Tyler sat when she told him to, but he didn’t look rushed. No. He made a show of it—moving slow, like he wasn’t drenched and emotionally cornered, like he had all the time in the world. His soaked flannel clung to his chest in a way he knew was flattering, a drop of water trailing down the side of his neck like punctuation. Let her look. Let her remember.

He watched her with carefully softened eyes, head tilted like he was soaking up every word—even the sharp ones. Especially the sharp ones. That was her tells, wasn’t it? The little cracks in the steel. The things she said when she wanted to be convinced.

God, she always made him work harder than the others.

“I know,” he said, his voice pitched low. Not desperate. Reverent. Like she was a piece of music he didn’t quite deserve to hear. “I know I messed up.”

He leaned in a little, elbows on the table now, dripping water and regret like both were accidental.

“I just—I didn’t know what to say after the last time. And then the longer I waited, the worse it got. And I told myself you didn’t want to hear from me anyway, but the truth is…”

He paused, giving her that look. The one that made other girls forget why they were mad in the first place. The one with the eyes just a little too glossy, the lips slightly parted like he felt things deeper than he ever said. He could almost see her brace against it.

“The truth is I haven’t stopped thinking about you, Ellie. Not once.”

Not even a beat. Not even a twitch.

Time to go deeper.

“I kept going back to that day in the bakery—the one where you made me try the lemon bars and then laughed when I flinched. You had powdered sugar on your cheek and didn’t even care.” A breath. A smile that wasn’t quite a smile. “I loved that. I love you.”

He let the words fall casual, like they weren’t loaded, like he hadn’t dropped that L-word on purpose. He knew the effect. He watched her shoulders twitch just enough to mark the hit. But she didn’t soften. Not fully.

Still not buying it.

Fine. Then he’d sell harder.

“Look, I get it,” he said, soft but urgent now. “You think I’m just here to fill the silence. That I’m lonely and using you to feel something. Maybe that was true once. I don’t know. But that’s not why I came tonight.”

His voice cracked. Just a hair. A practiced one. He blinked slow.

“I came because I was scared I’d already lost the only girl who ever saw the version of me I actually liked.”

Let that simmer. Let her sit with it.

He reached across the table—not to touch her, not yet—but to set his hand down close to hers. Just enough distance to make it her choice. To make it feel like consent. Like control. Even if the game was still his.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me, Ellie.” He dipped his head, let the dark curls fall in that just-messy-enough way. “I’m asking for a chance to prove you’re not wasting your time.”

The corner of his mouth lifted—only slightly. A flicker of vulnerability. A shadow of that tragic boy charm she used to fall for so easily.

Inside, he was grinding his teeth. This was exhausting.

But she was still here. Still looking at him. Still eating the fries.

Ten minutes.

He could work with that.

She didn’t speak through the whole thing.

Not a blink, not a shift, not even when he said he loved her like it was something easy to say after three days of silence. She just sat there, listening with that impossible calm that always made him feel like a boy trying to impress a grown woman.

And when he finally went quiet, when the room felt full of everything he’d spilled and everything she still hadn’t said—

Ellie stood.

She moved around the table slowly, fingers brushing the edge like it might remind her where the line used to be. He didn’t dare reach for her. Didn’t breathe too loud. He knew better.

And then she kissed him.

No preamble. No warning. Just her hand on his cheek, cool and certain, and her lips pressing into his with that maddening mix of softness and restraint.

When she pulled away, she stayed close. Close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath, the steadiness of her pulse.

Her eyes searched his face—not for the boy she remembered, but for the man she hoped might still show up.

“This is your last shot,” she said, low and even, like a dare wrapped in velvet. “Don’t waste it.”

She leaned back, but her hand lingered for a moment—just enough to remind him she still cared. Still could, if he let her.

“Because if you do?” Her mouth curled, just barely—wry and sad all at once. “Faye’s got three blind dates lined up and I’m pretty sure one of them owns a vineyard.”

And just like that, she turned, walking back toward the counter like she hadn’t just dropped a line that could level a lesser man.

The message was clear.

She wasn’t a prize.
She wasn’t a fallback.

She was the storm and the stillness after.
And if he wanted to stay in her world, he better know the difference.

Tyler didn’t move at first. Not because he was stunned—but because he wanted her to think he was.

