Lucy watched him laugh at the sugar packet with the kind of reluctant satisfaction she would absolutely deny under oath.

The grin on his face after it hit him made her own mouth threaten to betray her again, and she hid it the only way she could think to—by reaching for her coffee and taking a sip like she hadn’t just launched a breakfast condiment at him with deeply personal intent.

When he said he’d been worried she was taking all of this a little too well, she lowered the cup and gave him a flat look over the rim.

“Don’t get comfortable,” she said.

But there was no real heat in it.

Only the lingering warmth of the laugh still sitting low in her chest.

Then he started going through the pictures.

And that—

that changed the whole rhythm of the booth in a way Lucy hadn’t fully prepared for.

Not because she didn’t trust him with the camera.

She did, obviously, or she wouldn’t have pushed it across the table in the first place.

It was just strange, suddenly, watching someone else move through the way she saw things.

Watching Cameron Tate—who, for a very long time, had mostly existed in her life as noise and heat and unfinished damage—sit across from her in a diner booth and quietly understand what she meant when she said film doesn’t interrupt me.

That part she had not budgeted for.

So when he looked down at the dog photo and said yeah, no, he does have range, Lucy let out the smallest huff of amusement and leaned one elbow on the table.

“Told you,” she said.

Her voice came easy there.

Lighter.

“And he knew it too, which is what really made it work.”

She picked up her bagel again, tore off another small bite, and let him keep scrolling while she ate.

When he got to the bakery door shot and didn’t say anything stupid immediately, she noticed that too.

Of course she did.

And when he answered her warning with totally separate crisis, that got the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re dangerously close to being tolerable,” she said.

It came out dry.

Almost affectionate, if someone wanted to be very annoying about it.

She hoped he wouldn’t.

He probably would.

Then he got to the bakery window.

The one she’d almost not taken.

The one that had felt like standing still too long and needing somewhere to put her hands.

Lucy watched his face instead of the camera screen while he looked at it.

Watched the quiet way his attention shifted—not performative, not exaggerated, just… there.

Present.

It made something in her go unexpectedly still.

Which she hated.

Naturally.

So when he finally looked up and said I get it, she didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t believe him.

Because she did.

And she didn’t have a defense ready for that.

Her fingers tightened lightly around the coffee cup before loosening again.

When he added the not interrupting yourself part, Lucy’s gaze dropped briefly to the table, then back up to him.

There was something almost too careful in the way he handed it back to her—not physically, but in the way he gave the thought back. Like he understood that some things could bruise if you held them too hard.

That, more than anything else, was what unsettled her.

She tore off another piece of bagel mostly to give herself something to do.

“Well,” she said after a second, quieter than before but still dry enough to survive, “congratulations.”

A beat.

“You’re understanding photography now.”

She tipped her head slightly, one brow lifting.

“I assume they give out certificates for that.”

That let enough air back into the booth to keep her from having to sit too visibly inside the rest of it.

And then—

Don’t move.

Lucy barely had time to register what he meant before he lifted the camera.

Her whole body stilled on instinct.

Not frozen exactly.

Just caught.

Coffee still in her hand. The remains of the bagel on the plate. Morning light falling in through the diner window and catching the side of her face, the edge of her hair, the little bit of warmth she hadn’t gotten back under control yet.

Then—

click.

Her eyes widened a fraction.

“Cameron—”

Too late.

He was already lowering the camera with that look on his face.

That quiet, pleased look that made her instantly suspicious.

And then he smiled.

Said it was a really good one.

Lucy stared at him for exactly one second.

Then she reached across the table and took the camera back from him.

Not snatched.

Not rude.

Just fast enough to be very clear.

“No, no, no,” she said, already tucking it back toward herself before he could decide this was now a thing he was allowed to do. “Absolutely not.”

Her voice was still dry, but there was a flicker of something else underneath it now—something smaller, less controlled, not quite embarrassment and not quite anything she wanted to name in a public booth before ten-thirty.

“I stay behind the camera,” she said, like that was an obvious and legally binding rule he had just violated.

Her fingers curled around the camera body, thumb brushing over the edge of it automatically.

She did not look at the picture.

Not then.

Not with him sitting right there watching her.

She would later.

Probably alone.

Probably in her apartment with the door shut and the light low and too much quiet around her.

And when she did, she already knew she would stare at it longer than she meant to.

Not because of how she looked.

Because of how it would feel to know he took it.

How he had seen her in that exact second—mid-morning, half-guarded, coffee in hand, softer than she liked being caught, somewhere between settled and untethered.

Floating and confusing all at once.

A feeling she still couldn’t name without wanting to immediately fight it.

A feeling she definitely was not going to hand back to him gift-wrapped just because he’d gotten bold with a digital camera and decent timing.

So instead, Lucy slid the camera beside her on the booth seat and reached for her coffee again like absolutely nothing destabilizing had just occurred.

Then she looked at him—steady enough now, mostly recovered, one brow lifting just slightly.

“So,” she said, like she was changing the subject because she felt like it and not because self-preservation had kicked in at full force, “what are your plans for today?”

A beat.

Her mouth tilted faintly.

“And if your answer is ‘emotionally ambush me before lunch,’ I’m leaving.”

The second she reached across the table for the camera, Cameron let it go.

No resistance.
No teasing tug-of-war.
No “c’mon, let me see it again” like he was too dumb to understand what line she’d just redrawn for herself.

He just released it.

Which, frankly, was probably the smartest thing he’d done all morning.

