of forgiving him, but something else entirely. Something that felt like home sneaking back in through the side door.

She smiled to herself, eyes tracking him as he guided one of the younger skaters by the shoulders, his tone patient and his posture relaxed. He’d always been good at this — with people, with moments like this — even when he didn’t believe it.

For a second, she let herself picture him years from now — still at some rink, still wearing that same jacket, still that same mix of confident and gentle. Maybe with a little boy who looked just like him chasing a puck down the ice.

The thought hit her unexpectedly hard.

She took another sip of coffee, blinking against the sting behind her eyes, and exhaled a quiet laugh. “Dangerous,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. “You’re still dangerous.”

But she didn’t leave.

She just stayed there — quiet, grounded — watching him move through the morning light, a man she’d already chosen and would choose again, every single time.

Tyler leaned on his stick for a second, catching his breath and trying not to look like he was. The rink air bit sharp against his skin, the kind of cold that crept under your collar but kept you awake. He took a slow sip from the coffee Ellie had brought — perfect timing, as usual — and let the heat sink into his hands.

He wasn’t going to say it out loud, but damn, this was better than he expected.

Mark had called in a favor, and Tyler owed him. He hadn’t forgotten that night — the one where Mark covered for him after he’d stormed out on Ellie, back when Tyler still thought being reckless was the same as being free. If Mark hadn’t stepped in, he would’ve lost more than his spot on the roster. So yeah, showing up here for a few Saturday sessions was the least he could do.

He’d told Ellie he was just helping out because Mark needed a hand. Let her think it was that simple. It sounded better than I’m still cleaning up old messes and pretending it’s community service.

Still, he couldn’t lie — the kids made it easy to forget the rest. Half of them didn’t even know how to tie their skates, and the other half were too busy talking trash in voices that cracked every other word. He saw himself in all of them — the clumsy ones, the cocky ones, the ones still trying to look cool while figuring it out.

And somehow, he’d become the cool older guy.

That thought almost made him laugh.

He finished his coffee, letting the cup dangle from his fingers while he watched the smallest kid — a boy with a helmet slightly too big and mismatched socks — trying to chase a puck that clearly had a mind of its own. Tyler crouched, motioning the kid closer. “Hey, slow down, champ. You’re not late for the bus. Watch your stick — that’s it. Keep your knees loose. You’re fightin’ it too much.”

The kid grinned up at him, cheeks red, and Tyler ruffled his helmet before sending him back toward the goal. Yeah, it was weird — seeing that look, the one that said you’re who I want to skate like when I’m older.

He hadn’t realized he missed that kind of respect — the quiet kind, earned through showing up, not showing off.

He stood, pushing off toward center ice, calling out a few more instructions as he went. His whistle hung loose around his neck, his voice easy, sure. Every now and then, he caught himself glancing toward the glass.

She was still there.

Ellie Tate, sitting on that bench with her hands wrapped around a cup, watching him like he was something steady instead of someone who used to run. Every time he looked up, he found her eyes — and every time, it threw him a little off balance in a way that felt good now, not dangerous.

He caught her laughing at something one of the kids did — a soft, real kind of laugh that curled under his ribs — and the corners of his mouth pulled into a smile he didn’t bother to hide.

By the time Mark’s assistant blew the whistle for wrap-up, he’d lost count of how many times he’d looked over at her. Probably enough to earn some teasing later.

“Alright, that’s it!” Tyler called, clapping his hands as the kids skated toward the gate. “Good work, all of you. Go grab your cocoa before it’s gone.”

The rink echoed with the scrape of blades and laughter as the kids clattered off, helmets half undone, gloves dragging. Tyler stayed back a moment, watching them go before skating toward the boards — toward her.

She was already standing, the paper bag in her hand and that faint, knowing smile on her lips.

He felt it before he even reached her — the warmth that always hit him like sunlight after being out in the cold too long.

Maybe he was here because of a favor.
But when she smiled at him like that, Tyler knew exactly why he stayed.

Ellie’s hands were still warm from the drive over, her fingers wrapped around the single paper cup she’d brought just for him. She hadn’t planned to say much at first — just watch, maybe drop off breakfast, slip out before he even noticed. But the second he looked her way, all that pretending melted off.

She caught his eye through the glass and lifted the white paper bag with a grin. “Before you ask — yes, these are bribes. Two of them. I figured even coaches need proper motivation.”

