Joe didn’t rush the moment. He just stayed there on the floor, knees aching from age and hardwood, but not moving. Wouldn’t have moved if the ceiling caved in. Not with her looking at him like that.

There was a kind of magic in it—not the wild, sweeping kind people wrote songs about, but the quieter kind. The kind you earned. Built. Protected. It lived in her eyes now. In the way her bare knee pressed against his, in the slight curve of her smile, in the way her thumb had just brushed his cheek like it had always belonged there.

And yeah, maybe it was a mess of juice and crayons. But it was theirs. And God, how long had he waited for that?

He glanced at her hand still resting in his, fingers folded gently like the moment didn’t need to be more than what it already was. “Careful,” she’d said. “I might start thinking we’re good at this.”

He hadn’t said it out loud, but his whole damn body had answered: We already are.

So he leaned back just enough to breathe her in—sunlight in her hair, freckles from working too many mornings near the windows, that scent of wildflowers and something else he hadn’t figured out yet but already loved.

He gently let her hand go, not because he wanted to, but because he needed both to do the thing that came next.

Joe plucked the crayon from her lap and held it up between them. “Well,” he said, voice slow and warm like Tennessee summer, “we got love, laughter, and light purple wax fused to at least fifteen other colors. That’s the foundation of any solid domestic empire.”

She huffed a laugh. He wasn’t trying to be funny. Not really. He just couldn’t help it. She looked too good when she laughed. Too his.

Then he reached over, opened the little mason jar beside the mess—the one Riley kept full of scraps and odds and ends that Nikki insisted were treasure—and dropped the broken crayon inside.

He looked at her again, this time serious. “We keep the good pieces,” he said. “Even if they’re messy.”

There wasn’t a sound from the kids. They were giving them that rare, miraculous gift of space. Nikki was humming again, barefoot feet swinging off the window seat. Bentley had his comic angled toward the light, content for now.

And Joe—Joe was still on the floor, heart full, hands stained, every bit of him here.

He reached up and tucked a piece of Riley’s hair behind her ear, the same way he used to back when they were too young to know what forever meant.

But now?

Now he knew.

And maybe she did too.

Riley looked at him—really looked—and felt something catch in her chest.

Not panic. Not fear.

Something quieter. Something like recognition.

Joe Barnes, sitting cross-legged on the flower shop floor, a broken crayon in one hand and her heart in the other. He wasn’t asking for anything. Wasn’t rushing her toward a future or dragging her back into the past. He was just… here. With his sleeves rolled up and purple wax smudged on his fingers, like that was all it ever took.

And maybe it was.

She watched him drop the crayon into the mason jar—gentle, deliberate—and say it like a vow.

We keep the good pieces.

She didn’t respond right away.

Just pressed her palm to the hardwood between them, steadying herself against the truth of it.

Because they were good pieces. Bent and bruised, sure. But still here. Still fitting together in ways that made her believe maybe things didn’t have to be perfect to be worth saving.

Her knees brushed his again as she leaned in, chin tipping down, voice soft. “Then we’re keeping this one,” she said. “Juice stains and all.”

A smile tugged at his mouth, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

She could feel it in the way his hand rose again, slow and sure, tucking her hair behind her ear like he had a hundred times before and would again. Not a performance. Not a move. Just care.

She let herself lean in, foreheads touching, breaths tangled. The kind of closeness that didn’t need permission.

“I don’t care how many messes come with this,” she whispered. “I want it anyway.”

A beat. A breath.

“You.”

And there it was. Simple. Quiet. Unshaken.

She didn’t need him to say it back. Not right now.

He already was. Every inch of him. Still on the floor. Still holding steady.

Still choosing her.

Joe’s breath caught—not sharp, not startled. Just deep. Full. Like someone had opened the windows in a room he didn’t realize had been closed for too damn long.

You.

She said it like it was easy. Like it was fact. Like it had always been the answer.

And he believed her.

He felt her forehead against his, the way her knees leaned into his like gravity didn’t stand a chance. That soft brush of her breath when she whispered it—like they were the only two people in the world who knew what this moment meant.

He smiled, lazy and warm, that signature Joe Barnes grin that started slow and ended with dimples he’d spent years pretending he didn’t know he had.

“Well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “guess I’m stayin’ on the floor forever then.”

She huffed out a laugh, and God, the sound of it—it just wrecked him in the best way.

“Seriously,” he went on, resting his arms loosely across his knees, still cross-legged on the hardwood. “We’ve got juice box carnage, artistic casualties, and a suspicious stain on my jeans I really hope is from the crayons and not whatever Nikki was hiding in her backpack.”