Still, he couldn’t help the grin that lingered at the corners of his mouth while she tucked it back toward herself with that quick, deliberate efficiency that said very clearly: absolutely not, that privilege has been revoked, we will not be unpacking this in public.

Fair enough.

He sat back in the booth a little, coffee mug warm in his hand, and watched her reclaim her footing in real time—the camera beside her, the coffee back in her hands, the look she gave him just steady enough to suggest she had, in fact, recovered.

Mostly.

That made something amused and unreasonably fond move through him.

“I’m hearing,” he said, voice low and warm, “that my artistic instincts are being deeply underappreciated.”

The line came easy, but light enough not to push against the rule she’d just reasserted. He wasn’t dumb enough to turn this into an argument. Not when he could still see the faintest trace of unsteadiness under the way she held herself.

She stayed behind the camera.

Got it.

He could live with that.

For now.

Then she asked about his plans.

And because she was Lucy and nothing with her ever came entirely without edge, she gave him the warning about emotionally ambushing her before lunch.

That got a real laugh out of him.

Not loud.
Not enough to turn heads.
Just genuine enough to brighten his whole face before he could stop it.

“Wow,” he said, shaking his head once. “Harsh accusation.”

He took a sip of coffee, buying himself a second, then set the mug back down and leaned an elbow against the table.

“My actual plans are a lot less glamorous,” he said. “I’ve got to swing by the field later because apparently one of the boys left a glove in the dugout and his dad’s acting like it’s a hostage situation.”

His mouth pulled faintly to one side.

“Then I told my dad I’d help him move some lumber this afternoon, which was a mistake I made while being raised with manners.”

That felt true enough to qualify as a tragedy.

“And at some point,” he added, glancing toward the window like the whole of Bedford Falls might be out there conspiring against his free time, “I’m probably gonna get cornered by at least one rec parent who wants to ask if I think their kid has ‘real potential,’ which is always terrifying.”

There was enough life in him now—enough of that sun-warmed, athletic ease—to let the humor carry without making it slick. He wasn’t performing for her. He was just… talking. Letting her have something ordinary to hold onto.

He liked that.

More than he probably should have.

The truth was, he had plans. Real ones. Field, work, errands, whatever else the day decided to become. But sitting here with her in the booth and the remains of the morning light catching in her hair while she tried very hard to look unaffected by the fact that he’d snapped a picture of her? That had already become the part of the day he was going to remember most.

He didn’t say that.

Instead he tipped his chin toward her bagel.

“What about you?” he asked, then lifted his brows faintly like he already knew better than to expect a simple answer. “Besides threatening me, confiscating photographic evidence, and apparently running quality control on Bedford Falls coffee shops.”

His eyes flicked once to the camera beside her.

“You actually gonna spend the day taking pictures, or was that just your way of giving your brain something else to fight with?”

The question landed a little quieter than the joke before it. Not prying exactly. Just interested. There was always that in him around her now—less assumption, more curiosity. Less acting like he already knew her just because he used to.

And then, because he could feel the air hovering right at the edge of becoming too aware again, Cameron nudged it back toward something lighter.

“Also,” he said, “for the record, I don’t think asking about your lunch plans counts as an emotional ambush.”

A beat.

“I think that’s just breakfast with excellent boundaries.”

The corner of his mouth tugged again.

“Very mature. Honestly proud of us.”

That one he let sit there with a little more warmth, because it was funny and because it was also, unfortunately, true.

This was mature.
Weirdly.

Not clean.
Not uncomplicated.
Not even all that stable, if he was being honest.

But mature in the sense that neither of them was pretending the hard part hadn’t happened, and neither of them was using it to burn the whole morning down.

He could work with that.

He glanced again toward the camera, then back to her face, and there was something softer in the way he looked at her now. Not because he was trying to start something back up. Because she’d asked for normal, and this—coffee, plans, teasing, the world stubbornly continuing outside the window—was probably the closest thing they had to it.

And maybe that was enough.

At least for now.

“Anyway,” he said, reaching for the sugar packet she’d thrown at him earlier and turning it once between his fingers like he was considering pressing charges, “I’d just like to note that I’m taking this home with me.”

He lifted it slightly.

“As a reminder that I survived breakfast and was, at one point, pelted with sweetener by a woman with excellent bagel taste and a lot of opinions.”

A beat.

Then his mouth curved, slower this time.

“Feels important to document the milestone.”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed at the sugar packet in his hand like she was genuinely reconsidering whether she’d thrown enough.

“Please don’t frame that like I assaulted you over breakfast,” she said dryly, wrapping both hands around her coffee again. “That’s not the kind of local folklore I need attached to my name.”

But there was no real bite in it now.

Not after the way he’d let the camera go without making a thing of it.
Not after he’d done the very rare and very appreciated thing of noticing a line and simply… not stepping on it.

She noticed that.

Of course she did.

And maybe that was part of why some of the residual tension had finally started to unknot in her shoulders. Not fully. Not enough that she trusted herself not to feel weirdly overaware again if she thought too hard about the picture situation. But enough that she could sit there without feeling like she needed to keep one foot mentally braced beneath the table.

His plans got a quiet huff of amusement out of her, somewhere between a laugh and a knowing exhale.

“The hostage glove situation sounds serious,” she said. “Thoughts and prayers to the family.”

Her mouth tipped at one corner as she tore off another small piece of bagel.

“And helping your dad move lumber absolutely sounds like one of those traps people raised correctly fall into for the rest of their lives. So, honestly, that one’s on you.”

Then his attention turned back on her.

And because he’d asked gently—because it didn’t feel like he was trying to corner something out of her so much as actually wanting to know—Lucy didn’t dodge it right away.

