Riley stood there for a second, stupidly still, like if she didn’t move, maybe she wouldn’t have to feel the way everything inside her twisted.

God.
She hated how much it hit her.
Hated how much she wanted to laugh and cry and sink straight into the floor all at once.

Because Ivy Whitmore was not supposed to be here.
Not supposed to still see her like this—half-steady, half-struggling, fists clenched tight around a bouquet like it could anchor her through the wreckage.

And yet… she was.
No judgment.
No old grudges.
Just… here.

Riley blinked hard, breathing in the heavy sweetness of the shop—roses, sage, lavender, life—and shook her head, the smallest, almost-shaky smile pulling at her mouth.

“God, Ivy,” she murmured, voice breaking on a half-laugh. “You always did know how to make a girl feel like she wasn’t completely alone, didn’t you?”

She dropped her gaze for a second, watching the slow curl of the ribbon under her thumb, the messy, imperfect knot she hadn’t bothered to fix.

“Even when I didn’t deserve it,” she added, quieter.

The truth of it sat there, thick and sour at the back of her throat. She hadn’t just drifted away from Ivy sophomore year—she’d left.
Cold.
Blunt.
Deliberate.

It hadn’t been fair.
And Riley knew it.
Had known it every time she caught a glimpse of Ivy at the market, or crossing Main Street, or lingering outside Whitmore Timepieces like she could still slow the world down if she just stood still long enough.

“I’m sorry,” Riley said, almost too low to hear, fingers stilling against the worktable. “For back then. For… all of it.”

The weight of the years between them settled thick around her ribs, but for the first time in a long time, Riley didn’t shove it away.

She let it sit.
Let it hurt.
Because Ivy deserved that.

She looked up again, and for the first time since Ivy had walked in, she let herself really see her—old cardigan, worn boots, book tucked under her arm like it was a shield she didn’t even pretend to use anymore.

Something in Riley’s chest cracked, clean and aching.

“I don’t know if I deserve people showing up for me after the way I left,” she said, voice rough. “But… thank you. For showing up anyway.”

The clock on the wall ticked.
The air smelled like rain.
Somewhere outside, a car door slammed and a dog barked.

But inside, it was just the two of them.
Two girls who had once known each other by heart.
Maybe still did, somewhere under all the wreckage.

Riley dragged in a breath, steadier now, and scrubbed the back of her hand quickly under one eye.

“And hey,” she added, voice lightening with a wobbly, crooked smile, “if it comes to flower pots, I call dibs on the big terracotta one by the window. Figure if I’m gonna get arrested, might as well go for maximum damage.”

She laughed—real this time, a little breathless, a little wrecked—and didn’t bother trying to hide it.

Didn’t bother pretending she wasn’t grateful Ivy was still standing there, arms loose, mouth tilted into something stubborn and kind and familiar.

Maybe not everything from before was gone.
Maybe some things—some people—found their way back, even after the storm had passed through.

Maybe this time, Riley wouldn’t let go so easily.

Not of herself.
Not of the people who stayed.

Ivy huffed out a quiet laugh, low and almost fond, like Riley had said something only half as ridiculous as she could've.
She pushed her hair back behind her ear with an absent gesture, then nudged the toe of her boot lightly against the leg of the worktable—just enough to make it creak in protest.

"First of all," Ivy said, voice dry as the cracked sidewalks outside, "I’m absolutely claiming the second-biggest pot. No way you’re having all the fun."

She shifted the book under her arm, giving Riley a look—half warning, half amusement.

"And if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. We both know the terracotta ones have better aim."

For a second, the world spun like it used to—back when afternoons stretched lazy and wide, back when forgiveness was woven into every joke before it even needed to be said.

Ivy tilted her head, letting the teasing fall away just enough to let something steadier slip through.

"And second," she added, more gently now, "you don’t have to deserve it, Riley."

A small shrug, easy and weightless.

"Sometimes you just get lucky enough that the people who mattered once… still do."

She didn’t make a big deal about the apology.
Didn’t dive into the past or poke at the bruises Riley had already dragged into the open.

