Extras

Soleil and Lucas: Not Mine Anymore

The doorman smiled like nothing had changed.

Like she wasn’t walking into this lobby with her entire heart rearranged, her world cracked open over a diner booth and the ghost of a boy who still made her feel more alive than anything else ever had.

Soleil nodded politely. Didn’t trust her voice. Didn’t trust her legs, either, as she stepped into the elevator and watched the floor numbers tick upward in silence.

By the time she unlocked the door to their apartment, her palms were cold.

Not shaking.

Not yet.

The space was quiet—still curated to perfection. Marble counters, museum lighting, everything in its place. Everything except her.

Lucas was on the couch, sleeves rolled up, drink in hand. He looked up as she came in, an easy smile on his face that faltered almost immediately.

“You’re home late.”

She shrugged off her coat. Closed the door softly behind her.

“I had a late dinner.”

“Alone?”

His tone wasn’t accusatory. Not quite. But it held something close. Something tight.

“I went to Dally’s,” she said, crossing toward the kitchen. “Needed some air.”

“That place?” He laughed once, humorless. “Didn’t realize we were doing nostalgia tonight.”

She didn’t answer. Not that.

Instead, she stood at the edge of the living room, where warm light spilled across the floor and everything looked deceptively calm.

“I need to tell you something,” she said quietly.

Lucas set his drink down, straightening. “Okay. You’re starting to freak me out.”

She looked at him.

Not the surface of him—the wealth, the ease, the perfection.

But the way he had always made her feel just slightly out of step. Like she was visiting someone else’s dream and trying not to leave smudges on the glass.

“I’m not happy,” she said. “And I don’t think I’ve been happy for a while.”

His jaw worked. “What are you talking about?”

“I tried, Lucas,” she said. “I really did. I thought if I kept showing up, kept making this life work, eventually I’d feel like I belonged in it. Like I belonged with you.”

His brows furrowed, frustration beginning to flicker. “So that’s it? You just...suddenly realized this isn’t good enough?”

“It’s not about good enough,” she whispered. “It’s about real.”

He stood then, slow and deliberate. Hands on his hips, disbelief painted across every line of him.

“You could’ve said something sooner,” he said. “You let me keep thinking we were solid.”

“I let myself believe that too.”

“Is there someone else?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t need to.

His silence grew louder.

“Jesus,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “You’ve been walking around like everything’s fine. Like I was the only one feeling the shift. And now you tell me you’ve already checked out?”

“No,” she said, firm but gentle. “I’m telling you now because I owe you honesty. Because dragging this out would’ve been the real betrayal.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Right. So this is mercy?”

“It’s the truth,” she said. “I can’t keep trying to mold myself into someone who fits here, Lucas. I’ve been trying so hard not to make a mess that I forgot how to feel anything.”

“And someone else reminded you,” he snapped. “That’s what this is.”

She didn’t deny it.

Didn’t offer names.

Just met his stare and let the silence stretch like a wound between them.

When he finally looked away, the hurt was all over him. Anger was easier—cleaner. But beneath it was the gut-punch of being blindsided by someone he thought was still in it with him.

“I don’t even know what to say to you,” he muttered.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said softly. “Not tonight.”

He shook his head. Turned away. Reached for his drink like it might steady him.

“You always talked about truth like it was a virtue,” he said. “Turns out, it just feels like shit.”

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t try to soften it.

Just stood there—tired, open, wrecked in her own quiet way—and let the words settle.

“I’m not walking out right this second,” she said softly. “If you want to yell, or ask questions, or pretend it’s reversible for another five minutes—I’ll give you that. But I’m not going to lie to you just to make the ending prettier.”

Lucas turned slowly. His jaw was tight, but there was something behind his eyes now—shadows of grief cutting through the anger. Not quite forgiveness. But not total dismissal, either.

“You really meant all of that?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

He scoffed, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I mean, what happens now, then? You just...leave? What do you want me to do? Help you pack?”

“No,” she said. “I want you to be mad if you need to. I want you to feel what you’re feeling. I just didn’t want to keep lying and let that become another thing we resented each other for.”