She glanced toward the window for a second, then back down at the table, fingertips brushing once over the edge of the camera where it sat beside her.

“Nothing exciting,” she said at first, but there was a softness to it now. Less reflexive deflection, more actual answer. “I’m mostly just killing time for a little while.”

Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug.

“I told Mae I’d come cover the shop for a few hours this afternoon so she can go deal with her actual life without Honey Bee Vintage emotionally blackmailing her into staying all day.”

That got the faintest smile from her.

“She has a dentist appointment and then something with her sister, I think, so I said I’d come in and pretend I’m still a responsible business owner.”

The wording was light, but there was affection tucked into it too. Familiarity. The kind that came from building a life in a place where everyone’s schedules and emergencies and mildly inconvenient obligations had a way of becoming loosely communal.

She took a sip of coffee, then added, “So really I’m just here delaying the inevitable until I have to go steam wrinkled blouses and tell at least one woman she absolutely does not need another candle.”

Her gaze lifted back to him then, steadier now, a little easier.

“And then dinner with my parents tonight,” she said, with the exact expression of someone announcing a manageable but spiritually exhausting civic duty. “Which means my mother will ask me if I’m eating enough, my dad will pretend not to care what’s going on in town and then ask me seventeen highly specific questions about everyone, and at some point one of them will casually bring up whether Honey Bee needs new signage like that hasn’t already become a family-wide infrastructure concern.”

The corner of her mouth pulled despite herself.

“It’s very glamorous. Very fast-paced. A real thrill ride from start to finish.”

By the time she finished, some of the warmth had settled properly back into her again—not performative, not overdone, just real enough to be visible now. Less guarded than she’d been ten minutes ago. Less like she was trying to outrun herself.

Then she tipped her head just slightly, looking at the sugar packet he was still holding hostage like it had legal standing.

“And for the record,” she said, “if you take that home, I need you to understand that makes this significantly weirder than I intended.”

A beat.

“Like… scrapbook behavior.”

Her brows lifted.

“Potentially evidence box behavior.”

Then, because she couldn’t quite help herself:

“Which honestly feels on-brand for you.”

She reached for her coffee again, but her eyes flicked once toward the packet in his hand and then back to him, a little more amused now than she probably wanted him to see.

“And no,” she added, circling back with just enough dry emphasis to make the point land, “asking about lunch plans does not count as an emotional ambush.”

Her expression softened just a fraction after that.

“That was actually… very civilized of you.”

The admission cost her a little. It showed.

Which was probably why she immediately undercut it.

“I don’t want you getting too encouraged,” she said, pointing lightly at him with half her bagel. “But yes. Congratulations. You managed one entire breakfast without emotionally derailing me before noon.”

A small pause.

“Personal growth.”

That earned the faintest, unwilling curve of her mouth again before she looked down, shaking her head once like she already regretted giving him even that much.

But when she looked back up, there was something quieter in her expression. Something honest.

“Anyway,” she said, voice easier now, “I probably will take a few pictures before I head in.”

Her fingertips tapped lightly against the camera.

“Nothing dramatic. Just… around town, maybe. Storefronts. The square. Whatever catches me before I have to go be useful.”

Then she looked at him—really looked at him for a second, with that same careful curiosity he’d been offering her all morning.

“And if I’m lucky,” she added, tone dry again but gentler underneath it, “maybe I’ll make it through the rest of the day without getting publicly victimized by youth baseball, lumber, or emotionally unstable coffee shop conversations.”

A beat.

Then her eyes dropped once more to the sugar packet.

“Although apparently you can’t say the same.”

Cameron listened to all of it.

Mae and the shop. The dentist appointment. The wrinkled blouses. The candle intervention. Dinner with her parents and the inevitable family-wide strategic planning summit over Honey Bee Vintage signage.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t jump in too early with some line just because there was one waiting.

He let her talk, because that was still the part that got him a little every time now—the fact that she was talking to him like this at all. Not just the hard stuff. Not just the swing-set truths or the inconvenient half-confessions over coffee.

This too.

The small-town logistics. The family dinner dread. The ordinary shape of her day.

That felt bigger than it should have.

Or maybe exactly as big as it should have.

By the time she got to scrapbook behavior and evidence box behavior, the grin had already found him again.

“Scrapbook behavior?” he repeated, turning the sugar packet once between his fingers like he was reconsidering its legal significance. “That feels aggressive.”

His voice came low and easy, the warmth in it settling naturally now instead of fighting its way through the room.

He set the packet down carefully beside his mug anyway, which probably did not help his case.

“For the record,” he added, “an evidence box suggests intent. This is more… accidental historical preservation.”

That got him exactly nowhere in terms of defending himself, and judging by the look on her face, he knew it.

Still worth it.

He leaned back a little farther into the booth, one arm draped loosely along the seat, and let his eyes stay on her for a second after she called breakfast civilized.

That one hit him somewhere soft.

Not because it was dramatic. Because it wasn’t.

Because “civilized” from Lucy felt like getting handed a medal in a language only she spoke.

“Personal growth,” he echoed.

The corner of his mouth pulled.

“You hear that?” he said, glancing briefly toward the window like somebody out on Main Street might need to witness this. “I’m being certified now.”

Then his gaze came back to her, and the joking softened on its own.

She looked more settled than when she’d walked in. Still careful. Still carrying some private current under the surface.

But less braced.

Enough that he could see it. Enough that he let himself feel quietly glad about it without making that her problem.

When she mentioned taking pictures before heading to the shop, something in him eased further.

Not because it meant anything bigger than it did.