Let her believe she knocked the wind out of him with that kiss and that “last shot” speech like this was some grand turning point in his arc. Like he was standing on the edge of a breakthrough.

Cute.

In reality?

He was riding the high.

She kissed him. She kissed him.

Three days of silence, a few pretty words, and she was back in his orbit like gravity didn’t know how to let go. That kiss wasn’t just permission—it was confirmation. She still wanted him. Maybe even more than before. All that cold resolve, all that practiced distance—it was cracking.

He could feel it. Smell it in the way her breath hitched. See it in the way her fingers lingered.

And now she was giving him ultimatums?

Tyler exhaled slow through his nose, lips twitching into a grin as he watched her walk away.

Last shot, she’d said. Like she meant it.

Right.

Ellie didn’t give last shots. She gave long leashes, loaded glances, and emotional parachutes—always half-hoping he’d yank the ripcord before she hit the ground.

She was bluffing. She had to be. Because if she wasn’t?

He might’ve actually lost his grip on her.

And that wasn’t an option.

Still, the vineyard line irked him. Just enough to twist. Just enough to itch.

Blind dates?

He scoffed softly under his breath and leaned back in the stool like he had all the time in the world. Ran a hand through his damp hair and made sure his jaw looked sharp in the light reflecting off the sugar jar.

“Faye still trying to play matchmaker, huh?” he called casually, like her words hadn’t stuck at all. “Tell her to aim higher. Guys with vineyards are usually overcompensating.”

He caught Ellie’s glance. Just a flicker. Just enough to tell him she’d heard.

Good.

He smirked and tapped his fingers against the paper bag.

“Besides,” he added, voice low and syrup-smooth, “you and I both know none of them are gonna kiss you like I do.”

That earned him nothing from her back but the stiff line of her shoulders. A brush of curls over one shoulder. No laugh. No snarky comeback.

But she hadn’t walked away either.

Tyler leaned forward again, elbows on the table, watching her with the quiet confidence of someone who knew the game wasn’t over. Knew she’d already placed her bet.

And he was the house.

She heard him.

Of course she did. That smug little jab about vineyard guys? Please. Like he hadn’t practiced that tone in the mirror, all loose charm and calculated irreverence. Like he didn’t know exactly how to pitch his voice to make it sound effortless.

He was so predictable it almost made her laugh.

Almost.

She kept her back to him, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’d miscalculated. Let him bask in the glow of his own self-satisfaction before she cut the cord with a flick of her wrist.

She turned.

Slow. Casual. The corner of her mouth lifting—not a smile. A warning.

Her eyes flicked to him, then to the melted curl at the edge of his forehead, the damp flannel clinging just right, the boyish arrogance slouched into his posture like a throne he never had to earn.

“That so?” she said coolly, crossing one arm over her chest and letting her hip rest against the counter.

She let the pause settle. Let him soak it in.

Then—without even looking at him this time—she added, dry as bone:

“Funny. That’s what they say about hockey players, too.”

She walked away before he could answer.

Let him sit with it.
Let him choke on it.

She didn’t have to bluff.

She was the last shot.

She didn’t turn around right away.

Let him sit with his own smugness for a few beats too long—just enough time for the silence to make him wonder if she hadn’t heard it, or worse, if she had and just didn’t care enough to respond.

“You and I both know none of them are gonna kiss you like I do.”

There it was.

The line. The hook. Classic Tyler.

Ellie exhaled softly through her nose. No sigh. No smirk. Just the kind of breath that sounded like the end of patience.

She turned, slow and unimpressed. Head tilted, eyes flat.

“You’re right.”

That got his attention. A flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. Idiot.

She let it hang in the air for half a second—just long enough to inflate his ego.

Then:

“That’s why I stopped going back to them.”
“You?” She smiled, razor-edged. “I’m still trying to forget.”

And she didn’t wait for the punch to land. She turned and walked back toward the back room without a second glance.

Let him sit with that kiss.

Tyler rolled his eyes the second her back was turned.

Jesus Christ, vineyard guys?
Like that wasn’t the most on-brand Faye-fueled threat she could’ve lobbed across the counter. He could practically hear the group chat buzzing with “accidentally hot” LinkedIn profiles and filtered vacation photos. Guys with trust funds and crisp button-downs, posing next to wine barrels like that counted for personality.

Please.