He looked at her like she was a stranger in a familiar dress. Like maybe he’d always known some part of her didn’t belong here, but hoped she’d stay anyway.

“So what, you wake up tomorrow and start your new life? With whoever this guy is?”

Her eyes flickered, but her voice stayed steady. “It’s not about him. This was coming either way. I just didn’t want to admit it until...”

“Until someone else gave you permission to want more?”

“No,” she said, quieter now. “Until someone reminded me I’m allowed to choose what feels right, not just what looks right.”

The room was too still after that. Like the air itself didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

He sat down again, this time slower. Less like a collapse, more like a concession.

“I thought you were happy,” he said after a long moment. “Not perfect. Not always. But...content. I thought we had time to figure out the rest.”

“So did I.”

That was the hardest part.

Because for a while, it had felt real enough. Close enough. Like if she could just quiet the part of her that always itched for something wilder, messier, truer, maybe this could’ve been home.

“I don’t hate you,” he said suddenly. It sounded like a confession. “I wish I did. But I don’t.”

Her eyes burned.

“Thank you.”

He leaned back on the couch, exhaling sharply. “You staying tonight?”

She hesitated.

“I can,” she said. “But not like before. Not in our bed. I’ll take the guest room. Just...not ready to disappear completely. Not yet.”

He didn’t look at her.

But he didn’t say no.

And for now, that was enough.

Caleb & Lena: Two and a Half Feet Closer

Four years ago. Mid-morning. Caleb’s property — open space, tools scattered, one stubborn tree waiting to be planted.

He heard the car before he saw it — low hum, too smooth for these gravel roads.

Then came the door slam. Light. Precise. Like the person doing the slamming had never accidentally closed anything in her life.

He didn’t have to turn around.

He knew it was her.

Lena Hartley.

The landscaping girl who somehow managed to look like she was heading to brunch in L.A. while elbow-deep in soil. The one Elise swore he’d like. The one he’d seen exactly twice — once bending over a bed of peonies at his sister’s place, and once glaring at a flat of herbs like they’d personally insulted her manicure.

And now she was here.

On his property.

To help him plant a tree.

God help them both.

“Morning,” he said, still crouched by the root ball of the young maple.

“Is it?” she replied, all breezy sarcasm and lip gloss, walking over in sleek boots and fitted overalls that looked about one grass stain away from heartbreak.

He stood slowly. Wiped his hands on the rag in his back pocket.

“You’re late.”

“I’m worth it.” She flashed him a too-sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Now. Where’s this poor little tree Elise said you were about to murder?”

Caleb arched a brow. Nodded behind him.

Lena followed his gaze… and frowned.

“That’s where you’re putting it?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Because it gets good sun.”

“It’s gonna crowd the porch in two years.”

“I’m not planning to build out.”

“It’s still too close,” she said, pulling off her gloves with a dramatic snap like she was about to start fencing, not gardening. “You want shape, balance. Not a towering plant monster shading half your front door like some cursed fairytale cottage.”

He stared.

She stared back.

God, she was so annoying.

So polished. So sure of herself. So perfectly put together that it made something itch behind his ribs.

“Look,” she said, stepping closer, tapping her boot against the patch of cleared earth. “If you shift it three feet west, you’ll get better root growth and symmetry. Trust me. It’ll look better. Be better.”

“I don’t care about symmetry,” he muttered, arms crossing. “I care about not having it fall on my roof in a storm.”

“It won’t fall. It’s a maple. It’s not haunted.”

He exhaled hard. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“You really this stubborn with all your clients, or is it just me?”

She grinned. “Only the ones who think they’re right when they’re obviously not.”

And there it was.

That spark.

That sharp, maddening glint in her eyes like she was daring him to argue — daring him to see her.

And for some stupid reason, he did.

Not just the pretty, glossy exterior. But the woman beneath it — passionate, opinionated, way too loud for how early it was — and somehow making him want to argue just to keep her around.

He should’ve been pissed.

Instead, he was kind of in awe.