He looked at her again, softer this time, his voice dipping beneath the joke. “But you’re here. You’re choosing this. Choosing me. And I gotta say, Riles… I’ve never been happier to be part of a mess.”

He reached down, knocked his knee lightly against hers, then glanced toward the mason jar full of scribbled napkins, brittle petals, and now a broken purple crayon. “Whole jar full of things folks might’ve tossed. And look at ‘em—still here. Still worth something.”

Then he leaned in, one hand slipping behind her neck, the pad of his thumb resting just at the base of her jaw. “So yeah,” he whispered, close enough to kiss her again but not doing it. Not yet. “We’re keepin’ this one.”

And just like that, he pressed a kiss to her cheek—not hurried, not performative. Just soft. Lasting.

Then he stood up with a dramatic groan, hands on his back like he was fifty years old, and said loud enough for the kids to hear, “Alright, team, Operation Crayon Rescue is complete. I vote we celebrate with cookies and a firm denial that any of this ever happened.”

Bentley immediately jumped in with a suspicious, “Wait, are we allowed to lie?”

Joe grinned, offering Riley a hand as she laughed quietly behind him. “We’re not lyin’. We’re strategically omitting. Totally different.”

Her fingers slid into his again, and as he pulled her up, he didn’t let go. Wouldn’t.

Because this wasn’t just a moment.

This was theirs.

Riley took his hand without hesitation, let herself be lifted off the floor and straight into his orbit like she hadn’t just anchored herself there moments ago.

And maybe she had. Maybe that was the point.

Because Joe Barnes, with crayon dust on his sleeves and a smirk he wore like second nature, wasn’t just standing in her shop anymore—he was stitched into it. Into her. Into the laughter tucked between flower buckets and juice box disasters. Into the future that had started forming the minute he kissed her under stadium lights and didn’t let go.

Her fingers stayed curled in his, even after they were both upright.

She leaned in, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and whispered just for him, “We’re not just keeping it. We’re living it.”

Then she turned toward the kids, already halfway through cleaning up their masterpiece of chaos. “Okay, Nikki, Bentley—Operation Crayon Rescue was a success. Now who wants cookies?”

Nikki cheered. Bentley tried to act unimpressed, but his comic book was already abandoned.

Joe shot her a look—one of those quiet, glowing ones that didn’t need words.

And Riley smiled back.

Because this was the life they were building—one flower stem, one mess, one real moment at a time.

And she was all in.

Riley didn’t let go of his hand until she had to—until she reached for the towel behind the counter and gave herself a second to breathe. A second to feel what it meant to not be doing this alone.

She crouched beside the table, mopping up the worst of the juice while Nikki arranged surviving crayons like priceless artifacts and Bentley demolished his cookie in three dramatic bites.

Joe stayed close. Always close.

When she stood, he handed her a clean towel with one hand and a small paper bag with the other.

She took them both and peeked inside.

Three sugar cookies. One cracked clean down the middle.

“God, you just—” She shook her head, smiling. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

She stepped in beside him, shoulder brushing his. The warmth of him settled through her like sunlight through glass.

“You make it really hard not to fall harder every day,” she murmured, soft but certain. “That’s what scares me, you know? Not that you’ll leave. That you’ll stay—and I’ll start needing this too much.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, searching, not for reassurance but for a place to land.

She placed her hand briefly on his chest, steadying herself, then passed him the towel.

“And I think… I’m okay with that.”

He moved beside her, sleeves rolled, hands steady as he helped with what was left of the cleanup. And she watched him for a long moment—not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

Then she turned toward the counter, pulled the cracked cookie from the bag, and broke off a piece.

“I’ll save you the biggest half,” she called over her shoulder, grinning. “But only if you keep acting like this shop belongs to you too.”

She didn’t look back right away.

But she felt it—that quiet, undeniable shift in the air.

This wasn’t a maybe.

It was a beginning.

Joe froze in that way he sometimes did when Riley said something that knocked the wind out of him—quiet and subtle, like a tide rolling in. No dramatics, no grand gesture. Just truth. Laid bare in the air between them.

Only if you keep acting like this shop belongs to you too.

He watched her—shoulder-length light, hands busy, lips curved around something so simple and sincere it almost undid him. Not because she was teasing. But because she meant it.

Because this was the thing he’d never let himself hope for out loud: a life that didn’t require convincing. A place he didn’t have to earn his way into.

He moved beside her without missing a beat, towel in hand, a grin blooming slow and steady.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he said, “and I’m gonna start pickin’ out curtains for the back room.”

He wiped down the table, elbow grazing hers now and then, his voice dropping just a little.

