viaˣᶜˣ

The soft chime of an alarm slices through my dream like a knife through fondant. One second I’m in some pastel, floating fairy bakery piping pink frosting onto clouds, and the next, I’m being dragged to consciousness by the ache in my neck and the growing realization that my pillow is... breathing.

It shifts subtly under my cheek, warm and firm and definitely not stuffed with feathers.

Still half-asleep, I nestle in, lulled by the steady rise and fall of it. Whoever this breathing body part belongs to smells like cedarwood and whiskey. Cozy, but clad in denim that feels rough against my face.

The alarm chimes again, sharper this time, like it's personally offended by our shared comfort. A large, calloused hand drifts down my back in a line that feels annoyingly perfect. It pauses at my waist, then resumes its quiet path like it's got all the time in the world.

“Carrington,” Joel’s voice breaks the silence. It’s deep and rough-edged, like it snagged on gravel on its way out. My name curls in his drawl like it was never meant to be said any other way.

I groan and swat the air with the energy of a soggy paper towel. “Five more minutes,” I mumble, my face still smushed against what I now fully recognize is his thigh.

“Care,” he says, softer this time. His hand traces upward, drawing slow, deliberate circles between my shoulder blades. Each motion is unhurried, like he's painting a memory onto my skin. It’s the kind of touch that feels like it should cost something.

I don’t move. I should, but I don’t. The heat from his palm is maddening, and my body, traitorous thing that it is, sinks into it.

Still, I manage a growl. “I’m gonna murder you,” I grumble, the threat smothered by sleep and sounding more like a purr than anything dangerous.

Joel chuckles and his leg shakes beneath me with it. “That’s fair,” he says, clearly not worried. “Just tell me if ya gotta work today.”

I roll my eyes, or try to. They’re barely open, and everything in my body feels like lead. “It’s technically my day off, but I have to be ready by five-thirty. Betty always forgets her keys,” I tell him.

He stretches just enough to glance toward the kitchen. “Don't go freakin' out.”

“Why would I freak ou—”

He interrupts my question, saying, “It’s five-twenty.”

I bolt upright like I’ve been electrocuted. My eyes fly to the glowing numbers on the stove. Five. Twenty. A.M. The clock blinks back at me like it enjoys my suffering.

“Crap,” I hiss. I scramble for my phone, which is as dead as my will to live.

Joel’s hand wraps around the top of my thigh and gives two gentle squeezes. He brings his pointer finger to his lips as he tilts his head toward the far end of the couch. I follow his gaze to see the girls are both out cold. It’s the kind of deep, tangled slumber that only happens after sugar crashes and safe company.

I attempt to rise to my feet but my legs wobble, sore from yesterday’s six-inch heels and the war my body always wages against mornings. Joel’s hands slide to my waist, steady and instinctive, fingers spreading just enough to catch more than gravity. His touch lingers. Not in a possessive way, just long enough to make the moment stretch and settle into my skin like heat from a sunbeam.

I grab his hand and pull him up from the couch. He groans under his breath but rises anyway, letting me guide him without question. I don’t let go until we’re down the hall and stepping into my bedroom, the only place that promises privacy right now.

I shut the door behind us with a soft click, releasing my hold on him in the process. I beeline for the nightstand and plug my phone in with the kind of urgency usually reserved for medical equipment. When I turn around, Joel’s already taking a slow lap around my room like he’s reading it.

His fingers brush the edge of my desk. His gaze scans the pale pink throw folded at the end of the bed, the chaotic stack of books on my dresser, the tiny heart-shaped jewelry dish next to an unread paperback with a man in a suit and a heroine mid-swoon.

His eyes pause there, just for a beat too long. The corner of his mouth doesn’t quite curl, but something shifts. I can almost hear the word princess forming in his head, even if he doesn’t say it.

I cross to the dresser and start pulling open drawers, the wood creaking louder than it should in the quiet. I fish out jeans and a music tee, pressing the bundle to my chest like a shield.

When I’m facing Joel again, he’s rolling his shoulder deliberately. The fabric of his shirt strains across his chest and bicep as he works through something clearly still lodged in the muscle.

My eyes betray me. They track the movement of his back and the quiet strength in the way he moves. My brain, uninvited, drops a fantasy reel into my lap—full color, high definition, absolutely unhelpful. I wonder if he would move as slowly and as carefully if he were inside me.

And then reality lands, sharp and sudden.

“I didn’t feel you move all night.” I blink, guilt prickling at the edges of my voice. “You... slept sitting up on my couch?”

He rakes a hand through his hair with his back still facing me. “Yeah,” he says, voice low, like it’s not worth much. “Ya looked too peaceful t’move.” Then after a beat, he tacks on, “All y’all, I mean.”

My chest tightens. The first part catches in my ribs before the second can cushion it. My gaze drops to the floor, then slowly trails back to where he’s still standing.