Because Ivy knew the difference between a wound that needed stitching—and one that just needed someone to sit beside it until it stopped bleeding.

She tucked the loose strap of her bag higher up on her shoulder and nodded once, simple and sure.

"You’re stuck with me now," Ivy said, a grin ghosting across her mouth. "Sorry about your luck."

And then, because it was Ivy, and because she couldn’t help herself, she added with a glint:

"Especially if you’re planning on stockpiling flower pots. I have ideas."

She leaned lightly against the counter again, like she’d never left it, like she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Not unless Riley shoved her out the door herself.

Ivy Whitmore woke up with the faint taste of moonshine on her tongue and the unsettling feeling that maybe—just maybe—last night had been a dream.

Not the part with the spring festival lights or the folk band playing softly beneath the gazebo.
No, that had happened. She had the flyer in her coat pocket to prove it.

It was the other part—the porch swing. The silence. The way Nate had looked at her like she was the only fixed point in a world that had never made room for stillness.
That part felt unreal. Like something folded between the pages of an old storybook. Something borrowed.

But the faint prickle of leftover warmth behind her ribs told her it had been real.
It had happened.
And she couldn’t pretend it hadn’t.

Eames was not interested in her introspection.
The moment she stirred, he launched himself onto the blanket-draped foot of the bed with a grating, impatient mrrrow, tail flicking like punctuation.

"Yes, yes, I know," Ivy mumbled, swinging her legs over the side and rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. "The world revolves around your breakfast. I remember."

She padded across the old wood floor of the loft, feeding Eames with the same precise scoop she always used. But instead of curling up with her usual lavender mug, she poured her morning tea into a battered to-go cup.
There wasn’t time for comfort today.

She dressed in layers that felt familiar—oxford shoes with worn soles, girly ankle socks with lace at the cuffs, a soft vintage skirt in faded rose, her favorite cream cardigan over a pale blouse with a Peter Pan collar.
Sweet. Soft.
Easier to wear than anything complicated.

She didn’t put on lipstick.
Didn’t bother curling her lashes.

Just twisted her hair into a low knot and tucked her keys into her bag before stepping out onto Main Street.

It was warm already, sunlight creeping down the sidewalk in lazy ribbons, but Ivy swore she could feel the chill of the night before still clinging to her spine.
The memory of his voice.
The quiet between them.
The swing, still rocking when she went back inside.

She walked the familiar path, her shoes tapping gently on the pavement, past the antique bookstore, past the old barber’s pole that hadn’t spun in years.

And even though the greetings were the same—"Morning, Ivy!" from Mr. Callahan outside the hardware store, a nod from Millie at the coffee stand—there was something different today.

Something in the way they looked at her.

Not unkind.
Not accusatory.

Just… knowing.

Like maybe someone had seen them. Like maybe word had already started winding its way through Bedford Falls like ivy up a garden trellis—quiet, steady, impossible to stop.

Ivy kept walking.
Didn’t falter.
Didn’t flinch.

She just sipped her tea and smiled softly, politely, like a girl with nothing to hide. Like the quiet from the night before wasn’t still trailing her like a second shadow.

By the time she reached the flower shop, the chime of the little bell above the door felt too loud.
Too sharp.

But she didn’t pause.
Didn’t wait for permission.

She stepped inside with the kind of calm that only people who’ve learned how to stay invisible can master—though for once, she wasn’t planning to disappear.

She owed Riley a conversation.
She owed her honesty.
Before the whispers started curling too loud around the corners of their lives.

The bell above the door gave its usual polite jingle, sharp against the hush of morning blooms and soil-scented air. Ivy stepped inside with a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, letting the door fall closed behind her with a soft click.

It smelled like rosemary and honeysuckle and the faint tang of cut stems—of Riley.

She took a few steps in, her shoes clicking lightly on the worn tile, and spotted her at the worktable, head bent over a small bundle of white lisianthus like she was trying to coax them into a secret.

Ivy cleared her throat, not loudly—just enough.

“Before you hear it from Mrs. Avery or someone in line at the post office,” she said gently, dry amusement threading her words, “I figured I’d better be the one to say it.”

