Everett didn’t rush to say anything — never did, really. He just watched her lean into the doorway like she belonged there, like she hadn’t just spent five minutes calling his walk-in a serial killer starter kit and accusing him of condiment-based seduction.

Which… fair.

But it still made him bite down on a smirk as she stepped in, all dramatic flair and narrowed eyes, like she expected the fridge to either swallow her whole or propose marriage.

And she still came in.

He handed her a spoon without ceremony.

“The good ones, like I promised,” he said, nudging the pot with a tilt of his chin. “And technically, it’s not bisque. But I didn’t think you’d come back here for ‘rustic seasonal stew with identity issues.’”

A beat. He turned to ladle some into the bowl — steam rising between them like it knew better than to interrupt — and handed it over.

“Also,” he added, voice dropping just enough to mean it, “for the record? If I was gonna try something with a canned peach and a bad idea, it wouldn’t be in a room with industrial shelving and a defrost schedule taped to the wall.”

He leaned back against the metal rack, arms loose at his sides, eyes never really leaving her.

“You stayed,” he said, like he was still catching up to the truth of it. “After all that. The jokes. The mess. The part where I literally disappeared behind a fryer and forgot how to talk to humans for three hours.”

He shrugged one shoulder, casual like it didn’t mean something.

“But you still wiped down tables like they owed you rent and threatened to unionize the ghosts.”

His gaze softened. Just a little.

“Not really something you fake.”

Another pause — the kind he used to be worse at filling, but now let sit when it mattered.

“And I know I don’t get to ask questions,” he added quietly, “but… if this is you figuring stuff out — life, grief, whatever the hell it is that brought you back — I’m not here to make it heavier.”

He glanced at the soup. Then back at her.

“But I can keep the lights on a little longer if you need it.”

Then, as if to undo the emotional whiplash of that honesty, he cleared his throat and added dryly:

“Just don’t tell the ghosts. They’re already unionized and gunning for benefits.”

He handed her the second spoon.

No strings. No pressure. Just a little warmth.

And maybe — just maybe — room to stay.

Soleil took the spoon like it was evidence in a criminal case.

Gave it a once-over.

Then dipped it into the bowl with the kind of theatrical hesitation that would’ve made a lesser man anxious.

She tasted it.

Paused.

Tilted her head slightly to the side, lips pursed, gaze laser-focused on the soup like it had personally insulted her.

“Well,” she said, “congratulations. It doesn’t taste like despair.”

Another beat.

“Just mild emotional repression and maybe… thyme?”

She took another bite, this time without commentary — which, frankly, was high praise from her. Then she let the spoon dangle from her fingers as she turned slightly to lean her hip against the cold steel of the shelf behind her.

Her voice dropped into something lower, a little slyer.

“So let me get this straight,” she said. “You lured me in here with vaguely gourmet soup, told me some surprisingly heartfelt things about not asking questions, and now you’re just standing there like you’re not trying to get me to confess a deep dark secret or sleep with you in front of the celery crates.”

She looked him up and down once — slow, shameless.

“Which is fine. I’ve just never been seduced in the proximity of prepped produce and freezer burn.”

Her smile twitched.

“But if this is your version of a move, Everett James, you should know — I don’t do cold.”

A pause, then—

“You want to have a real conversation?” Her tone softened. Just a fraction. “We can do that at my place.”

She tapped the spoon gently against the rim of the bowl before setting it down on the prep shelf beside her.

“I’ve got heat. Blankets. Possibly whiskey. Definitely better lighting.”

She didn’t move toward the door just yet. Just met his gaze and let the air between them warm on its own.

“But hey,” she added, voice back in that dry, teasing cadence, “if you're emotionally attached to the bisque and morally questionable spoon logistics, we can hang here a little longer.”

A shrug.

“I’m flexible.”

But her eyes told a different story.

Come with me.
Or ask me to stay.

She wasn’t going to say it out loud — not yet.
But she was giving him the space to answer without words.
Because soup was fine.

But connection? That was the thing she was really hungry for.

And maybe, just maybe, so was he.

Everett didn’t move right away.

Didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t flinch when she called him out — though, to be fair, she had a point. The seduction attempt was… unorthodox.

But he held her gaze like he wasn’t ashamed of it.

Because it wasn’t about the soup. Not really. It never had been.

It was about finding the one room in the building where everything stopped spinning for a second. Where she could breathe. Where he could breathe. And maybe — maybe — that made it his version of a move. A clumsy, slow-cooked, emotionally repressed one, sure.

But a move all the same.

He glanced down at the bowl for a second. Then up at her again, his voice low and bone-dry:

“Technically, it’s stew. But yeah. I’m aware the ambiance screams ‘first date between two raccoons in a storage unit.’”

He stepped forward just enough to take her empty spoon and set it aside, their fingers brushing for the briefest second — not a grab, not a hold, just a quiet acknowledgment.

Then he leaned a hip against the opposite shelf, hands slipping into the back pockets of his jeans, posture loose in that way that only ever came out around her. Around this her. Not the polished version. Not the ghost. Just Soleil.

“I wasn’t trying to get you to confess anything,” he said, voice steady now. “I just wanted to see if you’d let yourself be warm for five minutes without putting it on a stage.”

A beat.

Then, like it slipped out before he could catch it:

“And yeah. I wanted to be in the room when it happened.”