“But I’ll make you a deal.” He looked over at her, all sun and sincerity. “I’ll keep actin’ like this shop’s mine… if you do the same at the bar.”

He could already picture it—her behind the counter at the Rodeo, hair tied up, bossing his line cooks around like she owned the place. God, she’d fit right in. She’d always had that kind of presence—like gravity, but warmer.

Joe leaned in a little, voice low, just for her. “You learn how to pour a pint and boss Reggie into fixing the fryer before noon, I’ll give you keys and a drawer labeled ‘Riles.’”

Riley’s eyes flicked toward him, amused but glowing, and he added, soft but sure: “We build this thing wherever we land, Riley. Shop, bar, field full of dandelions—I don’t care where it is. If you’re in it, it’s home.”

He said it like it wasn’t fragile. Like it was already true.

Because it was.

He wiped the last of the sticky countertop and tossed the towel over his shoulder, then reached out, thumb brushing her jaw before she could turn away.

“And for the record,” he said, grinning, “I don’t want the biggest half of that cookie. I just want to split it with you.”

He kissed her temple—quick, unassuming, steady.

Then, without another word, he plucked the smaller half of the cookie from her hand and took a bite like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because with her, it was.

Riley blinked, then laughed—low and unexpected, like she hadn’t meant to let it slip out but couldn’t stop it if she tried. He always did this. Said something quiet and devastating with his whole chest and then followed it with a grin like he hadn’t just wrecked her completely.

She watched him bite into the smaller half of the cookie like it was some kind of romantic declaration and shook her head, trying not to smile too wide.

“Well,” she said, brushing her fingers along the edge of the counter, “you better be careful, Barnes. Saying things like that out loud? In public?”

He glanced at her, all dimples and mischief.

She leaned in, voice light but laced with meaning. “Your bar regulars aren’t gonna love it when they realize you’ve been taken off the fantasy roster.”

Joe quirked a brow, clearly amused.

“I mean it,” she added, straightening up with mock seriousness. “There’s gonna be an uprising. I give it three days before someone starts leaving passive-aggressive napkin poetry about their broken hearts.”

She stepped closer, close enough to brush his arm with hers, her smile softening. “You might have to start posting a sign: Unavailable. Taken by the flower girl.”

She reached into the bag, pulled out the last piece of cookie, and held it up between them.

“But lucky for you,” she said, “I’m not the jealous type.”

Then she popped the cookie in her mouth before he could steal it, grinning as she chewed.

And just like that—sugar on her tongue, his warmth beside her, and the shop humming with the quiet rhythm of a life they were building—Riley Carson realized something simple and steady:

She wasn’t afraid of forever anymore.

Not if it came with him.

Joe’s grin spread slow, lazy—like honey in summer. That kind of grin that didn’t ask for attention but always got it anyway. Dimples deep, eyes bright, charm so natural it didn’t even feel like effort.

“Taken by the flower girl,” he repeated, savoring the words like they were sweeter than the cookie she just snatched. “Sounds like a country song. Or a Hallmark movie I’d actually watch.”

He leaned his elbow against the counter, turned toward her fully now, like the rest of the room could wait. She had that effect on him—made everything else fade into background noise. Even Nikki's humming, even Bentley’s dramatic cookie scarfing, even the slight stick of juice under his boot didn’t pull him from the way Riley was looking at him.

She popped the last piece of cookie into her mouth with that smug little smile, and God, it nearly undid him.

He tilted his head, letting his gaze sweep over her like he hadn’t seen her a hundred times before and still couldn’t quite believe she was his. “You keep sayin’ stuff like that,” he said, voice dropping just enough to land somewhere warm and rough, “and I might have to get you your own bar stool. Nameplate and everything.”

He leaned in, like it was a secret, even though the kids were too wrapped up in crayon organization and second helpings to care.

“Or better yet…” His thumb brushed her hip like it belonged there—soft, casual, grounding. “I’ll teach you how to play poker, give you the good whiskey shelf, and let you handle the jukebox so we never hear ‘Free Bird’ again.”

He straightened just enough to catch her full smile, and it hit him square in the chest—like it always did. He shook his head once, almost disbelieving, and murmured, “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

Then, with a wink that could’ve knocked her sideways in high school and still carried the same weight now, he added, “I was a respectable small-town bachelor before you came back and made me feel things.”

He bumped her shoulder gently, hand finding hers without ceremony.

“And for the record? Let ‘em write the napkin poetry. I’ll frame it. Hang it behind the bar like a trophy.”

He tugged her a little closer, just enough to brush a kiss to her temple—quick, playful, but full of promise.

“‘Cause I’m off the roster, flower girl. No substitutions. No trades.”