And that’s when the second blow lands. I slept on him in full Barbie glam for six straight hours.

“Oh god.” The whisper escapes before I can stop it. I nearly drop the thong tangled in my hand like it personally betrayed me.

Joel turns immediately, eyebrows knitting, already reading the panic in my face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, scanning me for damage, voice already keyed up to put out a fire.

I don’t answer. I drop my clothes onto the bed and swipe both hands under my eyes. I can feel the glitter and I brace for the fallout. I’m probably wearing half a Sephora display right now.

“Carrington,” he says gently. The way he rasps the nickname pulls my eyes to his. “Ya doin’ alright?”

No, I’m not alright. I probably look awful.

“I’m fine,” I say, even though I sound about as convincing as a broken Keurig. There’s no way I’ll be ready in the next five minutes, so I give up the idea.

“Nah, ya ain’t,” Joel pauses like he’s sitting with his observation, then he continues, “Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it up proper.”

I shuffle toward the chair next to the bed and sink into it like my human gave up playing with me. “I’m so drained and I slept in waterproof makeup…” I trail off before realizing he probably doesn’t know how long it’ll take me to fix this mess. “I’m okay, I promise. Nothing that caffeine and a power washer can’t fix.”

Joel plants both hands on his hips and studies me from across the room. Each strand of his hair is out of place, and somehow, he looks better than he did yesterday.

“How ‘bout this,” he starts, voice calm. “You go on, get yourself cleaned up. I’ll grab us some coffee and let Miss Betty in if she done forgot her keys. When I get back, I’ll run El home so you can catch your breath some.”

I blink up at him. “Wait, seriously?” I ask. I guess I’m not used to people doing nice things for me.

He shifts his weight like it’s no big thing. “Yeah, reckon it’s the least I can do after keepin’ ya from your bed last night.”

My smile gets away from me before I can rein it in. “Maybe you’re right,” I say, quieter than before.

“Damn right I am,” he says smugly. “Now, where’s that coffee place at?”

“If you’re facing the bakery, Willow’s is to the left.” I push back into logistics because it’s easier than sitting in this strange, soft feeling blooming between us. “Store key’s on the hook by the door. It’ll open the front.”

He nods and backs away, still facing me like he doesn’t quite want to turn his back just yet. “Be back in a lil’ bit, sugar,” he says, before disappearing through the door.

As soon as the door clicks behind him, I launch out of the chair like I’ve been sprung and race to the bathroom mirror. What greets me could only be described as an unholy mess: mascara smeared under both eyes, hair resembling some kind of bird’s nest, and the dress from last night still hanging off me in sad, wrinkled waves.

With a small cry, I tug the dress over my head and let it slump to the tile in defeat. The moment the water turns on, steam overtakes the room, curling up the mirror and softening the edges of my reflection as I pull pins from my hair. Each spiral falls heavier than the last, refusing to cooperate. The mess causes an inhumane sound to leave my throat.

But then, the water hits my skin like forgiveness. I scrub with purpose, not grace. As if I can wash away not just the glitter and tension but the swirl of thoughts I’ve been dodging since I woke up on top of Joel.

I try to focus on detangling the mess that is my hair, but every few seconds, my brain slides back to him. His calloused hands, his accent, the way he said my name like it belonged to him.

I force my thoughts to shift. He has a daughter, is older, and has probably decided I’m more chaos than I’m worth after I quite literally passed out in his arms last night.

I rinse off quickly, dragging myself through the rest of my routine. Lotion. Deodorant. A few spritzes of my favorite perfume, light and sweet with just enough spice to pretend I have it together. Once I’ve slipped into my clothes, the world starts to feel less overwhelming. Maybe not fully okay, but I’ve at least graduated from mascara goblin to “functioning adult in recovery.”

I step into the bathroom and close the door behind me with a quiet click. Decently charged phone in hand, I lower the volume and tap play on my morning playlist. A mellow groove trickles out of the speaker, barely loud enough to fill the silence.

I barely get through the first song before my phone chimes. Once, then again. Then six more in a rush, like an alarm I forgot to set.

Willow: Carrie

Willow: Carrie Carrie Carrie

Thalia: She’s probably sleeping in. It’s Saturday.

Willow: No she’s not. A man just strutted in here, ordered a black coffee, then asked me if I knew her usual.

Thalia: Oh, Joel.

Willow: Who’s Joel?

Thalia: Dina’s new friend’s dad. Pretty sure Madi knows him too.

Thalia: Wait, did you two fuck while my sister was there?

I clamp the phone in my hand like it’s a stress toy. Yesterday, I texted Thalia updates: Joel was picking up the girls, he was making dinner. Normal stuff. What I didn’t mention? That he never left.

Not that I had the energy to explain. I barely got through dinner after fainting.

Me: yes madi knows him and no, we didn’t sleep together bc i would never do that.