He tugged a hand through his hair, smearing the last bit of misty dampness from his curls, and let his eyes drag over Ellie’s retreating figure like he had all the time in the world. That hip cocked against the counter, the slow pivot, the look she gave him like she could set fire to the entire room with a single blink.

She thought she was scary.

Cute.

He’d seen the way her breath caught after the kiss. The way her fingers didn’t quite want to let go. She could talk all she wanted. Make all the sharp little jabs her pride needed to survive the moment.

But he was already winning.

Still, the “hockey player” comment?

That earned a muttered “Jesus,” under his breath and another eye-roll—this one aimed at the ceiling. She couldn’t even pretend she wasn’t obsessed with the way he kissed her, and she knew it.

That’s what made the games fun.

He waited until she vanished behind the swinging door, let her think she’d delivered the final blow, then stood. No rush. No dramatics. Just the quiet certainty of someone who’d never once worried about losing.

The back room was dim, all faint overhead glow and the earthy warmth of ground beans and wood polish. He stepped inside like he belonged there—because he did.

Ellie was halfway to the storage rack, arms crossed, pretending to check the inventory clipboard she hadn’t touched in weeks—long enough for the dust to settle and the lies to feel like routine.

Tyler didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

He closed the distance between them in three slow steps, catching her waist before she could spin out of reach. Her inhale was sharp, instinctive, but she didn’t pull away.

And he kissed her.

Hard.

No warning. No grin. Just heat and gravity, mouth pressed to hers like an answer to every sarcastic quip she thought could protect her. His hand slid up her spine, anchoring her to him, thumb brushing under the curve of her jaw like he was reminding her exactly who she’d just let back in.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t messy.

It was deliberate.

Every inch of it said: you still want this, Ellie.

And he knew she did—because her hands were in his shirt before her mouth even caught up, fingers twisting in the fabric like she hated herself for how good it felt.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, he kept his forehead resting against hers. Let the air hum between them.

“You still trying to forget?” he said, voice low, breath warm against her lips.

He smirked.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

She didn’t slap him.

Didn’t shove him, didn’t flinch, didn’t scream.

She let him.

Let him close the distance. Let him put his hands on her waist like he owned her skin. Let him press his mouth to hers like punctuation, like answer, like control. And yeah—she kissed him back.

For half a second.
For the ache she hated.
For the heat that cracked down her spine like muscle memory.

But only for that.

Because when he pulled back, smug and breathless, eyes burning with that cocky, satisfied gleam like he’d just won something—like she was the prize he’d clawed back with charm and gravity—

She smiled.

Sweet. Cold. Surgical.

Then she pressed both palms flat to his chest and pushed him back just enough to make it clear: she was done letting him lead the moment.

“You always do this.” Her voice wasn’t soft anymore. It was steady. Final. Like a verdict.

“You make a mess, then kiss your way out of it and act like that’s some kind of proof I can’t walk away.”

She took one step back. Not a retreat. A reset.

“You want to feel wanted, Tyler? Congrats.” Her arms folded across her chest again, cool and calm like armor. “You’re hot. You’re good at this. I’m not denying it.”

She tilted her head. Let him look. Let him wonder.

“But being wanted and being worth it?”
She let that hang. Let it land. Let it hurt.

“Not the same thing.”

His smirk twitched. Almost faltered. She saw it. She wanted him to know she saw it.

She turned, reached for the clipboard again—not because she needed it, but because it gave her back the power of nonchalance. Of detachment. Of knowing he was going to walk out of here remembering the weight of what she didn’t give him.

And over her shoulder, just before she let the silence win again, she said—

“Next time you try to use my mouth to win the argument, try not to lose it the second I stop kissing you.”

Then she walked away.

Back straight. Chin high.

And this time, she didn’t look back.

His mouth still tingled with the taste of her—mint and memory and defiance—but the high didn’t last.

Not when she pulled away like that. Not when her words sliced through the moment like glass, glittering and brutal and maddeningly accurate.

Tyler stood there, jaw tight, eyes narrowing as the echo of her voice settled into his bones.

You want to feel wanted?
Congrats.

He ran a hand through his hair—messy, damp from the rain, the kind of look that usually worked in his favor. Not this time. Not with her. Ellie had always been immune to the things that made everyone else melt.

And now, she wasn’t just immune. She was bored.

His fingers curled at his sides. The air in the back room felt too still, too quiet, like it was holding its breath just to see if he'd try again. If he'd do what he always did—chase, charm, crack some half-clever line to keep her looking at him like he still mattered.