“I’m not moving it,” he said flatly.

“Then I’m not helping.”

He stepped aside. “There’s the shovel.”

She didn’t budge. “I’m not breaking a sweat for a poorly placed tree. Sorry.”

He couldn’t help it — his mouth twitched.

“Thought this was your job?”

She leaned in, voice low and saccharine. “Sweetheart, consulting is my job. Digging holes for stubborn men with bad taste in tree placement is something I only do out of charity. Or if Elise bribes me with wine.”

He blinked. “Are you always like this?”

“Only when I’m right.”

He wanted to kiss her.

Which was ridiculous. He didn’t even like her.

And yet…

He reached down, dug the shovel into the dirt with a single firm push, then looked up at her again.

“Fine. Two feet west.”

“Three.”

“Two and a half.”

She smirked, victorious. “Deal.”

And without another word, she snapped her gloves back on and crouched beside him like she hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes trying to win.

(Which she had. And maybe… hadn’t.)

They worked in silence after that.

Well — mostly silence. She muttered something about root flaring and aesthetic balance. He pretended not to notice how careful she was not to chip her nail.

And somewhere between the second spade of dirt and the flush rising in her cheeks…

He realized he was absolutely screwed.

Caleb & Lena: Just Dirt & Desire

Late Summer. Caleb Maren’s front porch. A few weeks after the Maple tree incident.

The dirt under her fingernails was already driving her nuts.

She’d worn gloves. She brought gloves. But halfway through the first planter, she’d ditched them like an idiot, too annoyed by the way they kept slipping and snagging the roots of the hardy perennials she’d picked out just for him.

Which, okay. Fine. She could admit it now.

She didn’t have to do this.

Her contract was over. The town was beautified. The hanging baskets were hung, the town hall had a fresh bed of tulips, and even the benches downtown had been sanded and stained to her ridiculously high standards.

She could’ve been on a plane by now.

Back to air conditioning. Back to smooth concrete sidewalks and oat milk lattes that didn’t come from a diner with a bell on the door.

But instead, she was here. In Evergreen. On a Tuesday. Elbow-deep in soil on his porch.

Because apparently, when Elise offhandedly mentioned Caleb had built two empty flower boxes after that stupid tree argument, Lena had taken it as a personal challenge.

She didn't even ask. Just showed up in cutoff shorts and a tank top, hair twisted up, soil-streaked and muttering to herself about men who couldn’t even be bothered to finish what they started.

Typical lumberjack behavior. All axes and stubble and silent brooding. Probably didn’t even know the difference between a salvia and a sedum.

“You planning on asking permission before landscaping my house?”

She startled so hard she nearly dropped a flat of plants.

Of course he was there. Leaning against the porch rail like he hadn’t just scared the life out of her, arms crossed over his broad chest, jaw tight and eyes glinting.

She didn’t look at him right away. Didn’t need to — she could feel the smug in his stance from ten feet away.

“Permission?” she scoffed, still crouched over the box. “Didn’t realize you were so territorial about your empty dirt.”

“Didn’t realize you made a habit of trespassing,” he shot back.

“You build flower boxes and leave them empty for weeks, Maren. It’s practically a cry for help.”

“I was waiting.”

“For what?”

He didn’t answer.

And that made her look.

Because it wasn’t a gruff brush-off. It wasn’t a snarky jab. It was something quieter. Something that made her chest do that stupid, fluttery thing it had no business doing around a man who still called her “princess” under his breath like it was a curse.

Their eyes locked.

And for a second, the world stilled — hot summer air, dusty breeze, the smell of fresh soil clinging to her skin.

She blinked. Looked away too fast.

“Well,” she muttered, brushing her hands off on her thighs. “You got lucky. I brought hardy plants. Perennials. Low maintenance. Even a lumberjack like you can keep them alive.”

He stepped down from the porch. Slow. Measured.

“You always this bossy?”

“You always this slow?”

He was close now. Too close. Boots crunching the gravel, standing right at the edge of the box she was kneeling beside. His shadow stretched across her arms.