When he finally skated close enough to stop, she held out the coffee next, the steam curling between them. “Half-sweet, extra cream. I remembered,” she said lightly, watching the corner of his mouth twitch like it always did when she got something right.

She gestured toward the bag with a little shrug. “And donuts. Just the good kind — cinnamon sugar, no glaze, still warm. I only brought two, so you’re kind of stuck sharing with me.”

Her eyes flicked to the ice, where the last of the kids were scrambling toward the benches. “You’re good with them, Ty. Really good.” She paused, her smile softening as she watched one of the smallest players wave at him before disappearing down the tunnel. “They listen to you. I don’t think you even realize it, but they do.”

She looked back at him, the grin returning. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. You’ll start charging appearance fees or demanding a locker-room donut clause.”

The sound of the rink settled into an easy hum — faint laughter, metal scraping against concrete — and she held his gaze for a beat longer than she meant to. “You look happy out here,” she said quietly, her voice gentler now. “It’s nice. Seeing you like this.”

Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she tipped her head toward the paper bag again, that playful spark sliding back into her tone. “Now, before those kids figure out who brought the sugar, we should probably eat these. Otherwise, they’ll mutiny, and you’ll be explaining to Mark why his cocoa hour turned into chaos.”

Her smile curved as she nodded toward the benches. “Come on, Coach Harrison. I’ll share if you sit still long enough.”

She started toward the nearest row of seats, her laugh soft and easy over her shoulder. “But fair warning — I get the bigger one.”

Tyler skated to a stop, the blade edge biting into the ice with that clean, satisfying scrape he’d always loved. His hair was damp from the chill, his breath visible when he laughed — a low, rough sound that carried the same energy as the grin already forming on his face.

“Half-sweet, extra cream?” he repeated, taking the coffee from her hand, his fingers brushing hers for just a second longer than they needed to. “You make it sound like I’m high maintenance.” He took a sip, let the warmth settle, and gave a little nod. “...Alright, yeah. That’s perfect. Guess I can’t even fake being mysterious when you’ve got my order memorized.”

When she held up the bag, his grin widened. “Bribes, huh? You think that’s all it takes to win me over?” He tilted his head, lowering his voice as if to let her in on a secret. “You’re right. It absolutely does.”

He followed her glance toward the ice, the corners of his mouth tugging up again when one of the kids waved his stick in his direction. “Don’t tell me I’m good with them,” he said, voice light but teasing. “You’ll ruin my whole ‘grumpy hockey guy who doesn’t do feelings’ image.” He leaned closer, eyes glinting with humor. “I can’t have parents thinking I actually like children. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Then, a beat — softer, quieter. “But thanks,” he added, his tone losing that edge of play. “They’re fun. Kinda makes me feel like I’m seeing a younger version of me out there — just with less hair and slightly better coordination.”

He took another sip of coffee, squinting toward the benches as the kids clattered off the ice. “And for the record, the donut clause is genius. I’m stealing that for next season.”

When she told him he looked happy, something in his expression shifted — not gone, just gentled. He tilted his head, a half smile flickering through. “Yeah?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, trying for casual but not quite landing it. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got this whole brooding thing going, and it really falls apart if I start smiling too much.”

But the truth lingered under the teasing — he was happy. Happier than he’d been in a long time. And standing there, watching her with that stupid bag of donuts, he didn’t even try to hide it.

When she started walking toward the benches, tossing that over-the-shoulder line about getting the bigger one, he let out a laugh that echoed faintly through the rink. “Unbelievable. You bring two donuts and already claim dibs on the bigger one? You know, I used to think you were sweet, Tate.”

He stepped off the ice, skates clinking against the rubber mat, coffee still in hand as he followed her toward the seats. “Guess I’ll just have to settle for being bribed with half a donut and the privilege of your company. Tragic.”

He dropped onto the bench beside her, the boards humming with the faint chill of the rink, and nudged her knee with his own. “Alright, fine,” he said, smirking as he reached for the bag. “But if it’s the one with more sugar on top, I’m calling it divine intervention.”

He leaned back, that easy confidence settling in — the kind that used to cover all his mess but now just felt like him again, calmer, lighter. “You know,” he said after a moment, glancing sideways at her with that familiar spark, “if you keep showing up like this, people are gonna think I’ve gone soft.”