Riley straightened slightly, brows lifting in that curious, cautious way Ivy remembered too well. Before she could ask anything, Ivy offered the rest:

“I spent some time with your ex-fiancé last night.”

Then, as if to soften the blow—and maybe herself a little too—she added:

“Mostly talking. No pitchforks. No police reports. No one got hexed.”

She gave a soft shrug, both casual and deliberate, her tea still cradled between her palms.

“I just thought you deserved to know before the gossip machine kicks into second gear and invents something involving scandal, sorcery, and a hidden baby.”

She smiled, just a flicker of a thing—barely there, but real.

And then, like she always used to when they were younger and she’d offered Riley an uncomfortable truth, Ivy added more gently:

“I’m not here to make it worse. Just didn’t want you caught off guard.”

She didn’t move further into the shop yet. Didn’t sit.
She was giving Riley the space to decide what happened next.

But she was there.
Fully, openly, quietly there.

Just like she always had been.

Riley didn’t answer right away.

She couldn’t.

Not with the way her pulse surged suddenly in her throat—sharp and clumsy, like it had tripped over its own feet. Not with the way Ivy’s voice, so steady and maddeningly calm, cut through the quiet of the shop like a page turning in a book she hadn’t meant to reread.

“I spent some time with your ex-fiancé last night.”

The words rang out like church bells. Not cruel. Not loud. But impossible to ignore.

Her fingers stilled over the bundle of lisianthus, one stem bent just slightly at the edge, crushed in her tightening grip. She released it without looking down, placing it aside with too much care. Almost surgical.

She could feel Ivy’s presence at the edge of the room—not looming, not intruding. Just… there. That impossible, infuriating calm she always carried like a favorite coat. Like armor Riley had never figured out how to wear.

For a moment, Riley didn’t lift her head. She just stood there behind the worktable, jaw tight, heart loud, and stared at the flower she’d been arranging like it could give her a script she didn’t have.

She hated how fast her thoughts were spinning.
She hated that she cared.
And she really hated how none of this should’ve surprised her—but still, it did.

When she finally spoke, her voice came out thin and dry.

“Well.”

One word. That was all she had at first. Just that—light enough to be nothing, bitter enough to carry the weight.

She grabbed the scissors from the table, clipped the end of a stem she didn’t need to touch, and set them down again.

“That was fast,” she added, quieter now. Not accusing. Just… tired. Tired in a way that made her shoulders ache.

Her eyes flicked up—finally—to meet Ivy’s.

She looked the same. Not untouched, not frozen, but… still. And somehow, that was worse. That Ivy could be standing there with her soft cardigan and her calm voice and that damn glimmer of honesty in her eyes like she hadn’t just dropped a match in the middle of Riley’s neatly swept-up life.

“You and I haven’t talked in years,” Riley said slowly, the words careful and stripped of pretense. “And then suddenly you’re in my shop. Twice in two days. With updates.”

She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t need to. The sting was in the restraint.

She reached for the ribbon again, but her fingers paused mid-wrap, trembled once, and fell away.

“Did he tell you what he wanted?”

A beat.

“Or were you just… curious?”

The words came out sharper than she meant them to, but she didn’t pull them back. She couldn’t. Because Ivy was standing there so calmly, like this was just another errand to run. Like sitting on a porch swing with the man Riley had spent months trying to forget was no more complicated than returning a borrowed book.

Riley’s mouth twisted, some bitter part of her threatening to slip loose.

“I guess I should be grateful you didn’t hex him,” she said, voice low. Dry. “Although I’m sure that would’ve made the gossip more fun.”

And then—God, because it was Ivy, and because Riley knew how easily this could twist into something mean—she softened. Just enough.

Her breath escaped in a slow sigh, and she rubbed at the back of her neck, her voice quieter now. Worn.

“I’m not mad,” she admitted. “Not really. I just…”

She shook her head once. Her hair fell in front of her eyes and she didn’t bother fixing it.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” she said simply.

She gestured vaguely—at the flowers, the air, Ivy, the shape of her own stupid, stubborn heart still hanging crooked in her chest.