And when she looked up at him again—

He was already looking at her.

Not glaring. Not smirking.

Just… looking. Like maybe he hadn’t stopped. Like maybe he’d been doing it since the damn maple.

She stood without thinking, brushing off her knees, chin tilting up in that stubborn, too-proud way she always used with him.

“You know,” she said, a little breathless, “if you’d just admit I was right the first time, we could save ourselves a lot of this back and forth.”

Caleb’s jaw ticked. His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered.

When he looked back up, something in him had shifted.

“No chance of that now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m about to do something you’ll never let me live down.”

Before she could ask — before she could even blink — he was kissing her.

Not tentative. Not testing the waters.

Just done waiting.

His hands cupped her face, thumbs dragging over her cheeks, mouth claiming hers like he’d wanted to since the first time she insulted his tree.

And God help her — she let him.

Melted into him. Grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands and pulled him closer, anchoring herself like the world might fall apart otherwise.

He tasted like sweat and sun and something slow and burning — and when he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, she made a noise she didn’t recognize. Didn’t care to.

Because suddenly, all those arguments didn’t matter.
The teasing. The smug glances. The stupid flower boxes.

It all made sense.

This was what they’d been circling.

He finally pulled back — just barely. Close enough that her breath hitched when his lips brushed hers again on a sharp exhale, but far enough that she could see his eyes.

Still storm-dark. Still smug.

“Well,” she said, voice just a little too high to be casual. “That was… predictable.”

His brow arched. “Predictable?”

She smirked, fingers still curled in the front of his shirt. “Please. I’ve seen the way you look at me. Like a walking challenge.”

“You are a walking challenge.”

“And yet,” she drawled, tapping his chest with one dirt-streaked finger, “you just kissed me in your front yard like you couldn’t help yourself.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re the one who showed up uninvited and started planting flowers like you live here.”

“I improved your house.”

“I should call the cops.”

“Oh, you wish you could quit me.”

He leaned in again, mouth brushing hers, voice rough with amusement.

“God, you’re a menace.”

She grinned against his lips. “And you’re easy.”

That did it.

He kissed her again — harder this time, hands back in her hair, her body flush against his like there wasn’t an inch of space left to argue in.

And for once, she didn’t try.

Hattie & Declan*: The Unscheduled Spark

The Bedford Falls Fire Department sat at the end of a quiet street, its brick exterior catching the early summer sun. It looked both official and familiar, as if it had been sitting there her whole childhood waiting for her to circle back.

Hattie paused on the sidewalk, smoothing the edge of the paperwork folder she carried. She’d driven past the building a thousand times growing up but had never stepped foot inside.

Temporary, she reminded herself, drawing a steady breath. Just until you figure things out.

She stepped up to the entrance, eyes tracing the posted hours on the glass, the reflection of the bright morning behind her. The glare hid anyone moving on the other side—she could barely see her own outline, let alone notice a six-foot-five firefighter about to come through.

She reached for the handle.

She didn’t touch it.

The door swung outward in a smooth arc, nearly brushing her knuckles. Hattie startled, taking half a step back.

“Sorry about that,” a man’s voice said—polite, warm, the default kind of courteous firefighters seemed trained to use. “Didn’t mean to—”

He stepped fully into the sunlight, holding the door with one hand. His gaze was aimed somewhere over her shoulder at first, another automatic gesture of greeting someone he assumed he didn’t know.

Then he looked at her.

Really looked.

His words died in his throat.

“…Hattie?”

The name slipped out before he could stop it, soft with disbelief. His eyebrows lifted, then drew together slightly, like the image in front of him had taken a second to resolve.

She blinked up at him—at Declan Caldwell, tall as a lamppost and twice as solid, wearing his uniform shirt with the sleeves shoved to his elbows and the faint imprint of long, early hours still clinging to him.

He seemed to take her in all at once: the backpack strap, the tidy stack of papers, the familiar-but-not face he hadn’t seen in four years.

“You’re—” he started, then huffed out a surprised laugh. “You’re the new admin assistant?”