He didn’t smile when he said it. Didn’t look away. Just let the words sit there — soft and plain and true.

But when she offered her place?

When she said heat and whiskey and better lighting?

He didn’t hesitate.

“I’m in,” he said, straightening up just slightly. “Just give me two minutes to close down the kitchen.”

He stepped toward the door, glancing back once with the smallest tilt of his head.

“And for the record — celery crates or not, I’d follow you anywhere with soup like that.”

Then he disappeared into the hallway without waiting for applause, the soft thud of his boots echoing like punctuation.

Soleil stayed where she was for a moment after he left, staring at the empty shelf across from her like it might suddenly explain what the hell just happened.

It didn’t.

Of course it didn’t.

Because this wasn’t something that made sense. It didn’t follow a script. Didn’t come with a checklist or a game plan. There wasn’t a mirror to adjust her lip gloss in or a carefully timed laugh to deploy. There was just a walk-in fridge. A half-finished bowl of not-bisque. And a boy she’d known longer than she’d known how to keep people at arm’s length.

And now he was coming over.

She hadn’t meant to ask him over. Not really. It just fell out.

Like her body knew what her brain hadn’t caught up to yet:
She didn’t want this night to end.
Not here.
Not in a fridge.
Not in a place that still smelled like burnt oil and overcooked sentimentality.

It wasn’t about sex. Not just. Not even mostly.
It was about not being alone in that way that still clung to her, even after the customers were gone and the tables were wiped and the mask had cracked just enough to let something else through.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and grabbed the soup bowl, turning it in her hands as if it might offer something deeper if she stared long enough.

“You’re gonna regret saying yes to this,” she murmured to no one in particular. “I haven’t done normal in… ever.”

Still, she left the fridge.

Flipped off the light. Pulled the door shut behind her.

The kitchen was quieter now — less clatter, more afterglow. She could hear Everett moving somewhere near the back, probably wiping down something that didn’t need it just to give himself a minute. He did that.

She knew because she used to do it too.

Instead of interrupting, she wandered to the counter, snagged two clean to-go cups, and filled them both from the old coffee pot still holding on like a miracle. No cream. No sugar. Just what they were — bitter, dark, slightly over-brewed comfort.

She added a napkin-wrapped slice of pie to the mix. Because if this was going to be the kind of night where emotions leaked out sideways, they were damn well going to do it with pie.

When he reappeared, she was leaning against the counter like she hadn’t just freaked out in her own head for three straight minutes. Holding out his coffee like it was a truce.

“I figured we’d need backup,” she said. “In case my place starts feeling like a trap and you suddenly remember you have a deeply committed relationship with closing tabs and cleaning fryer baskets.”

A pause.

Then, more gently, but still with that curl of irony in her voice:

“Also, the pie’s emotional support. Don’t read into it.”

She didn’t smile.

Not quite.

But her eyes said thank you.

For the soup.
For the silence.
For not asking her to be more or less than exactly what she was in that moment.

And somewhere between the walk-in and the counter, she’d made peace with the truth:

She didn’t need him to say anything big tonight.
She just needed him to come with her.

And he was.

That was enough.

For now.

Everett didn’t say anything at first.

Just took the coffee like it might burn if he reached too fast. His fingers brushed hers for half a second — just long enough to feel the warmth radiating from the cup. Or maybe from her.

Either way, he held on.

“Figured if I didn’t show,” he said quietly, “you’d blame it on the ghosts. Or the bisque. Or that time I almost set the grill on fire trying to toast bread.”

He took a sip — winced.

Still bitter. Still awful. Still exactly what he needed.

His eyes flicked down to the pie she’d wrapped up like a peace offering, then back to her. That same guarded look she always gave when she was trying not to care too loudly. It made something in his chest ache — not in a dramatic way, just in the kind of way that says yeah, I missed this even if he wasn’t sure what this was anymore.

He leaned one hip against the counter, letting the silence hang.

Comfortable, but not lazy.

Heavy, but not hard.

“You didn’t have to explain,” he said finally. “I know it’s not—”

He stopped, jaw tightening for a breath.

Then, softer:

“I’m not reading into it.”

He wasn’t.

He didn’t need to.

Because what she offered wasn’t a puzzle. It wasn’t wrapped in ribbons or lit by neon. It was real. Fractured, sure. Sharp around the edges. But real.

And that was rarer than most people knew how to hold.

His gaze dropped to the pie again.

“Emotional support accepted,” he said, taking it from her hands like it was a sacred duty. “Though for the record, if you hand me a fork and cry about a Hallmark movie later, I reserve the right to leave through the bathroom window.”

A beat.

Then — quieter, slower — “I won’t. But I reserve the right.”

There was no joke in his smile this time. No smirk or swagger. Just a quiet kind of ease. Like he’d decided, somewhere between the fridge and the counter, that he didn’t need to armor up with banter anymore.

Not with her.

He nudged the door open with his foot and glanced back over his shoulder.

“Come on, Hawthorne. Let’s get the hell out of here before the ghosts start charging rent.”

And he waited — not because he doubted her, but because this whole thing was about the waiting.

The not-rushing.

The choice she made without being asked to.

So he let the door swing half-open, pie in one hand, coffee in the other.

And when she moved, he matched her pace exactly.

No faster.

No further.

Just beside her.

Because for tonight, that was all he needed to be.

And it was enough.