Because it sounded like her again. Not the version of her fighting herself outside the café door. The version that moved through town looking for angles and light and little pieces of Bedford Falls everyone else missed because they were too busy living in it.

And then the last line—

Although apparently you can’t say the same.

That got him.

A laugh slipped out of him, warm and immediate, and he dropped his eyes for a second like she’d actually managed to land the hit cleanly.

“No,” he admitted, looking back up at her. “Can’t say the same.”

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I’m one rec crisis away from becoming a folk tale.”

His fingers tapped once against the side of his mug before he added, “By tonight it’ll be, ‘Did you hear Coach Tate got emotionally compromised before breakfast and then spent the afternoon hauling lumber like a man trying to outrun his feelings?’”

That earned itself a little more amusement out of him.

Not because he was dodging the truth. Because it was the truth, more or less, and sometimes saying it with a smile kept it from trying to own the whole room.

He reached for his coffee again and took a sip, then nodded toward her camera.

“Storefronts sounds good,” he said. “Low-risk. Manageable. Minimal chance of public humiliation unless a ladder gets involved.”

A beat.

“Though I do think the square owes you something after this morning. Maybe a guy dropping three hot dogs at once. Something with range.”

His mouth pulled again, easy and bright around the edges.

The thing about Cameron now was that the warmth came easier than it used to, but it didn’t crash into everything the way it had when he was younger. It sat in him better. Less like he was trying to light up the whole room. More like he knew he didn’t have to.

He looked at her bagel, then her coffee, then back to her face.

“Also, your day sounds exhausting,” he said.

Not pitying. Just honest.

“Mae gets the shop, your parents get dinner, and somewhere in the middle you have to prevent at least one candle-related financial crime.” He tipped his head. “You’re basically public service.”

That one he offered lightly, but he meant it more than the joke suggested.

There was something about the way Lucy moved through Bedford Falls that made the place feel held together in all the quiet spots. The store. The square. Her parents. Mae. Even the candles apparently.

He wasn’t about to say all that out loud in a café booth and make her regret every minute of breakfast.

Still, some of it probably showed.

He let his gaze drift to the window again.

The truck driver had finally accepted his planter-related defeat and was getting back into the cab with the solemn dignity of a man who’d decided to live with his mistakes privately. Mrs. Daley had acquired a pastry bag and, apparently, no reduction in conversation volume. Main Street looked like itself. Same as always. Same as yesterday. Same as before the swings. Before the kiss. Before any of this started to change shape.

And somehow the sameness didn’t feel mocking now.

It just felt useful.

A place for the rest of this to happen inside.

When he looked back at Lucy, his expression had gone a little quieter again.

“You know,” he said, “I kind of like that your plans are normal.”

That might have sounded strange if he hadn’t said it exactly the way he meant it.

“Not because they’re boring,” he added quickly, the grin returning just enough to show he knew better than to insult her before she’d finished her coffee. “Because they’re yours.”

He rested his forearm on the table this time, leaning in just enough to feel engaged without crowding the booth.

“Shop shift. Family dinner. Photos around town. Candle enforcement.” A small shrug. “That feels right.”

There was affection in it, but the kind that didn’t ask for anything back. Just acknowledgment. Just him seeing the shape of her life and liking it for what it was.

Then, because she’d handed him a more ordinary version of the morning and because he wanted to meet it where she’d offered it, he nodded toward the camera again.

“If you’re just wandering before the shop,” he said, “I can walk part of it with you.”

The sentence came out casual enough, but not careless.

“No emotional ambushes,” he added immediately, lifting a hand slightly like he was taking an oath. “No surprise swing sets. No photography crimes unless invited.”

His mouth tilted.

“I can even limit myself to one observation every five minutes so you don’t accuse me of narrating the town into collapse.”

There it was—that easy, sun-warmed playfulness in him again, athletic and grounded and just bright enough to make the offer feel like company instead of pressure.

And underneath it, the steadier truth:

he wanted to keep sitting across from her. Wanted the morning to keep going. Wanted whatever this was—not solved, not pushed, just alive—to have a little more room before they both had to go back to their separate versions of Bedford Falls.

But he knew enough now not to make wanting feel like entitlement.

So he left the offer where it was. Simple. Usable. Easy to refuse if she wanted to.

Then he leaned back again and let the booth breathe around them.

The coffee. The bagel. The camera. The sugar packet still sitting beside his mug like Exhibit A in a case he fully intended to lose.

And with a softer grin, he tapped the little packet once with his finger.

“Also, I’m serious about this,” he said. “This is coming with me.”

A beat.

“Not scrapbook behavior.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“Character development artifact.”

That one he delivered with just enough seriousness to make it ridiculous again.

Then he sat there, warm-eyed and a little amused and very much not the arrogant kid he’d once been, waiting to see what she’d do with any of it.

Lucy listened to all of it with her coffee halfway to her mouth and the kind of expression that suggested she was trying very hard not to look as entertained as she actually was.

Which, frankly, she was failing at.

By the time he got to accidental historical preservation, the corner of her mouth had already tipped.

“Mm,” she said, unconvinced. “That’s exactly the kind of phrase someone uses right before they start keeping receipts in shoeboxes.”

She lifted the cup and took another sip, eyes still on him over the rim.

“Very suspicious behavior.”

Then he called himself certified and glanced toward the window like Main Street needed to witness his personal growth, and that got a real, quiet laugh out of her.

Not loud.

Just enough to soften the line of her shoulders and make her look, for one brief second, less like someone trying to keep every moving part of herself neatly contained.

“It’s a local honor,” she said.