Willow: You should have. He’s hot.

Of course she’d say that. Willow thinks "red flag" is just another shade of love. Her taste in men is somewhere between reckless and legally questionable. She’s dating a guy who’s charming in the way cologne samples are—strong, synthetic, and probably toxic if inhaled too long. And if marries him like she plans, she won’t be Willow anymore. She’ll be Mrs. Somebody. Attached to his name, his plans, his universe. I wonder if she’ll even remember the café bookstore we dream about.

Me: it was just a playdate that went too long… relax

I set the phone down by the sink and reach for my toothbrush. A ribbon of mint paste, a press of the power button, and the soft hum of the electric brush vibrates through my jaw. I lean over the basin, scrubbing last night out of my mouth while music drifts softly in the background.

The tiny ritual helps. I sway a little in time with the beat, tapping my foot, half-dancing like no one’s watching because, thankfully, no one is. I catch my reflection mid-spin and point like I’m backup vocals for my own morning routine.

Then the phone chimes again, causing my phone to buzz strongly. It shifts across the counter before tumbling to the floor with a loud thwack that jerks me out of rhythm.

I spit, abandon the brush, and crouch down to grab it. Just as my fingers wrap around the phone, three solid knocks rattle the bathroom door.

I jerk upward too fast and crack the back of my head on the edge of the vanity.

“Fuck,” I hiss, eyes watering as I slap a hand to the sore spot. Pain blooms behind my scalp like a firework made of shame.

“You alright in there?” Joel’s voice filters through the door with just enough concern to cut through the sting.

I pause the music and practically throw my device on the windowsill before shuffling toward the door, still barefoot and sleepy. “Yeah,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Just bruised my ego.”

I crack the door open and there he is, standing in the hallway with two to-go cups in hand.

“Sorry,” I say, brushing a damp strand from my face. “I’m not used to having a man here. You scared the shit out of me.”

A smirk ghosts across his face. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya, sugar,” he says. “But I brought ya your usual. Least that’s what Miss Willow said.”

I glance at the coffees in his hand, then back up at him. “Thanks,” I say, soft around the edges, before picking up the toothbrush and slipping it back between my lips.

“Anytime,” he replies, voice lazy but lined with something deeper. He tips his head slightly, his hair shifting with the motion. “You, uh… got an extra toothbrush lyin’ ‘round? Don’t reckon I wanna knock us both out with this mornin’ breath.”

I snicker. “Yeah, gimme a sec,” I mumble, the brush dangling from the corner of my mouth like a crooked cigarette.

I turn toward the cabinet, cheeks heating as I remember what’s crammed inside: the half-used perfume bottle shaped like a cupcake, emergency meds, and enough tampons to last a small village. I fumble past them and grab a spare toothbrush, one of the unopened ones I keep for Dina.

The cabinet door clicks shut and I suddenly see Joel behind me in the reflection. He’s close enough that my breath hitches and the tiny bathroom suddenly feels even smaller.

I glance at him in the mirror, then offer the toothbrush over my shoulder. “Here,” I murmur over the bristles in my mouth.

His fingers brush mine as he takes it, causing my heart to stutter. He doesn’t step back which seems to suck all the air out of the room for me.

He unscrews the cap on the toothpaste and adds a line to the bristles, then lifts the brush to his mouth. I catch myself staring, entirely fixated on the simple rhythm of him brushing his teeth. His jaw flexes and his arm tenses. Time seems to slow in the mirror.

I bend over the sink to spit, and in doing so, back into him. I catch myself purposely pressing right into the front of him and he doesn’t flinch. Instead, his free hand slides up my side unhurried.

A flushed, breathless, and pulsing heat floods my cheeks. I rinse my toothbrush, trying to act normal even as my entire body hums like a struck tuning fork. Then I reach for the mouthwash, grateful for the distraction. Joel nudges me slightly to spit into the sink, the movement brief but impossibly intimate. I step aside, swirling the icy burn through my mouth while he rinses.

He straightens, wipes his mouth, then glances toward my room. “I went on and let Miss Betty in, by the way,” he says, voice casual like he didn’t just set my body on fire. “She was fixin’ to call the cops on me till I reminded her I met her yesterday.”

With a final spit, I reach for a towel. “Thanks. And... sorry. She’s a bit nervy.” I dab at my lips, trying not to smile.

“It’s all good. Kinda nice knowin’ you got folks watchin’ out for ya,” Joel says as he reaches around me for his coffee on the windowsill. His hand brushes just behind my back before he leans back against the doorway with that worn-in kind of ease.

I glance over, curiosity nudging at my chest. “So... what’d you think of Willow?” I ask. Ideally, all my friends would get along. But that’s not always the case.

I watch him take a sip as I gently pull the microfiber towel from my head. “Well, she’s… alright, I s’pose. Bit of a spitfire, that one,” he answers, pausing like he’s tasting the words.