Then, almost under his breath — quieter, more honest — “Wouldn’t even mind if they did.”

Ellie tried — tried — not to smile when he called her high maintenance, but it was a losing battle. “You’re confusing high maintenance with well cared for,” she said, her tone light as she tipped her head toward him. “It’s called love language, Harrison. You just happen to speak caffeine fluently.”

When his fingers brushed hers, she pretended not to notice, focusing instead on adjusting the lid of his cup even though it didn’t need it. “Besides,” she added, feigning nonchalance, “you’re too predictable to be mysterious. You order the same thing every time, and you always think about changing it for, like, half a second before caving. You’re a creature of habit.”

He mentioned bribes, and she lifted the small white bag between them with mock pride. “I prefer to think of them as peace offerings,” she said, eyes glinting. “Made fresh this morning. Two cinnamon sugars. Limited edition — baker’s choice.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “And yes, that means I made them. You’re basically getting VIP treatment. Don’t get used to it.”

At his teasing about his “grumpy hockey guy” image, Ellie snorted, covering her laugh behind her coffee cup. “Right. So grumpy,” she said dryly. “You literally just high-fived a six-year-old and told him his stick handling was ‘legendary.’ Terrifying stuff, Coach.”

Her expression softened when his tone did. “They adore you,” she said simply. “You can tell. The little one in the blue helmet practically follows you with his eyes. You’re his hero.” Then, grinning: “Though I’m not sure whether to be jealous or honored.”

When he called the donut clause genius, she smiled smugly. “You’re welcome. I’ve trademarked it, actually. Anyone who tries to use it owes me lifetime coffee privileges.”

He looked almost shy when she said he looked happy, and Ellie tilted her head, watching him with something gentler behind her grin. “You can smile, you know,” she said softly. “The rink won’t collapse, I promise. Besides, brooding’s overrated. Happy looks better on you.”

She started walking before he could deflect, her tone playful again. “And yes, I’m taking the bigger donut. I’m the one with frosting under my nails — I’ve earned it.”

When his laugh followed her, she couldn’t help but glance back over her shoulder, smirking. “You used to think I was sweet? That’s rude. I still am — just selectively generous.”

She waited until he sat down beside her before passing the bag over, wiggling her brows. “You’re not settling, you’re being spoiled. And the privilege of my company comes with baked goods. You’re welcome.”

When he reached for the bag, she nudged his hand away just once before giving in. “Fine,” she said, mock stern. “But if you get the one with more sugar, I’m calling favoritism from the universe.”

He leaned back, looking at her the way he always did when the world around them finally went quiet. And when he made that last comment — soft, almost to himself — Ellie smiled into her cup before glancing at him, voice teasing but warm.

“Oh, they’ll think you’ve gone soft,” she said. “Especially once they see the donut powder on your hoodie. But don’t worry, Coach…” she bumped his shoulder, her grin turning a little softer, “I’ll still pretend you’re intimidating.”

Tyler smirked as he took the bag from her, the crinkle of paper mixing with the faint scrape of skates echoing in the background. “Selective generosity, huh?” he said, tone low and amused. “I’ll remember that next time you ask me to get up early for the farmer’s market. Gonna tell the guys my girlfriend bribes me with baked goods—real dangerous precedent you’re setting here, Tate.”

He opened the bag and peered inside, pretending to weigh his options like the fate of the free world depended on it. “You said you earned the bigger one, right?” he murmured, his grin pulling slow and sideways. “Good. I was gonna let you have it anyway.” He held her gaze as he handed her the larger donut, a playful glint in his eye. “See? I’m not all ego and bad decisions. Sometimes I do the noble thing.”

She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, and he laughed quietly — that unguarded, boyish sound that used to only come out after midnight. “Don’t look so shocked. I’ve got range.”

He tore off a piece of the smaller one for himself, brushing the cinnamon sugar from his thumb before licking it away. “Damn,” he said around a small bite, still smirking. “Alright, you win. I’d probably sign a ten-year contract if you kept showing up with these.”

When she bumped his shoulder, he leaned back into it — not enough to push, just enough to feel her there. “Let ‘em think I’ve gone soft,” he said with a lazy shrug, though the warmth in his tone betrayed the teasing edge. “Could be worse things to be called.”