A beat.

“Very selective process.”

Her fingers settled around the cup again as she watched him keep going—about becoming a folk tale, hauling lumber like a man trying to outrun his feelings, all of it—and something about the way he said it, easy and self-aware and just this side of ridiculous, made it hard not to picture exactly how the story would travel through Bedford Falls by dinner.

Which was unfairly vivid.

And, unfortunately, funny.

“You absolutely do have small-town cautionary tale energy,” she said.

Her tone stayed dry, but the warmth in it had stopped pretending not to exist by then.

“By tonight Mrs. Daley’s gonna have you emotionally splitting wood behind the hardware store in her version.”

She tore off the last little piece of bagel and ate it, still watching him over the table while he talked about storefronts and hot dogs and candles and the deeply unserious infrastructure of Bedford Falls.

When he called her day public service, her brows lifted faintly.

“That feels dramatic,” she said.

Then, after a beat:

“Accurate, but dramatic.”

The coffee had gone from useful to mostly ceremonial at this point, but she still kept her hand around it, letting the warmth sit in her palm while she listened to the rest of him.

And when he said he liked that her plans were normal—not boring, just hers—Lucy went still for exactly half a second.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for her to.

Because it landed in that irritatingly specific way some things only did when they were said without trying too hard.

Just observed.

Just seen.

Her gaze dropped briefly to the table, then back up to him, and there was something softer in it now. Less defensive. Less prepared to swat every decent thing away on principle.

“That might be the nicest way anyone’s ever described candle enforcement,” she said quietly.

The dryness was still there.

But it wasn’t hiding as much now.

Then came the offer.

I can walk part of it with you.

Lucy looked at him for a second.

Long enough to feel the shape of the choice before she answered it.

He’d made it easy on purpose. Left her room. No pressure, no push, no assuming yes just because the morning had gone better than either of them probably expected.

And that, more than the offer itself, made it harder to say no.

Her eyes flicked to the sugar packet beside his mug when he tapped it again and started insisting—very seriously, apparently—that it was a character development artifact.

That did it.

A small sound of amusement left her before she could stop it.

Then Lucy leaned forward slightly over the table, just enough to close a little of the space between them without making it into something bigger than it was.

Her gaze dropped to the sugar packet.

Then lifted back to him.

And for one second, the expression on her face went softer in a way she definitely did not mean to let happen—mouth pulling into the faintest little pout, eyes warm with quiet accusation.

“Be honest,” she said.

Her voice came low and dry and just barely threaded with something sweeter than she’d probably authorize later.

“You’re keeping that because I threw it at you.”

A beat.

Then, before he could answer:

“Just like I’m keeping the photo you took of me.”

There.

Said casually enough to pass.

Not casual at all underneath.

Lucy felt the truth of it the second it left her mouth.

The fact that she’d tucked the camera beside her without looking at the picture, but had already known she wasn’t deleting it.

Already known she’d keep it.

Already known she’d probably look at it later when she was alone and annoy herself all over again.

Her fingers moved toward the camera almost unconsciously as if to reclaim it from the sentence before it could become too revealing.

But she didn’t take the words back.

She just sat there for a second longer, close enough to the table to feel the warmth of the coffee and the odd little current still running between them, then leaned back again before the moment could sharpen too much.

And because she had, apparently, already said one reckless honest thing this minute, she let herself say one more.

“You can walk with me,” she said.

Simple.

No dramatic lead-in.

No pretending she needed to think about it harder than she already had.

She reached for her things as she spoke—camera first, then coffee cup, then the little motions of gathering herself back together in the booth. Her bagel wrapper got folded once and tucked neatly onto the plate. Her camera strap looped over her wrist. Her sunglasses got slid into her bag with the efficient, absent familiarity of somebody who’d done this exact exit ritual a thousand times.

But there was still that faint warmth in her face when she looked back at him.

“Part of it,” she clarified, because apparently she was still legally required to maintain at least one boundary per conversation.

Her brows lifted slightly.

“And if you violate the one observation every five minutes rule, I reserve the right to abandon you in front of the florist.”

A beat.

“Which, to be clear, would devastate you.”

Then she stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder and settling the camera against her side, and for the first time all morning the movement didn’t feel like retreat.

Just motion.

Just the next part of the day.

Lucy looked down at him one more time, one hand resting lightly on the back of the booth for balance, and the corner of her mouth tipped.

“Bring your artifact,” she said, nodding toward the sugar packet. “Wouldn’t want you emotionally unprepared for the square.”

Cameron heard two things at once.

The first was You can walk with me.

The second—the one that hit lower and warmer and a whole lot less safely—was Just like I’m keeping the photo you took of me.

He didn’t react fast enough to hide the way that landed.

Not dramatically.
Not in some smug, victorious way that would’ve ruined the whole thing.

Just enough that something unguarded crossed his face before he could smooth it back into something more manageable. A quiet brightness. A little disbelief. A lot of careful, stubborn restraint.

She was keeping it.

Lucy Corbett was keeping the picture.

And then she stood, bag gathered, camera at her side, the whole shape of her already tipping into motion again—not retreating, just moving. Next thing. Next beat. Next part of the day.

Cameron stayed seated for half a second longer than he needed to, mostly so he didn’t stand too fast and make it obvious how much both of those admissions had hit him.

Then he exhaled through his nose, picked up the sugar packet, and slid it neatly into his pocket like the world’s least subtle man.

“Absolutely,” he said, finally, voice low and warm and carrying just enough of a grin to keep the air easy. “Wouldn’t dream of facing the square without my emotional support sweetener.”