I arch a brow as I comb my hair upward into a ponytail. Alright? I don’t even think I have the brain power to decipher if that’s Joel’s version of a compliment.

Instead of digging deeper, I jump to conclusions. “Be honest,” I start, smoothing back flyaways with a brush. “She was mean to you, wasn’t she?”

His chuckle is soft but real. “Nah, not mean. Just blunter than what ‘m used to before sunrise. El’d like her,” he prophesies and I agree with him.

I laugh under my breath, trying to tuck the smile behind the curve of my cheek. It’s no use with a hairstyle that keeps me from hiding. “So,” I say, twisting the hair tie once more for something to do with my hands, “what are you up to for the rest of the day?”

Joel leans in with a grin that forms equal parts teasing and trouble. “Eager t’see me again already?”

My mouth parts, stunned, but no words come out. Before I can recover, he throws his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh. It bounces off the tile walls, warm and unguarded.

Then Joel’s hand finds my waist, tugging me closer with the kind of quiet confidence that leaves no room for argument. “Just messin’ with ya,” he drawls, voice warm against the morning air. “Gotta head to work later. Saturday shifts’re always the busiest.”

The brush of his fingers against my side has my pulse skipping like a record. I nod, biting back a grin, and hope he doesn’t notice the way my breath falters. “What ‘bout you?” he asks, his hand still resting there like it belongs.

I shrug, aiming for casualness. “Not much. Probably read for a while. Then I’ve gotta finalize the menu for the harvest fest at the school.” My body sways slightly as he takes another sip of coffee, his grip steadying me without thought.

The words barely leave my mouth before his gaze sharpens. “You’re goin’, huh?” he asks, the question coming out rougher than he probably intended.

His urgency throws me off, but then I remember his daughter does go to Waldorf with Dina. I echo, watching the tight set of his jaw. “Yeah. I had a booth last year—it went really well, so I’m doing it again. Are you?”

He nods once. “Yeah, it’s on Ellie’s calendar.”

“Perfect. You should hang out in the booth with me. We can make fun of all the rich parents together. God knows what they’re still saying about me anyway.” I laugh lightly, then stumble into honesty. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they still thought I was Dina’s—” My ramble halts the second I feel Joel’s fingers tighten, firm on my waist. “Nanny,” I finish weakly.

His face darkens, jaw ticking in a way that makes my stomach flip. I freeze, panic buzzing at the edges. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to if I did. No wonder the school moms don’t like me.” The words tumble out too fast, and I can’t stop them. My neurodivergence always shows at the worst time. And I currently feel like I’m tripping over an invisible wire that only he sees.

I take his silence as my answer and retreat a step, trying to put space between us.

“Carrington, hold up now,” Joel says, his voice low and unhurried. I reach for the latte he brought me from the windowsill, eyes fixed on the floor as if that might ground me.

When I finally look up, his arm is stretched across the doorway like a barricade, broad and immovable. My gaze flicks to the barrier, then back to his face. “Excuse me,” I murmur, ducking beneath his arm, brushing against him as I pass.

I barely make it a step before Joel’s hand lands on my waist, tugging me back into him with effortless certainty. “Oh, hell no ya don’t.” His voice brushes low against my ear, the sound curling down my spine.

Pinned against him, I lift my cup for a sip, more for show than thirst. The coffee’s heat does nothing to disguise the way my pulse is hammering. My attempt at looking unbothered doesn’t stand a chance.

“Ya didn’t say nothin’ wrong, Care,” he says at last, exhaling through his nose like the weight of the world just shifted to his shoulders. His thumb flexes against my skin as I swallow my sip. “I just don’t take kindly to folks treatin’ ya anything less than ya deserve.”

Some of the tension drains out of me at his words, my posture straightening as I look up at him. “Oh.” A sigh slips free before I can catch it. “It’s fine, really. Happens all the time. The parents know I’m not in their tax bracket and make their judgments.” My insecurities spill out easier than I expect.

Joel’s jaw tightens, that familiar steel in his expression returning. “Don’t make it right none. Don’t sit worth a damn with me.”

I shift my weight, lifting my cup to cover the smile tugging at my mouth. “Then maybe you should come with me,” I say lightly. “We’ll stage our revenge. For the price of one cupcake, you, too, can be judged by the broke baker and the struggling chef.”

He huffs out a laugh as I take another sip. His hand stays right where it is, thumb drawing an idle line against the curve of my hip as if he forgot it’s still there. “Sounds like a fine deal to me.”

We’re close enough that one shift forward would end the conversation in a way neither of us is ready to name. My throat works as I swallow, but Joel’s the one who breaks the silence.

“Now that we got that squared away,” he drawls, thumb brushing once at my hip before he lets go, “I’m fixin’ to take El on home. Girl’s got herself an internship down at the planetarium, and I ain’t dumb enough to show up lookin’ like we just rolled outta a damn costume shop.”