His eyes caught hers, serious now. Still smiling, but deeper. Real.

“Forever’s lookin’ real good from here.”

Riley didn’t speak right away.

She just stood there, hand in his, eyes on his, letting the moment settle around them like dust in golden light. Her heart was beating in that full, steady way it did now—when he was close. When she remembered that this wasn’t something fragile anymore. This was real. Built. Chosen.

Joe Barnes, standing in her flower shop, talking about jukeboxes and napkin poetry and forever like it was as simple as breathing.

She smiled—small, warm, the kind of smile that only ever belonged to him.

Then she stepped closer, slipped her hand up to rest lightly at the base of his neck, and said softly, “You are the most ridiculous man I’ve ever loved.”

She saw it in his face—that flicker, that quiet shift. Like maybe he hadn’t expected her to say it. Or maybe he’d hoped, but hadn’t let himself believe it would land that gently.

She leaned in, nose brushing his, breath catching just a little.

“I love you, Joey.”

Said it like she used to back in high school, when everything felt big and messy and reckless. But now it came out calm. Certain.

It wasn’t a confession.

It was a truth.

And saying it here—in her shop, in this moment, with cookie crumbs on the counter and crayon smudges on the floor—felt exactly right.

No build-up. No conditions. Just that one steady promise.

I’m yours.

And she always had been.

Joe felt it like a jolt—soft and slow and all the way through. I love you, Joey.

She said it with that steady confidence that wrecked him more than any kiss ever could. No hesitation. No question mark. Just truth. Dropped in his chest like a warm anchor.

He blinked once, a smile tugging at his mouth in that boyish, crooked way he hadn’t used since varsity baseball and Friday night lights and the first time she ever wore his flannel without asking.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low, teasing—but there was something behind it too. A catch. A hum. Like the words had knocked loose a piece of him he didn’t know he’d been waiting to get back.

He leaned in close, foreheads nearly touching, her hand still at the base of his neck.

“I need to make sure I heard you right. Because the last time you called me ‘Joey,’ like that, we were seventeen, and I’m pretty sure you were throwing sunflower seeds at me from the passenger seat of my truck.”

He grinned wide then—dimples out, eyes crinkled, the full Joe Barnes special. But there was more behind it this time. Something quieter. Deeper.

“You love me,” he repeated, like he was trying it on. Letting it settle into all the places it belonged.

And then—without ceremony, without pretense—he kissed her.

Not because it was the perfect moment. But because it was theirs.

He pulled back just enough to speak, hand sliding to her waist, grounding her and grounding himself in the same breath.

“I love you too, Riles,” he murmured. “Always have. Always will. You could burn this whole shop down and I’d still be right here tryin’ to put out the fire with a broken mop and a damn smile.”

Then he pressed another kiss to her forehead, one more to her temple, and said, voice low and unmistakably him, “And yeah, I’m ridiculous. But I’m your ridiculous.”

He stepped back, looked around the flower shop like it was already half his and always had been.

“Now,” he added, all charm and sunshine again, “you want me to restock the mason jars or mop up more juice? I’m feelin’ useful and slightly overqualified.”

And just like that, he was back in motion.

Her ridiculous, crayon-stained, hopelessly in love forever.

Riley didn’t move at first. Didn’t speak. Just let herself feel the gravity of everything he’d just said—simple and soul-deep and so Joe it hurt in the best way.

Her hand found his again, fingers slipping back into place like they’d never left. She looked up at him with that quiet awe that still caught her off guard sometimes, even now, even after everything.

“You’re such an idiot,” she whispered, voice shaking just a little around the edges of her smile. “Like, a whole-hearted, mop-wielding, emotionally available idiot.”

She shook her head, blinking once, like she needed a second to catch up to the warmth spilling over in her chest. “God, Joey, I really tried not to say it first, you know that? I tried. I told myself I’d wait. Let you catch up. Let you figure it out.”

She exhaled, laughing once—light, breathy, wrecked. “But then you keep saying things like that. You keep loving me like it’s not terrifying. Like it’s easy. And I just—I can’t not say it.”

Her hand moved to his jaw, thumb brushing gently over the stubble there, anchoring her as much as it anchored him.

“I love you. I do. And not in the pretty, polished kind of way. In the tired, complicated, probably-will-always-worry-about-you kind of way. In the way that means I want to be here. With you. Even when it’s hard. Even when you mix up the display buckets and make me cry-laugh in front of customers.”

She swallowed, smile softening. “So yeah. Go mop the juice or stock the jars or mess up the entire flower wall—I don’t care.”

She leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered, just for him:

“As long as you come back to me.”