He rose from the booth with the loose, easy movement of somebody who had spent most of his life in motion—athletic without showing off, tall enough that the booth felt smaller once he stood. He grabbed his coffee, drained what was left in two swallows that had gone from hot to merely serviceable, and set the mug down beside the plate.

Then he glanced at her.

Really glanced.
At the camera resting against her side. The bag on her shoulder. The faint warmth still lingering in her face even though she was very clearly pretending she hadn’t just handed him two separate things he was going to think about for the rest of the day.

Maybe longer.

Definitely longer.

“That florist threat was cruel, by the way,” he added as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “You know I’d never recover.”

He tossed enough cash on the table to cover his coffee and whatever she hadn’t already paid for, then added a little extra because Marla had almost certainly earned hazard pay for existing within conversational range of both of them this morning.

When he straightened, his eyes flicked once toward the counter where Marla was pretending not to watch.

She was failing spectacularly.

Cameron just tipped two fingers in her direction like don’t start without actually saying it aloud, then reached for the booth edge to let Lucy step out cleanly first.

Not performative.
Not overdone.

Just easy.

The bell over the café door gave its soft jangle when they stepped back out onto Main Street, and the light hit different now—higher, cleaner, the morning fully awake and moving. The bakery was still spilling sugar into the air. Mrs. Daley had, impressively, found a third person to talk to. The truck by the planter had finally committed to parking in a way that looked less like success than surrender.

Cameron fell into step beside Lucy naturally once they hit the sidewalk.

Not too close.
Not far enough to feel formal either.

Just there.

Part of the walk.

He kept his mouth shut for the first few steps on purpose. Partly because he had, in fact, been given rules. Partly because the simple fact of walking out of the café beside her without either of them combusting felt unexpectedly good. Better not to step on it too quickly.

The town moved around them in familiar layers—doors opening and shutting, a stroller wheel rattling over brick, someone calling a name from half a block away, a dog deciding the flower bed outside the pharmacy was the hill he’d die on.

Cameron kept pace with her and counted, just to entertain himself.

One minute.
No observations.

That had to be some kind of personal best.

At about ninety seconds, he glanced sideways at her and caught the camera shifting lightly at her hip with each step.

His mouth pulled faintly.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, voice easy, “I heard the part about you keeping the photo.”

There was no push in it.
No fishing.

Just the truth set down gently, because pretending he hadn’t heard it would’ve felt more pointed than acknowledging it.

His eyes stayed ahead.

“I’m behaving about it,” he added after a beat. “But I heard it.”

That was probably as restrained as he was capable of being while still remaining recognizably himself.

A breeze moved through the street and lifted the ends of her hair just enough that his eyes caught on it before he dragged them back to the sidewalk.

Three minutes.

Still no commentary worth prosecuting.

He shoved one hand into his pocket and felt the sugar packet there, ridiculous and real.

That almost got him laughing again.

By the time they crossed in front of the square, the town had softened into the kind of midmorning rhythm Bedford Falls did best—busy enough to feel alive, not busy enough to be in a hurry. Someone was changing the chalkboard outside the diner. Two teenage girls in running shorts were sharing an iced coffee and talking with the full-body intensity of people who believed the world might end if they were misunderstood.

Cameron clocked it, kept it to himself.

Growth.

He glanced at Lucy again, the corner of his mouth giving him away just slightly.

“I’m doing great, by the way,” he said. “This level of restraint should probably count toward the certificate.”

Then, because he could feel the warmth of the moment sitting just under the surface and didn’t want to let it turn too aware too fast, he nodded toward the square.

“You got a destination, or are we professionally wandering?”

The question came out lighter than most things had this morning. Less loaded. More ordinary in the best way.

He liked that.

Maybe because ordinary with her didn’t feel small anymore. It felt earned.

A little farther down, near the courthouse walk, one of the hanging flower baskets had tilted slightly crooked in the breeze. Cameron’s eyes found it, then slid away on instinct. No observations. No violation.

Then he caught himself.

Looked back at Lucy.

“Do hanging baskets count,” he asked, “or is that too niche to qualify as commentary?”

The grin he gave her then was easy and warm and just boyish enough to make the whole thing feel lighter without losing any of what had come before.

And beneath it, quieter but no less true, something in him had settled.

Not because anything was solved.

Because she had let him stay.

Because she had let him walk with her.

Because whatever this was—unfinished, inconvenient, impossible to name cleanly before ten-thirty on a Bedford Falls morning—it was still moving forward.

And so was he.

Lucy stepped out onto Main Street with him beside her and immediately became aware of everything all at once.

The shift in light.
The warmth of the late morning sun against her bare arms.
The camera bumping softly against her hip with every step.
The easy sound of the café door falling shut behind them.

And Cameron.

Mostly Cameron.

Not in a dramatic, movie-scene way she would’ve rolled her eyes at if anyone else tried to describe it that way.

Just in the deeply inconvenient, hyper-aware way she seemed to be experiencing him now no matter how hard she tried to file him back into something simpler.

She heard him tuck the sugar packet into his pocket without looking.

Of course he did.

And when he called it his emotional support sweetener, Lucy glanced sideways at him, mouth pulling faintly despite herself.

“That’s humiliating,” she said.

A beat.

“Keep it hidden from the general public.”

The line came easier out here.

The air helped.

The movement helped.

Maybe because walking gave her something to do besides sit across from him and feel every single thing too directly.

She waited while he paid, adjusted her bag higher on her shoulder, and shifted her grip on the camera strap, grounding herself in all the small, practical motions she knew how to trust.

Then they were out on the sidewalk.