The warmth of him lingers after he steps back. I pretend not to miss it, setting my coffee on the nightstand like it’s been my plan all along. “Good call,” I say, tugging my hair behind my ear as casually as I can manage. “Adler?”

“Yup.” Joel’s cup lingers at his mouth, steam curling upward as his eyes stay fixed on me over the rim. “They’re givin’ her college credit for all that science stuff. She’s eatin’ it right up.” He takes a slow sip, like he’s measuring my reaction.

I tilt my head, interest brightening. “I love that for her. I’ll have to ask her about it sometime.”

The corner of his mouth tugs, like he’s fighting a grin he doesn’t want me to see. “She’d like that. But fair warnin’, once that girl starts jawin’ ‘bout space, ya ain’t gonna get her to shut up.”

A laugh bursts out of me. The sound fills the room, bright against his gravelly tone. “That’s fine. I wouldn’t ask a fourteen-year-old a question if I weren’t prepared for a possible dissertation.”

That earns me a real smile, brief but soft, before he pushes the door open.

I yawn as I trail behind him. “You two should take a couple pastries before you go,” I offer, voice low.

He glances over his shoulder, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t turn that down.”

Our footsteps fall in rhythm—mine bare, his in careful boot-clad strides. The morning light spills lazily across the floorboards, casting a golden tint over everything. Dina and Ellie are still dead to the world.

Joel gathers the things he brought last night, condensing everything to one bag before heading towards the couch. He sets the bag down and his coffee down before crouching beside Ellie. He places a hand on her shoulder. “El,” he says gently, giving her a little shake. “Time to get on up, baby girl.”

She groans, stretching long and slow, her arms flopping like overcooked noodles. One eye opens, then the other, both foggy with sleep. “What?”

Her head lifts slightly, bleary eyes searching the dim room. There's a flicker of confusion, then full-on panic when she sits up straighter and squints at her surroundings. “Where are we?” she croaks, voice tight and panicked.

Joel rubs her back in slow, calming circles. “You’re all right. We just crashed over at Carrington’s, that’s all.”

She squints, still unsure, until her eyes land on me hovering just behind him.

“Morning, sweet pea,” I say gently.

Recognition floods her expression, and with it, relief. Her whole body deflates. “Mrrrnin’,” she mumbles, her voice soaked in sleep.

Joel’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. He helps her to her feet, steadying her as she sways slightly. Ellie leans over to whisper something to Dina, who lets out a half-conscious groan and promptly rolls over, dragging the blanket with her.

Joel retrieves his things, and we start for the stairs without needing to say anything. I wordlessly take his coffee and the bag from him as he crouches to help Ellie into her jacket. Her hands fumble with the sleeves, fingers sluggish with sleep. Joel doesn’t rush her. I stay back, watching them with something quietly blooming in my chest. It’s soft and unfamiliar, curling low beneath my ribs.

Once she’s wrapped and zipped, he stands and gently retrieves his cup and bag from my hand. The scent of warm dough and sugar meets us on the landing. We head down the stairs together with Joel leading, Ellie tucked between us, and me just a few steps behind.

Once we're on the bakery floor, I head toward the racks of pastries and gesture. “A couple of these okay?”

Joel glances down at Ellie, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “Whatever ya wanna give us.”

I grab the tongs and tuck a few croissants in a pink to-go bag. Ellie cradles the paper sack like sacred loot as I hand them over.

“You asked what the worst order was last night and I never answered. I’ve decided it’s pie but it might just be because I don't like it,” I say, sliding a glance her way. “You’ll have to try everything on the menu and make the decision yourself. Starting with croissants.”

She peeks into the bag, lips twitching upward. “Bet.”

Joel squeezes her shoulder, his attention drifting briefly toward her face with that anchored, unshakable affection he carries for her. “Say thank you, El.”

Ellie glances up from the pastries, still gripping them like they might vanish. “Thanks, Carrie,” she mumbles.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, sheepishly.

Joel shifts his weight, already steering her toward the front. “Alright, you ready to hit the road?” His nudge is subtle but firm.

Ellie exhales like she’s being sentenced. “Not really, but yeah,” she mutters, dragging her steps.

He lets out a quiet chuckle, tugging her along with one arm. “C’mon. You can Snapchat her or whatever the hell y’all’re usin’ these days.”

She groans like it physically pains her. “Nobody uses Snapchat anymore.”

Joel pushes open the kitchen door, holding it wide for both of us. Ellie slips through, and I trail after her, brushing past him just close enough to feel the heat of him beside me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, remembering the quiet, firm way he corrected me the night before. I lead us to the main entrance and pause, waiting. Sure enough, Joel steps forward without hesitation and opens it for us. He doesn’t say anything—just gives me that smug little smirk, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

We step out into the soft, blue-tinted morning light. The air smells like dew and baked goods. Joel turns to Ellie, handing her his coffee and the bag. “Take this here and wait in the truck a minute, would ya?”