“I’ve spent months building something that finally feels like it fits again. Me. This place. The kids. Joe. And now…”

Her voice caught, just barely. She blinked it back.

“Now he’s here. You’re telling me about it. And I can feel the ground starting to shift under me again.”

She looked at Ivy then. Really looked.

“You say you’re not here to make it worse,” she said softly. “So what are you here for?”

And still—still—there was no malice in it. Just a tired ache. The kind that comes when you’re caught between a life you finally want and the one that refuses to stay buried.

Riley didn’t ask Ivy to leave.

But she didn’t offer her a chair either.

She just stood there—guarded, quiet, and waiting.

Ivy didn’t flinch.

Not when Riley met her eyes with that glint of bone-deep weariness. Not when the scissors hit the table with a little too much finality. Not even when the words, sharp-edged and careful, cut through the room like glass underfoot.

She didn’t flinch—because this wasn’t new.

Being the one left standing in the quiet after someone else’s storm wasn’t new.
Neither was carrying the weight of a moment that no one else had asked for but still expected her to hold gently.

Still, something inside her went very still.

The part that used to rush forward with comfort. The part that wanted to explain and soothe and stitch the space between them with apologies and pretty thread. That part stayed quiet now.

Because this moment?
It wasn’t about softening.

It was about telling the truth.

So Ivy took one step forward, not closing the distance completely, but just enough to be seen clearly. Her voice, when it came, was low and measured—not rehearsed. Just… honest.

“You know I don’t do things to cause trouble, Riley. That’s never been who I am.”

A pause. She tucked a curl behind her ear, slow and deliberate.

“But if it helps, I’ve spent the better part of this morning wondering if I should’ve let the town tell you. Let you hear it secondhand and come to whatever conclusion you liked best.”

Her eyes didn’t drop.

“But I thought you deserved the truth.”

And then—quieter, but still steady:

“I wasn’t looking for him. Not at the shop. Not at the festival. He’s the one who walked in both times.”

Her hands folded in front of her—not in defense, not in apology. Just something to do.

“I thought he’d be gone by now. I thought he needed a place to catch his breath after realizing the Riley he remembered wasn’t the same girl standing here.”

There wasn’t judgment in the words. Just a fact. A soft one.

“But I saw him at the festival and—he looked lost. Sad. Like he’d gotten turned around and wasn’t sure what direction to go next. And I thought…” Her voice wavered, but she kept going. “I thought I’d offer a kind goodbye before he left town.”

Her throat tightened, but her expression didn’t change.

“I didn’t plan for it to turn into dancing or moonshine or anything more than one last conversation under the lights.”

A beat.

“I never crossed a line.”

Another beat.

“But the problem is—I wanted to.”

She let the silence sit after that. Let it settle in the corners of the shop. In the distance between them. In Riley’s unspoken hurt and Ivy’s unspoken guilt.

“I thought maybe we could be friends again,” Ivy said finally, a touch of softness returning. “I was hoping we might find our way back to how things were. The late-night calls, the inside jokes, the way I couldn’t wait to tell you when something felt like it meant something.”

She exhaled, hands loosening slightly.

“But the truth is, you’re not the same girl I knew.”

Her voice cracked just slightly—not from anger, but from the grief of a truth finally spoken aloud.

“And maybe I’m not either.”

She looked away for the first time—toward the shelf lined with dried lavender and calendula and memories that couldn’t be pressed flat.

“I didn’t hex him, Riley,” she added, dry humor threading in like it had just remembered how. “Even if I did once find a book and think well, I already have most of these herbs.”

A faint smile, brief and self-aware.

“But I wouldn’t use it. Not for this.”

She turned back, gaze steady again.

“I believe in honesty. In manners. In not hurting people just because you’re hurt.”

And then—softer:

“I didn’t mean for last night to matter.”

A beat.

“But it did.”

She looked at Riley like she was offering something—not forgiveness. Not a plea. Just the truth in its simplest, most human form.

“And I’ll carry whatever comes with that. If it means you can’t look at me the same way again, I understand.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t back down.