And for a few steps, neither of them said much.

Which should have been awkward.

But wasn’t.

That was maybe the most unsettling part.

It should have felt stilted after everything—after the swing set, after breakfast, after the photograph, after all the things they had somehow managed not to ruin by saying too much or too little at exactly the wrong time.

Instead, it felt…

easy.

Not effortless.
Not safe.
Not uncomplicated.

But easy in the way something can be when the tension in it has stopped being about whether it exists and started being about what to do with it.

Lucy kept her eyes ahead as they walked, but her awareness of him kept pulling sideways anyway.

The sound of his boots against the sidewalk.
The quiet rustle of denim when he shoved one hand into his pocket.
The shape of him moving beside her with that same athletic ease he’d always had—but not boyish now, not loose in the careless way it used to be.

Older.

That was the first thing.

Not just older in the obvious ways, though those were there too.

His jaw had sharpened since high school.
His shoulders had broadened.
There was something heavier in the way he carried himself now, something steadier, like life had pressed a little more weight into him and instead of collapsing under it, he’d learned how to stand properly inside it.

He still looked like Cameron Tate.

Of course he did.

But he looked like the version time had finished with a little more carefully than she wanted to admit.

And worse—

he didn’t act like the boy she’d known either.

That was the second thing.

Because it would’ve been easier if he had.

Easier if he’d come back with the same reckless certainty, the same selfish confidence, the same maddening instinct to bulldoze toward what he wanted and assume the rest of the world would sort itself around him.

That version of him she knew what to do with.

That version of him she had already survived.

But this one—

this one listened.
This one paused.
This one let her have lines and didn’t make her defend them with blood.
This one looked at her like she was saying something worth hearing even when she was being difficult on purpose.

This one had learned how not to turn everything into a demand.

And that was dangerous.

Because she could feel it all lining up in real time.

Could feel the quiet, awful truth of it forming shape under every ordinary thing this morning had become.

The booth.
The coffee.
The walk.
The photograph she was keeping.
The sugar packet he was keeping.

This could turn into something.

If she let it.

If she stopped keeping one foot braced against the door.

If she let herself believe, even for a second, that this version of Cameron might be someone she could actually open back up to.

And that—

that was where her chest tightened.

Because it would not be a small thing.

Not with him.

Not after everything.

It had been years since the day he left, and somehow that day still lived in her body with a sharpness she hated. Not all the time. Not loudly. But enough. Enough that sometimes she could still feel the shape of it if she stood too close to the memory: the humiliation, the grief, the quiet fury of being the girl who stayed while he became the boy who got to go.

She had rebuilt herself after that.

Piece by piece.

She had built a life that was hers.
A shop.
An apartment.
A routine.
A version of herself that no longer needed to ask whether someone leaving meant she had not been enough to make them stay.

And now here he was, walking beside her like he hadn’t once been the exact kind of hurt she’d had to grow around.

No—

that wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t acting like that at all.

That was the problem.

When he finally broke the quiet to say he’d heard the part about her keeping the photo, Lucy’s grip tightened slightly on the camera strap.

Not enough for him to notice.

Probably.

Her eyes stayed ahead.

“I gathered,” she said, voice dry but quieter than before.

Then, after a beat:

“You’re being very normal about it, which is still frankly suspicious.”

The warmth in her tone softened the line before it could turn sharp.

Because the truth was, she had noticed.

Of course she had.

She had noticed the way something open crossed his face when she said it.
The way he hadn’t pounced on it.
The way he’d just… held it.

Like it mattered.

Like she mattered.

She hated that she noticed things like that.

Or rather—

she hated that she liked noticing things like that.

A breeze moved through the square and caught the ends of her hair, and Lucy reached up absently to tuck one side behind her ear, more for something to do with her hand than because it actually needed fixing.

When he said he was doing great and that the restraint should count toward the certificate, she looked over at him then.

Really looked.

And for a second, before she could stop herself, the amusement on her face softened into something quieter.

Something more openly fond than she’d probably intended.

“You are doing weirdly well,” she admitted.

A beat.

“It’s unsettling.”

But this time when she said it, there was less bite in it.

Less defense.

More… wonder, maybe.

Which was worse.

Then he asked if they had a destination or if they were professionally wandering, and that pulled her back into something easier.

Lucy glanced toward the square, then farther down the street toward the row of storefronts catching the light.

“Professionally wandering,” she said.

She nodded lightly toward the old bookstore window across from the courthouse lawn.

“I wanted to get the lettering on that window before the sun shifts too hard.”

Then she looked back at him and added, drier:

“Which I’m sure you have many thoughts about, but apparently you’re exercising growth.”

That earned him just enough of a smirk to make it feel like them again—whatever them currently was.

They kept walking.

Past the courthouse walk.
Past the crooked flower baskets.
Past a couple pushing a stroller and an older man watering a planter like it had personally offended him.

And somewhere in the middle of it, Lucy let herself look at Cameron again without immediately pretending she hadn’t.

Just a quick glance.

His profile in the light.
The sharper line of his jaw.
The little crease at the edge of his mouth when he was trying not to say something.
The version of him that looked enough like the boy she used to know to be recognizable and enough unlike him to keep knocking the breath out of her in small, quiet ways.

She looked away first.

Of course she did.

And when he asked if hanging baskets counted as commentary, Lucy let out the softest laugh and shook her head.

“That depends,” she said.

She adjusted the camera at her side and glanced at him again, eyes a little warmer now.

“Are you observing them,” she asked, “or are you about to give them emotional depth?”

A beat.

“Because that feels like a violation.”