Ellie waves him off with a sleepy “Whatever,” then trudges toward the passenger side of his truck. She climbs in and slams the door with just enough force to let us know she’s awake now—but barely.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Joel turns toward me. His expression softens. It’s the kind of shift that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world for a second.

“Just wanted to say thank ya, Care. For everythin’ last night,” he says. “Hell, Ellie actually went and made herself a friend, finally.” Then he pauses, gaze catching mine. “And I gotta say, I really enjoyed bein’ here. Bein’ with you.”

The second those words leave his mouth, his pupils widen. It’s visible and undeniable. His eyes go dark like a flame getting doused, swallowing the warm flecks of espresso until there’s nothing but black.

Being around him feels like the sun opened up and shined a spotlight down on me. Like my mom saw I needed a friend as patient, caring, and protective as him and sent him to me from heaven.

I look down, heat rising up my neck, a full-body flush that leaves my hands feeling shaky. “I enjoyed being with you too,” I say quietly, almost like it’s a secret I’m still telling myself.

Before I can stop myself, my teeth catch my bottom lip. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the motion. The quiet between us stretches, but it’s not awkward. It buzzes.

Then he takes a small step forward, close enough that I can feel the warmth rolling off him. His fingers lift to my chin, and his thumb traces the edge of my lip, coaxing it free from where I’ve caught it between my teeth. The touch is so slight, but I feel it everywhere.

“I sure wish you’d quit doin’ that,” he says, his voice dipping into a low growl. “You ain’t got a clue what that does to me.”

The buzz under my skin tightens, pulling everything inward, like a string has been tugged that I didn’t even know was there. My breath stutters and my brain instantly jumps to worst case scenario. It probably annoys him. It probably turns him off.

He doesn’t give me time to dwell on it, pulling me into what I assume is the last hug I’m ever going to get from him. “I’ll be seein’ ya Wednesday night, sugar,” he proves me wrong, voice warm against my ear.

I manage a breathy laugh, too stunned to say much else. “Okay,” I whisper.

He pulls away slow, like it costs him something. That maybe, he’d stay here all morning if I asked him to. His hand grazes down my arm before it finally lets go.

And just like that, the moment is over and he steps back. “Bye now, Carrington,” calls, his boots already crunching toward the truck.

“Bye, Joel,” I say, though it comes out quieter than I mean it to.

Ellie waves from the passenger seat, her eyes half-closed, chin tucked into a hoodie she must’ve plucked from the backseat. Joel climbs in and closes the door with a soft thud that feels louder than it is.

When they pull away from the curb and down the street, I stand there in the chill of early morning wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with the rest of my day now that he’s gone and taken the air with him.

The steady beeping of a hospital monitor fills the room from the TV as I shuffle a stack of printed pastry photos across the counter for what has to be the hundredth time. When Dina left to go home, I figured there was no better time to catch up on Grey’s Anatomy. It even started raining two episodes in, which felt like a cosmic sign that I’d made the right decision. Now, four episodes later, I can’t remember a single plot point.

I press my palms into the kitchen counter, exhaling until my shoulders drop. Each one feels like it’s personally mocking me. I never have trouble finalizing the monthly menu, but this time it feels impossible.

The pressure makes it feel unbearable to make a decision. If the parents like the pastries, they’ll likely hire me for their fancy fundraisers throughout the year again. If not… well, bakeries like mine don’t survive long on charm alone.

I swirl the last inch of wine in my glass, searching for inspiration that doesn’t come. The taste of sweet red hits my tongue just as a surgeon on-screen starts seizing mid-operation.

My eyes widen. “Oh my god,” I mutter, half laughing, half horrified. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Immediately, guilt nips at me. A seizure is not funny by any means, but it’s so Grey’s to lob a medical emergency at you right when you think it’s safe to take another sip of wine.

I set the glass down and rub my temples. “Okay, focus. Menu. You’ve got this,” I whisper to myself.

Suddenly, the front door clicks before sliding open. I nearly drop the glass in my hand. My heart slams against my ribs, and I snatch the nearest thing that could double as a weapon—a whisk. It gleams under the kitchen light, which is funny because it’s useless. Unless I plan to whisk someone into submission.

That’s when a flash of glossy blonde hair appears through the doorway.

“So I heard you’ve been cheating on me,” Madi says, smirking as she leans casually against the doorframe like she’s walking into a reality show confessional.

“Madi!” I press a hand to my chest, heartbeat still sprinting. “Jesus Christ, you scared me half to death. I could’ve killed you,” I scold as I set my drink down.

She arches one perfectly shaped brow. “With what? That whisk?”

I glance down at my hand and scowl, realizing I’m still holding it. “Don’t test me.”