“I just needed you to hear it from me.”

And with that, Ivy turned—slowly, carefully—not storming out, not slinking away. Just moving like someone who knew she had no right to ask for grace but still chose to walk with dignity.

If Riley didn’t stop her, she’d leave the flower shop quietly.

No dramatic exit.

Just a girl who’d let herself be seen too clearly for once—and was willing to live with it.

Riley didn’t say anything at first.

Not when Ivy stepped forward.
Not when the words started to land—soft, but sharp in their honesty.
Not even when Ivy admitted what Riley already knew deep down but had prayed she wouldn’t have to hear out loud.

“But the problem is—I wanted to.”

That one slid under her ribs.
That one stayed.

Riley stayed rooted behind the worktable, her hands braced against the edge like she needed something to tether her—because God, if she let go, she wasn’t sure where she’d land. The ribbon she’d been fidgeting with had unraveled completely now, loose across the petals like a thread pulled too tight and finally giving way.

The ache in her chest wasn’t rage. It wasn’t even betrayal.
It was older than that. Quieter.
The kind of hurt that came from being known and still not being chosen.

She wanted to lash out. Not at Ivy—but at the version of herself who thought she could keep everything neatly divided. Keep the past folded away like pressed flowers, tucked in a book no one else would read.

She should’ve known better.

“I didn’t want it to matter either,” Riley said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t mean the porch swing.
Didn’t mean the moonshine or the dancing or even the part where Ivy had clearly seen something in Nate that Riley had once seen too.

She meant this.
The ache of old friendship bruised by something unspoken.
The fear that maybe too much time had passed, and the bridge between them wasn’t sturdy enough to hold their weight anymore.

Her eyes stung. She blinked hard, kept her gaze fixed on the half-tied bouquet.

“You were my person,” she said, voice shaking just enough to make her flinch. “Long before Nate. Long before any of this.”

She finally looked up, and the expression on her face wasn’t anger. It was heartbreak, quiet and unpolished. Something old and unfinished.

“I never wanted us to turn into this,” she said. “Two people circling each other like we’re waiting for the other one to flinch first.”

Ivy was still near the door now, already shifting like she meant to leave.

And maybe she should let her.
Maybe it was easier to just let her walk out and call it even.
But Riley couldn’t.
Not yet.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, steadier now. “But it still hurts.”

She exhaled, slow and uneven, her fingers curling around the ribbon again—not to finish the bouquet, but just to hold something in her hands.

“It hurts because I thought we’d have more time. More grace. I thought if we ever came back to each other, it’d be over coffee, not… confessions.”

She gave a short, breathless laugh that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I don’t hate you, Ivy. I’m not sure I even could.”

Another pause.

“But I need a second,” she added, softer now. “To sit with all of this. To figure out where it fits in the life I’m trying to build.”

She looked at Ivy fully then, no defenses, no performance—just the raw, quiet ache of someone trying to be better than her worst impulse.

“You told me the truth,” she said. “So I’ll do the same.”

She swallowed hard.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you yet. Not because of what you did. But because of what it reminded me I lost.”

Her voice broke, then—just slightly—and she didn’t try to hide it.

“But I still want us to find our way back.”

The silence after that felt sacred. Not heavy. Not sharp.
Just still.

And she meant it. Every word.

Even if it would take time.
Even if there were bruises that would need space to breathe.

If Ivy left now, Riley wouldn’t stop her.
But if she stayed—

Well.
That could be the beginning of something too.

Ivy didn’t turn around.

She couldn’t.

Not when her throat was tight and her palms were clammy against the sleeves of her cardigan. Not when Riley’s voice broke on the words “You were my person” and Ivy felt something in her ribcage twist like a clock spring wound too tight.

She stared instead at the little potted lavender by the door.
Watched a breeze from the ceiling fan stir its leaves just enough to make it look like it was shivering.

She wasn’t mad at Riley.

She never had been.

But God, there were days it was easier to pretend she was. Easier to live inside the quiet space she’d carved for herself in the wake of Riley’s departure. To be the ghost of someone’s best friend instead of the girl who’d waited silently for a phone call that never came.