Cameron’s mouth pulled at that before he could stop it.

Not just because she’d laughed.

Because she’d looked at him when she said it—eyes warmer than they’d been ten minutes ago, voice lighter, the whole thing landing somewhere between a tease and an actual question. And he felt it, annoyingly fast, the way he felt most things with her lately: low in his chest first, then everywhere else after.

He kept his hands where they were—one in his pocket, the other loose at his side—and matched her pace instead of turning to look at her too directly.

“Observation,” he said. “Strictly observational.”

A beat.

“Anything more than that before noon would be irresponsible.”

His tone stayed easy, but there was enough of a smile in it to let her know he knew exactly what she was doing. Exactly how close to fond her voice had sounded just then. Exactly how dangerous it would be to push on that too hard.

So he didn’t.

That was the thing now.

He still had the instinct to reach for what he wanted. Still had the same body that moved toward things naturally, the same warm-blooded, easy confidence that had once let him assume the world would make space for him if he stepped into it hard enough. But he had learned, finally, that wanting something and earning the right to hold it were not the same thing.

With Lucy, that difference mattered.

Especially now.

He glanced toward the hanging baskets anyway, because he couldn’t help himself, the corners of his mouth still tipped.

“I do think one of them looks a little codependent,” he added. “But I’m willing to keep that to myself.”

That got him a quieter laugh of his own, and he let it live there between them without turning it into a whole thing. Just another easy piece of the walk. Another small place to stand that wasn’t all history and damage and the dangerous shape of whatever had been trying to form between them since the park.

The bookstore window came into better view a few yards ahead—old painted lettering catching light in that soft, exact way that only lasted a few minutes before the sun shifted on to something else. Cameron saw immediately why she wanted it. The glass held the street in faint reflection, the gold of the morning threading through the letters just enough to make them look a little haunted in the prettiest possible way.

He looked at it.

Then at her.

Then back at it again.

And there it was—that familiar little punch of understanding. Not just of what she wanted to photograph, but of how she moved through the world at all. The way she noticed the thing beneath the thing. The part most people passed without slowing down for. The version of Bedford Falls that only existed if you looked at it long enough to let it reveal itself.

He had spent years thinking Lucy was simply observant.

That had been too simple.

Lucy paid attention like it was a form of care. Like seeing something clearly was its own way of keeping it from disappearing.

No wonder the camera fit so naturally in her hands.

No wonder being looked at by her now felt different than it ever had before.

He shoved that thought down before it could get loose enough to complicate the sidewalk.

Not because it wasn’t true.

Because this was the part where he had learned to leave truth where it belonged instead of pulling on every thread until something tore.

So he kept his voice light when he spoke again.

“You know,” he said, looking at the bookstore window instead of her, “I think you’re lucky I’m showing incredible personal restraint.”

His mouth tipped.

“High school me would’ve absolutely had a speech ready about old lettering and nostalgia by now.”

That one he gave her with enough dry warmth to make it a joke, but there was honesty under it too. He knew the version of himself she still kept finding in her head sometimes—the loud one, the certain one, the one who would’ve rushed to fill every silence because silence felt too much like vulnerability. He wasn’t that kid anymore.

He wasn’t pretending he’d outgrown every selfish instinct he’d ever had. He hadn’t. He could still feel them in himself sometimes, bright and quick and reckless around the edges.

But he knew how to sit on them now.

How not to make them somebody else’s problem.

And walking beside Lucy in the late morning light while she professionally wandered Main Street with a camera at her side, that felt like maybe the clearest proof of it he’d had yet.

He glanced over at her then, not long, just enough to catch the edge of her profile and the camera bumping softly against her hip.

“For the record,” he said, quieter now, “I know I’m not making this easy.”

There was no self-pity in it. No invitation for reassurance.

Just truth.

His gaze shifted ahead again.

“I’m not saying that because I want credit for noticing.” A small shrug. “I just know.”

A second passed.

Then he added, warmer around the edges, “I also know you’re still here.”

That one he let land plain.

Not heavy. Not loaded. Just there.

Because she was.

Still walking beside him. Still giving him looks that were half warning, half warmth. Still letting the morning happen instead of cutting away from it the second it got too real.

He wasn’t going to treat that like nothing.

He also wasn’t going to scare it off by staring straight at it until it ran.

The bookstore window was only a few steps away now. He slowed naturally, not because she’d asked, but because that was the rhythm of this now too—learning when to give her room before she had to explain she needed it.

The little bell over the bookstore door gave a faint metallic shake as someone slipped inside. The gold on the lettering brightened for one second, then softened again as a cloud passed thinly over the sun.

Cameron caught it and nodded once toward the glass.

“Okay,” he said. “That one’s worth risking commentary for.”

The corner of his mouth pulled.

“But I’m keeping it simple.”

A beat.

“It looks like a place that would judge people for dog-earing pages.”

He slipped one hand farther into his pocket, shoulder angled slightly away now—not leaving, not retreating, just instinctively making space for whatever she wanted to do next without acting like he was doing her a favor.

That was the thing about him now.

He still had the same warmth. The same sunlit ease. The same grin that came too naturally when she made him laugh.

But he had finally learned how not to take up more room than he was given.

And standing there beside her—older, steadier, still a little too boyish at the edges to ever be entirely safe—Cameron let himself feel the quiet satisfaction of that without needing to announce it.

Then, because he was still himself enough not to let the moment become too solemn on a perfectly normal morning in Bedford Falls, he glanced at the hanging baskets one more time and said, under his breath,

“Still think that one’s got abandonment issues, though.”