Hattie nodded, suddenly warm under the attention. “I guess so. First day.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely thrown. “We knew someone was starting this week. Just… didn’t know it was you.”

There was no teasing in his voice, no incredulous you? Just pure, honest surprise.

Hattie managed a small smile. “I didn’t exactly announce I was back.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But still—wow.”

The door was still propped in his hand, wide open, waiting for her.

And Declan—once the easygoing boy everyone knew, now the steady young man the station depended on—was still staring at her like he was remembering every hallway their lives had crossed in.

He shook himself a little, stepping aside. “Come on in. I’ll show you where to go.”

She slipped past him, the faint scent of smoke and soap and station coffee drifting from his shirt. Inside, the lobby was cool, humming with low voices and the crackle of a radio.

She felt his presence a step behind her, an instinctive kind of anchor.

“Welcome back to Bedford Falls, Hattie,” he said, softer this time. A tone that wasn’t meant for just anyone.

She glanced over her shoulder.

“Thanks, Declan.”

And the look he gave her—warm, familiar, a little stunned—felt like an old chapter stirring back to life.

The lobby of the station was brighter than she expected. Sunlight spilled through the high windows, landing in warm squares across the tiled floor. The scent of coffee, paper, and faint engine oil settled around her like a brisk welcome.

Hattie slowed just enough to take it in.

Declan noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, keeping his voice low so it didn’t echo.

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Just… new.”

A smile tugged at his mouth—not mocking, just understanding.
He nodded toward the hallway. “We’ll go this way. Captain’s office is at the end.”

She followed him, her steps careful.
Declan walked a respectful half pace ahead, but not too far. He matched her speed without thinking—she saw it in the way his stride shortened, easy and natural, like looking out for her was something his body remembered even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

“You been home long?” he asked over his shoulder.

“A couple weeks.”

“And no one told me?” he said lightly, even though the surprise was real beneath it.

Hattie smiled faintly at the floor. “I didn’t exactly send postcards.”

“That tracks,” he murmured, almost to himself, but she heard the fondness anyway.

They passed the row of framed department photos—different crews, different years. He slowed when he noticed her looking.

“That’s last year’s team,” he said, tapping the edge of one frame.
He was in the picture, center left, tall even among the rest of the crew, grin wide and easy.

Her eyes paused on him.

He noticed that too.

“Lot of early mornings,” he said quickly, a little self-conscious. “We look awake but we’re not.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, then immediately wished she hadn’t—his answering smile was warm enough to trip her pulse.

At the end of the hall, he stopped outside a glass-paneled door with a brass nameplate: CAPTAIN HARRIS.

“Here we are,” Declan said, turning back to her fully. His usual calm was still there, but softened around the edges. “You’ll like him. He’s straightforward. Good at his job. Doesn’t bite.”

Hattie nodded, fingers tightening around her folder.

Declan hesitated.
A little shift of his weight.
A small breath in.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said gently.

She forced a smile. “Do I look nervous?”

“No,” he admitted. “But you do that thing where you hold your papers really carefully. Like they might run away.”

Her eyes widened in embarrassed surprise—and he immediately backtracked with both hands.

“Sorry—sorry. I wasn’t trying to call you out. I just— I remember you did that in school too. Sometimes. That’s all.”

He looked genuinely worried he’d stepped wrong.

Hattie shook her head, a shy, soft laugh escaping her. “It’s okay. You’re right.”

“Oh,” he said, some tension leaving his shoulders. “Good.”

A beat passed—quiet, warm, suspended.

Then he knocked for her. Once, solid.

“Captain? New hire’s here.”

A muffled “send them in” came from inside.

Declan opened the door a crack, then stepped aside for her, his hand hovering near the frame like he was holding the space open just for her.

She took a breath, lifted her chin, and started inside—

But his voice followed her, low and certain:

“You’re gonna do great, Hattie.”

She glanced back.

He met her eyes with something steady and warm—
not nostalgic anymore,
not confused,
but the beginning of something else entirely.

And then she stepped into the office, heart unsteady in the best possible way.