She had given Riley her space.

She’d watched her come back to town with her heart held in pieces and her arms full of children, and Ivy had stepped back. Let her find her footing again. Let Joe gather her up. Let the town wrap around her like a safety net.

She hadn’t said a word. Not once.

And Riley hadn’t reached for her either.

And maybe that was what hurt the most.

So Ivy stood there, staring at the lavender, and tried to stitch herself shut from the inside out before anything spilled out in a way she couldn’t take back.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like this,” she said finally, voice low and careful. “That wasn’t the point of coming here.”

Still, she didn’t turn. She couldn’t let Riley see the way her jaw trembled, or the way her eyes stung, or the way her whole chest ached with the weight of a friendship that still lived under her skin like a scar.

“I wasn’t trying to… wedge myself into your life again,” she said. “You looked happy. Settled. You had enough to deal with.”

Her fingers clenched tighter around the strap of her bag.

“And maybe I told myself that if you wanted me around, you’d reach out. But you didn’t. And I didn’t push. And now we’re both here, trying not to bleed on each other.”

A beat passed.
Another.

And then, softer:

“I never stopped caring about you, Riley. But I think somewhere along the way I stopped knowing how to.”

She finally shifted her weight, not turning fully, just angling enough to see the edge of Riley’s profile out of the corner of her eye. The sight of her—raw and unguarded—hit Ivy like a wave that knocked the breath from her lungs.

She drew in a slow, shaky breath and let it out just as carefully.

“I know you need space,” Ivy said. “So do I.”

Her voice didn’t waver this time, even as her heart did.

“And you’re probably right. Nate will be gone soon. Back to his world. And I’ll go back to mine—tea and books and cats who yell at me like they pay rent.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but it didn’t last long.

“And maybe then, when things are a little quieter—when it doesn’t feel like every word might crack something open—we can try again. For real this time.”

She hesitated, finally looking toward the shop window instead of the door.

“Not because of him. Not because of anything that happened this week. But because…” Her voice dropped lower. “I miss you. And I think I’ve missed you longer than I’ve been willing to admit.”

Ivy let the silence settle around them again, soft and fragile like morning frost on the windows.

Then she reached into her bag, pulled out a slip of pressed paper, and set it gently on the edge of the counter beside the flower she’d watched Riley unravel.

It was an old photo—creased, a little faded—of the two of them in high school. Sitting on the curb in front of the museum, arms looped around each other’s shoulders, iced coffees in hand and laughing so hard they both looked ridiculous.

“I found it the other day,” Ivy said, quiet. “Didn’t know where else it should be.”

Then, without another word, she stepped back and walked to the door.

Not fleeing. Not closing the chapter.

Just giving them both room to breathe.

And maybe—just maybe—space to return.

Riley hadn’t meant to cry.

Not here, not now, and certainly not in front of the girl she used to call her person—back when the word meant safety and laughter and late-night cake in the backseat of Ivy’s truck.

But hearing Ivy say she didn’t know how to care about her anymore?

That splintered something Riley didn’t realize was still raw.

She didn’t move when Ivy spoke. Didn’t interrupt, even though every part of her wanted to—God, Ivy, no, that’s not what I meant—but she let her finish. Let the silence stretch long and aching between them because Ivy had always been the one who deserved more silence, not less.

And when the photo hit the counter—creased, familiar, sacred—Riley’s chest crumpled.

That was them.

Before grief and distance and timelines that refused to sync. Before her world fell apart and she forgot how to reach for the things that had once made her whole.

She let Ivy walk to the door.

Let her get that far.

But not out.

Not this time.

“Ivy—wait.”

Her voice cracked, quiet but steadying fast.

Riley turned. Really turned. Stepped forward, heart thudding loud and sure in her chest like it had finally decided to show up for something that mattered.

“You always do this thing,” she said, voice thick but honest, “where you decide the chapter’s over before anyone else gets a say.”

She didn’t move closer. Not yet. But her fingers curled lightly around the edge of the counter where the photo sat, grounding herself.