Her grin spreads slow and smug. She slides the door fully shut, the metal latch catching with a soft clack. The scent of autumn rain follows her inside—cold air, wet leaves, and faint traces of her jasmine perfume.

She shrugs off her coat and kicks off her heels in the corner, standing there in half a Halloween costume like she’s undecided whether she’s coming or going.

“Remind me why I gave you a key again?” I mutter, setting the whisk down on the counter.

“Because you love me, Care Bear,” she sings back, sweet as syrup, strutting over to the counter. “And because if I didn’t check on you, you’d spend your Saturday night having a full breakdown over fucking pastries.”

I roll my eyes, but she’s not wrong. “Are you coming from the party or going to the party?” I ask, catching sight of the glitter dusted across her collarbone.

She tilts her head, grinning. “You’d know if your phone wasn’t dead. I’ve been calling you all day.”

I blink. “My phone’s dead?” I ask, glancing around until I spot it sitting face-down on the other end of the counter. I turn it over expecting the wallpaper to show but the screen’s black. “Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ she says,” Madi mocks, her voice light but her eyes sharp. “What if there was an emergency? A fire or something?”

I crinkle my nose as I plug the phone into the wall outlet by the stove. The cord coils across the floor like a snake. “I know, but while it’s charging, maybe tell me why you’re in my house—in costume?”

“I’m stopping by before I go to the next place since I need you to tell me what happened with Joel,” Madi says, her tone breezy but eyes sharp, already scanning the room like she’s reading crumbs for clues.

I exhale through my nose and step closer to the counter. My shoulders slump as I slide a photo of the mini apple crumble pie into the maybe pile for the third time. “Wasn’t the group chat enough?” I ask, half under my breath.

I had told them everything, a full novel-length text while I waited for Dina to wake up. Facts only. No commentary. No room for overthinking.

Madi taps her nails against the edge of the counter, unimpressed. “No. You were methodically analytical,” she says, deadpan. Then her voice softens, almost imperceptibly. “Are you stuffing your emotions down again?”

I shake my head, picking up a photo of the brown butter pear tart and sliding it cleanly into the no pile. “I’m not stuffing anything down. I’m just looking at the situation logically. With all the information I have.”

“Right…” She leans forward, reaching past me to drag the pumpkin bread with chocolate chips into the yes pile, her bracelets clinking softly. “So now, I need you to put on your big girl panties and tell me how you feel emotionally.”

I narrow my eyes. She left out one tiny, massive detail when she played matchmaker. “Watch it,” I warn, plucking the pumpkin bread photo back and shoving it into no territory. “I’m still mad you let me find out he had a daughter this way.”

Her face flushes, that telltale pink that’s meant she’s irritated by my words since we were nine. “You literally said you weren’t into him on your birthday,” she fires back. “Why would I bring him up again after that?”

I sigh and press both hands to the marble surface beneath them. The chill steadies me more than her words do. “I never said I wasn’t into him,” I say slowly. “I said I wasn’t ready to be set up yet.”

She squints, studying me the way she does when she smells weakness. Then, with a sly smile: “And after hanging out with him… how do you feel?”

I freeze mid-reach for the photos, my pulse quickening like she’s called my bluff. “I don’t know.”

Madi arches a brow with a silent go on look. But I allow the silence to stretch, filled only by the hum of the fridge and faint talking from the tv.

I take a breath that feels heavier than air. “Hanging out with him was nice,” I admit, breaking our staring contest. “It felt good to be… cared for, even if it was just a couple hours. He made me feel—” I glance down, fingers smoothing the edge of a photo. “Safe. Or protected, I guess. I don’t know. I liked it.”

The confession slips out faster than I intended, like a truth that’s been waiting in my throat all night.

Madi’s lips purse into a thoughtful line. She doesn’t tease. Instead, she picks up a photo of the pumpkin chai bundt cake with vanilla bean glaze, taps it once against the counter, and slides it neatly into the yes pile.

“You know,” she says softly, “it’s okay to like those things.” Her voice lingers a beat. “It’s okay to like him.”

I groan, dragging my fingers through my hair and trying to smooth the flyaways back into my ponytail. “I know.” I let the photo stay where she put it this time, though my fingers twitch like they want to move it. “I just—” my voice dips low, mostly to myself—“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Madi exhales through her nose, shaking her head as she rearranges photos like she’s sorting evidence. “What’s wrong with you is you’re only vulnerable once in a blue moon.” She swaps out the butter pecan blondies for toasted marshmallow brownies, her tone maddeningly casual. “Like, the second your mom died, you turned into a smiling robot to protect yourself.”

The words land harder than I expect. My head jerks up. “Ouch,” I say flatly.

Her eyes widen. Hands fly up to cover her mouth, voice muffled behind her palms. “Ooo, I’m sorry. That was too blunt.”

I roll my eyes and blow out a ragged breath through my lips. “No, you’re right,” I admit, even though it burns a little to say it.