He glanced sideways at her then, watching the way the light hit her profile — the soft pink on her cheeks, the curl of her smile as she pretended not to notice him staring. There was something about her sitting there in this old rink, coffee cup in hand, sugar on her lips, that made the whole world feel like it had finally slowed down enough for him to breathe.

He rubbed his thumb over the side of the paper cup, eyes still on her. “You know,” he said, quieter now, the grin still playing at the corner of his mouth, “I used to think this kinda thing wasn’t me. The early mornings, the kids, the donuts, the… peace of it all.” He paused, shrugging lightly. “Guess I was wrong.”

Then, softer — more real: “Could get used to this. You. Us. All of it.”

He turned his head slightly, his smile softening as his gaze lingered on her. “Used to think I needed noise to feel alive,” he admitted. “Turns out, I just needed something real.”

His tone dropped lower, steadier. “And you, Tate…” He brushed his thumb against the edge of her hand, a ghost of a touch that carried everything he didn’t say out loud. “You make it real.”

Ellie couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face, soft and helpless. “Selective generosity is called balance,” she said, eyes glinting as she pretended to sound serious. “Besides, I don’t recall asking you to go to the farmer’s market. You volunteered. With enthusiasm. There were witnesses.” She tilted her head, feigning deep thought. “Though, if baked goods are the currency now, I’m pretty sure I can afford a few more favors.”

When he mentioned telling the guys about his “girlfriend bribing him,” her stomach fluttered, that word still landing in her chest like a spark every time he said it. She laughed quietly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, real dangerous,” she teased. “Next thing you know, you’ll be showing up to practice with cookies and emotional availability. Scary times.”

She took the bigger donut from his hand, fighting a grin. “Oh, you were gonna let me have it?” she asked, voice laced with mock disbelief. “Wow, my hero. Next thing I know, you’ll be holding doors and calling your mom.” Her eyes softened though, and she added, gentler, “Thank you. For the record, this counts as character development.”

His laugh drew her in, warm and easy, and she found herself staring at him like she was still trying to memorize him — the crinkle near his eyes, the way his shoulders finally looked relaxed, how much lighter his voice had become. “Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured when he teased about having range, her grin tugging higher. “You’re already dangerously close to being wholesome, and I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of power shift.”

When he took a bite of the smaller donut, she watched, hiding her smile behind her coffee cup. “Oh, you’d sign a ten-year contract?” she teased softly. “That’s bold talk for someone who once thought cooking pasta was an extreme sport. But yeah… I think I could live with that.”

His comment about going soft made her heart ache in that quiet, good way — the kind that came when she realized just how far they’d come. “You’re allowed to be soft,” she said simply, bumping his shoulder again. “Soft looks good on you, anyway.”

When he started to talk about the life he used to picture — all the noise, the chaos, the things he thought made him feel alive — she listened, her chest tightening in that familiar, too-full way. She turned slightly toward him, watching the way the light brushed against the curve of his jaw. “It suits you,” she said quietly. “This… peace thing. You wear it well. I don’t think you even realize how different you sound when you talk like that.”

Then he said you, and her breath hitched.

Her hand stilled on the cup, her smile faltering into something smaller — something real. “I still have to pinch myself sometimes,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I look at you, and I just… I can’t believe this is us.”

Her eyes flicked to where his thumb brushed her hand, that small, grounding touch that said more than any words could. “You know what’s funny?” she added softly, a tiny laugh breaking through. “For so long, I thought I wanted big, dramatic, movie-type love — the kind that feels like fireworks.” She paused, smiling at him with quiet awe. “But this? Sitting in a cold rink, drinking coffee you didn’t even pay for, talking about donuts and farmer’s markets? This feels better. Realer. Like the kind of thing I don’t have to wake up from.”

She looked down, then back up at him, her eyes glassy but bright. “You make it real too,” she said, voice steady but trembling at the edges. “Every single day.”

Then, smiling again — small and teasing, but full of everything she couldn’t quite say — she nudged his leg with hers. “Though if you ever tell anyone I said something that sappy,” she warned lightly, “I’ll deny it and claim low blood sugar

Tyler huffed out a laugh, shaking his head like he was trying to cover the smile that was already pulling at his mouth. “Low blood sugar, huh?” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, sure. That’s definitely what that was.”