“I never stopped needing you,” she said. “Not even when I didn’t know how to say it. Not even when I chose silence because I thought it’d hurt less for both of us.”

She took a breath.

Let it settle.

And then—softer now, but with that fierce, familiar glint Ivy always brought out in her:

“You don’t have to wait for everything to be quiet and perfect before you fight for something, Ivy.”

She reached for the photo, held it in both hands, then looked up—really looked.

“You say Nate’s leaving. Maybe he is. But that doesn’t mean you don’t get to feel something about it. It doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to want something from him.”

Another pause. Her voice dropped into something gentler.

“Tell him.”

She shrugged, a little helpless, a little sure.

“Worst he can do is say no. But at least then it’s real. At least then it’s yours.”

Her smile broke through then—shaky, genuine, and just a little wry.

“And for the record? I’m long over Nate Banks. I’ve got a man who builds me porch swings and buys me candy from the gas station just because I had a hard day.”

She stepped closer, eyes never leaving Ivy’s.

“So if you’re walking out that door to go back to your quiet life… fine. I’ll respect it.”

A beat.

“But if you’re walking out that door because you’re scared he might not feel the same way?” She shook her head, firm. “Then don’t. Not this time.”

Riley’s voice softened to a near whisper.

“Tell him, Ivy. Please.”

And for the first time in years, it wasn’t just a plea between old friends.

It was a push.

Toward something Ivy deserved.

Ivy froze.

Half a step from the door, one hand already on the frame, the wood cool beneath her fingers. Riley’s voice—cracked, breaking, still so achingly familiar—wrapped around her spine like a ribbon she didn’t know how to untie.

She didn’t turn right away.

Couldn’t.

The pressure building behind her ribs felt sharp and disorienting—like a music box wound too tight, every note straining at the edges, waiting for something to snap.

“You always do this thing… where you decide the chapter’s over before anyone else gets a say.”

God.

Riley always did know where to aim.

Ivy blinked hard, her throat suddenly dry. She stared at the lavender pot again, but now even it seemed to be watching her. Judging her, maybe. Or daring her to admit how tired she was of slipping back into silence.

She’d always told herself she was okay being the background character.

The one who listened. The one who knew the town’s history better than her own heartbeat. The one who filled in the margins while other people lived louder, messier, more important lives.

Riley had come back and slotted herself into a story Ivy hadn’t been invited to write in again. And that was fine. That was safe.

Until now.

Until porch swing confessions and Nate Banks and this—this beautiful, awful ache in her chest where her best friend used to live.

She scoffed under her breath at the idea of some grand romantic gesture. Of her, Ivy Whitmore, walking up to a Georgetown-bred financier with feelings she didn’t even know how to name and saying what? “I think I might miss you when you leave?”

It was absurd.

He’d find someone sleek and golden back in the city. Someone with sharp heels and dinner reservations, not cat hair on her cardigan and flower petals in her tea tin.

And yet—

Riley’s voice clung to her.

“Worst he can do is say no.”

Ivy finally turned. Slowly. Carefully.

And when she looked at Riley, it was like that photo had come to life—creased and weathered and imperfect, but still worth keeping.

She crossed the room without speaking.

Not because she didn’t have words.

But because none of them felt big enough for what was sitting between them.

So instead—when she reached Riley—she wrapped her arms around her.

Tight.

Not tentative. Not halfway.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t elegant. Ivy didn’t even close her eyes—just let her chin rest on Riley’s shoulder and felt the quiet shake of her breath finally leave her chest.

She hadn’t realized how long she’d been holding it in.

And for the first time in years, she let herself believe that maybe—not everything had to be handled in silence. Maybe not everything needed to be tidied up before it was allowed to exist.

She didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t say sorry.

Didn’t say I’m scared to want things.

She just held her oldest friend like she was anchoring them both to something real again.

And when she pulled back, eyes glassy but jaw set, Ivy gave a soft, breathless exhale. Then, with a quiet sort of resolve, she spoke—

“I’ll think about it.”

And for Ivy Whitmore, that meant more than a promise ever could.