But she wasn’t looking.

She’d turned her back. Again.
And that clipboard? That fake distraction? It was her version of walking off stage before the final applause.

He hated that it worked.
Hated that she made him feel twelve years old and hungry.
Hated that no girl had ever gotten under his skin like this and stayed there, refused to be evicted.

God, he should’ve never kissed her.
He should’ve never let her stop kissing him.

Tyler let out a breath, sharp and humorless. The smirk on his face was cracked now, bent at the edges, a costume that didn’t quite fit.

“Right,” he muttered to no one, to her, to the ghost of the heat still cooling between them.

And then he turned on his heel, boots loud against the tile, and stormed out of the back room—head high, heart rattling in its cage—refusing to chase what had already walked away.

Not again.
Not this time.

Ellie waited.

She didn’t move until the sound of his boots echoed down the hallway, sharp and fast like he wanted the floor to feel the sting he couldn’t leave in her hands.

The door swung shut behind him with a finality he clearly thought would shake her. Like he still believed he had the power to make her flinch.

She counted to five. Not because she needed the pause—but because she wanted to savor it. The silence he left behind. The echo of everything he thought he was taking with him.

Then, slowly, she followed.

Her flats made almost no sound against the tile, calm and unbothered as she stepped back into the front of the bakery, the room still warm with the ghost of tension.

The fries were on the table.

Of course he’d left them.

She walked straight to them, fingers brushing the side of the bag like it might still be warm—like there might still be something sweet inside all that salt and spite.

She picked them up.

Not because she was hungry. Not because she missed him already. But because they were hers now. He brought them for her. And she’d take what was hers.

She walked to the front window and stood there, bag in hand, watching as he stalked down the street. Shoulders tight. Hood pulled up. A storm of his own making, unraveling at the seams.

She didn’t tap the glass. Didn’t call out.

She just watched.

A single fry between her fingers, slowly raised to her lips, eaten like victory.

Because the truth was?

She knew he’d be back.

He could pretend to walk away all he wanted—storm out like she’d slammed the door on something fragile. But Ellie knew Tyler Harrison. Knew the way his pride flared hot and loud, only to collapse under the weight of his want.

This wasn’t cruelty. It was clarity.

She had to be hard now, because softness never made him stay.

And when he came back—and he would—it wouldn’t be for the kiss, or the fight, or the fries.

It’d be for her.
Fully. Quietly. On her terms.

She took another fry and smiled to herself, slow and cold and sure.

Let him try to win.

She was playing the long game.

The bell above the door gave a soft chime — not too loud, not too cheerful, just the kind that felt like a secret being acknowledged. Rowan stepped inside first, one hand still loosely tangled in Mason’s, her other resting instinctively just beneath the soft swell of her belly. She was only three months along, barely showing, but the curve was there — subtle, certain. A quiet promise beneath her sundress.

Baked in Evergreen smelled like memory and warmth. Almond in the air. Vanilla bean and citrus zest, curled into the edges like a hug. The floors were honey-colored wood, worn but polished, and sunlight poured through lace-curtained windows in gold slats. The whole place felt like it had been stitched together by hand — the trim, the corners, even the hand-lettered chalkboard menu behind the counter with swirls and doodles of frosting tips and smiling pies.

It wasn’t on Main. Everyone knew that. Tucked just past the town library, up a sloped path half-covered in ivy, the little bakery existed in its own kind of quiet. Like a held breath. Like a promise.

Rowan caught the table immediately — one table, set perfectly by the window. White linen. Two vintage chairs that didn’t match, but somehow belonged together. A little glass vase held a single peony. And there, just beside it, was the card.

“Congratulations, Rowan & Mason — Enjoy Every Bite! — Ellie”

Rowan let out a small laugh as she picked it up, pressing it briefly to her chest before tucking it safely near the napkins like it might fly away otherwise.

At the counter, five slices of cake were already plated — arranged with care like some sacred tasting flight. The cake stands were mismatched too: porcelain with scalloped edges, milk glass with worn gold trim, one slate tile with delicate forks resting beside it. Each slice had a little name card nestled beside it:

Lemon Honey. Vanilla Chai. Almond Cream with Raspberry. Red Velvet. Chocolate Ganache.

Two glasses of sparkling cider glowed in the filtered light, already beading with condensation.