He leaned back on the bench, the old wood groaning faintly beneath their weight. The chill from the rink crept up through the boards, curling around his ankles, but between her and the coffee, it was the kind of cold that didn’t really reach him. The kind that made everything sharper—the hum of the lights overhead, the faint echo of skates in the distance, the soft sound of her breathing beside him.

“Don’t worry,” he went on, grinning sideways at her. “Your secret’s safe. I’ll just tell everyone you got sentimental because you were overwhelmed by my natural charm and unparalleled donut-sharing skills.” He took another sip of his coffee, eyes glinting with humor over the rim. “That’ll sound more believable anyway.”

The steam from his cup drifted between them, twisting into the faint scent of cinnamon and sugar. He caught her gaze for a second, the teasing easing into something quieter. “But for the record,” he said, his tone softening, “you don’t have to pinch yourself. This—” he gestured vaguely around the rink, at the empty bleachers and the faint glow of the ice “—this is real. Probably the realest thing I’ve ever had.”

He set the cup down between his skates, rubbing his palms together for warmth. “Crazy, right? I used to think ‘real’ meant noise. Winning. Always moving. But this?” He tilted his head toward her, voice dropping to something barely above a murmur. “Sitting here with you, pretending I’m not freezing, watching the world slow down for once… I think I could get used to that.”

A crooked grin tugged at his mouth again, softening the weight of his words. “And yeah, go ahead and deny the sappy stuff all you want,” he said. “But you’re not fooling anyone. You like this—me being a little less of an ass, you getting to call it character development. Admit it, Tate.”

He bumped her knee lightly with his, a teasing spark still flickering under the warmth in his voice. “Besides,” he added, leaning closer just enough for their shoulders to brush, “if this is what low blood sugar does to you, I’m keeping you fed forever.”

He smiled then—easy, unguarded, the kind of smile that reached his eyes—and for a long moment, the only sound between them was the faint hum of the rink and the soft crackle of old fluorescent lights overhead. The world outside could wait. For now, this was enough.

Ellie laughed quietly into her cup, shaking her head at him. “You really think you’re that charming, huh?” she teased, eyes sparkling. “Pretty sure the only thing I was overwhelmed by was secondhand embarrassment when you almost fell trying to stop earlier. Real graceful, Coach.”

She leaned back too, the bench creaking beneath them, her shoulder brushing his just slightly. The warmth of him bled through her coat, and she felt it—how easy it was to just sit here. No noise. No rush. Just him and this ridiculous rink that smelled like ice and cinnamon and home.

“And for the record,” she said, glancing over with a small grin, “I think your ‘donut-sharing skills’ are decent at best. You still tried to assess which one had more sugar. That’s not sharing. That’s strategy.”

But her voice softened a little when he started talking about what was real. She watched him, really watched him—the way his breath fogged the air, how the overhead light caught in his hair, how his smile lingered even when his words got quiet. “You’re right,” she said after a moment, her tone gentler. “It’s crazy. But it’s the good kind of crazy.” She nudged his arm with her elbow, her lips curving faintly. “The kind I could also get used to.”

Then, with mock indignation: “And don’t act like you’ve got me all figured out. I will deny any and all allegations of sappiness. I’m a professional, thank you very much. I have an image to maintain. My bakery can’t survive rumors about me being soft.”

When he bumped her knee, she bit back another smile. “See, there it is. That fake modesty. You think I don’t notice how you sneak in compliments and pretend it’s banter? You’re dangerously close to becoming likable.”

He leaned closer then, and her voice went a little quieter without meaning to. “And if you’re serious about keeping me fed forever,” she said, half whispering but with that familiar grin tugging at her lips, “I’m gonna hold you to it. Because I take snacks very seriously.”

She looked up at him again, eyes warm and steady. “Besides, you’ve kinda ruined other mornings for me now. It’s not nearly as fun making coffee when you’re not here to ruin the cream-to-sugar ratio.”

She smirked softly, tugging her sleeve over her hand to hide the slight blush on her cheeks. “So, what’s next on your Saturday of being soft? Gonna help the kids clean up cones, or should I brace myself for the motivational speech portion of the day?”

Her tone was playful again, but her gaze lingered—open, unhurried, entirely his. “Just so you know,” she added lightly, her voice almost drowned out by the hum of the rink, “you’re kind of my favorite version of real too.”

Then, with a crooked grin: “But don’t worry. I’ll tell everyone it’s just low blood sugar.”