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.