Rowan didn’t sit right away.

She just stood there, taking it all in. Her eyes swept over the table, the cakes, the soft hum of the ceiling fan overhead. The smell of sugar and something floral and faintly spiced. Her hand returned lightly to her stomach — a soft touch, absentminded, protective.

Her heart skipped like it knew something sacred was about to start.

Then she tugged Mason’s hand and slipped into the chair nearest the window, folding her dress beneath her. Her fingers trailed over the linen, over the edge of her water glass, grounding herself with small textures and quiet breath.

“Starting with almond cream,” she said lightly, reaching for a fork and slicing into the delicate layers with mock concentration. “This one’s already emotionally calling to me.”

The layers were pale, pillowy — vanilla sponge with that hint of almond, raspberry swirled into buttercream like a love letter. She lifted the first bite carefully, studied it with theatrical reverence, and placed it in her mouth.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

A slow sound left her lips — equal parts stunned and reverent — before she cracked one eye open and nodded.

“Oh, yeah,” she said with certainty. “That’s it. That’s the one I’m marrying.”

Then, without waiting for commentary, she slid the fork back into the cake for a second bite. Slower this time. She turned toward Mason, her eyes warm but clear, and held out the fork between them.

“Here,” she said. “You have to try it like this. From me. It makes it taste better.”

There was no teasing in her voice. No flourish.

Just a quiet offering — Rowan’s hand steady in the golden light, her smile soft but sure. She didn’t look away. She didn’t second guess it. And when he leaned in, when she fed him the bite, when his mouth closed around it and he chewed with deliberate slowness?

She watched him.

Not the cake. Not her hands. Him.

Eyes like the moment itself — full of something private and golden and still.

Like maybe, for once, she didn’t have to rush. Like maybe this was what it meant to begin.

And there was so much more ahead.

But right now?

This was the first bite.

And it was perfect.

Mason had never understood the phrase “breath caught in his throat” until right now.

Because it did. Stuck somewhere behind his ribs and just below his heart, suspended in honeyed sunlight and the gravity of her.

Rowan in a sundress. Rowan with her hand on her belly like it was instinct. Rowan in a place that smelled like almond and legacy, holding out a fork like it was something holy.

He leaned in without thinking—because of course he did—and let her feed him the bite.

It was good. Almond and raspberry, sweet and soft with just enough tart to keep it honest.

But he barely tasted it.

Because her eyes were on him. Not distracted. Not halfway there. On him. Full and quiet and steady like a sunrise that didn’t need to prove anything.

Mason chewed slowly, swallowed, then let his eyes crinkle as he looked at her, tongue darting out briefly to catch a dot of buttercream on his lip.

“Well,” he said softly, voice still a little wrecked from wonder, “I guess I’m emotionally committed to almond cream now.”

Rowan’s smile deepened.

Mason’s hand found the edge of the table, fingers brushing hers, grounding himself with the same reverence she had used.

“You know,” he continued, eyes still on her like the rest of the world didn’t matter, “I used to think firsts were just… fireworks. Big, loud, obvious. But this—”

He looked around, at the lace curtains, the peony, the condensation on the cider glass, the ridiculous beauty of it all.

“This is the kind of first that sneaks up on you. That wraps around your ribs and makes a home there without asking. The kind that stays.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her hand on her stomach, then lifted again, softer now. A little stunned.

“That’s our kid’s first cake tasting, technically,” he murmured. “Their first almond cream. Their first tiny slice of everything.”

He shook his head slightly, grin crooked, like the gravity of it was still landing.

“And I’m sitting here thinking—this might be the moment I never stop coming back to. Long after they’re born. After we forget who picked what or what flavor ended up on the top tier. I’ll remember this. You, feeding me cake like it means something. Like we already know how to do forever in the quiet ways.”

His thumb brushed hers under the table, eyes full of heat and sugar and something unspeakably tender.

Then, without fanfare, he reached across and picked up his own fork, sliding it into the chocolate ganache with a slow kind of mischief.

“Okay,” he said, lifting the bite toward her with a smirk. “Now be honest—do you trust me enough to let me feed you cake without causing a chocolate-related incident?”

He tilted the fork toward her with mock seriousness, but his voice softened at the end.

“Let me give you the first bite this time.”

And the way he looked at her—boyish, reverent, in it—it wasn’t just about cake.

It never had been.