The TV hums in the background, Grey’s Anatomy’s ending theme spilling into the quiet. For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the faint tick of rain hitting the skylight and the low creak of the floorboards beneath our feet.

“I heard that’s a coping mechanism,” Madi says finally, her tone gentler.

“From who?” I ask, tilting my head, though I already know where this is going.

“My therapist,” she replies simply, like she’s talking about a hair appointment.

The word therapist hits like a quiet bell in my head. I think about the sticky note still taped to my fridge reminding me to call mine. The ink’s smudged now, like it’s been waiting too long. “Really?” I ask, leaning against the white marble. “What else did she say?”

Madi’s lip quirks to the side as she flicks her gaze between two dessert photos, indecisive. “She said I shouldn’t ask you why you do that…” — she gestures vaguely at me — “but what you’re afraid of instead.”

The air shifts. I bite the inside of my cheek and roll my shoulders back, the motion doing little to shake the tightness in my chest. I stare down at the glossy picture of a pumpkin tart, tracing the edge of it with my thumb. “That I’ll fall for him and it won’t be reciprocated. That he’ll think I’m reading into things, tell me I’m being ridiculous, and disappear.” The words come out soft, fragile, like they might break in half before they reach her. “That he’ll just want to be friends.”

Madi snorts and then bursts into laughter so sharp it startles me. My stomach drops instantly. “Oh my God.” I half laugh, half wince. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”

She waves a hand, trying to breathe between fits of laughter. “No, no,” she manages, still giggling. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

“Then why are you laughing?” I ask, folding my arms, though my lips twitch despite myself.

She chuckles, tucking a gold strand of hair behind her ear as she leans against the counter. “Because, Care Bear, before I even tried to set you two up, he was on me and Nic about it at every single event. Even after I introduced you two, he didn’t stop. You’re not reading anything wrong. The man likes you.”

My eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

I reach for the photo of pumpkin spice macarons, sliding it into the safe pile like that’ll keep my brain from short-circuiting. It doesn’t. My stomach knots anyway. “What if he changed his mind since my birthday?”

Madi whines like she’s heard this song too many times. “He probably didn’t,” she says, wagging a finger at me, “but you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

I swat her hand away with a scoff. “God, no. I’d rather live in my bubble.”

She narrows her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching into that half-grin she uses when she’s about to make a point I won’t like. “Listen here, Glinda. You’re not allowed to self-sabotage. You feel things, even if it doesn’t always feel good.”

I meet her gaze, trying the whole puppy-eye routine, but it’s no use. Her stare could melt steel and within seconds, I cave. “Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll try. Happy?”

Her frown breaks into a satisfied smile. “Enough to leave and go to another party? Yes.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and heads for the coat rack, the faint scent of her perfume trailing behind her.

“Thank God,” I mutter, half under my breath.

She bends to pull her heeled boots on, tossing me a smirk over her shoulder. “Don’t be like that. You know you love to watch me leave.” Her voice drips with that effortless charisma that’s gotten her out of every traffic ticket and into every VIP event since she turned eighteen.

I don’t even dignify it with a response. My eyes drift to the TV instead—two new characters have appeared on screen, subtitles flashing faintly against the flicker of the hospital monitor.

“So, when are you seeing him next?” she asks, voice pulling me back before I can focus.

“Wednesday,” I say, setting down the photo I’d been fiddling with. “He’s coming to my booth at the school’s harvest festival to make fun of all the rich parents with me. Should be fun since we’re both semi-broke.”

She freezes halfway through slipping her arm into her coat sleeve. Her face twists up like she just bit into a lemon drop.

“What?” I ask, suspicious.

She straightens, turning fully to face me. “Care Bear,” she says slowly, “Joel Miller is loaded. Has been for a while. Not old money like me or Nic, but still rich.” She tugs her hair free from under her collar with a flick of her fingers.

For a second, all the warmth drains from my body. My stomach dips. He didn’t correct me when I made the joke but his body language was off. How could I have been so clueless? I know the Madi would never set us up if he weren’t the full package, millions included. The man owns a penthouse restaurant, for God’s sake.

Madi’s smirk softens, worry flickering behind her eyes. “Why do you look like you’re about to puke? Do I need to stay?”

I shake my head, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach. “No, I’m fine. You should go to your party.”

She plants her hands on her hips, one brow arching. “Kicking me out is crazy.”

“Maybe,” I say, looping my arm through hers and steering her toward the door. “But I’m doing it anyway.” The movement’s playful enough to mask the swirl in my chest. I need the quiet before I start unraveling.

We stop at the landing outside my loft. The smell of cinnamon and sugar from the bakery downstairs still lingers faintly in the air, blending with the cool bite of November. I pull her into a hug, squeezing tight enough to say what I won’t out loud. “Don’t drink too much, and text me when you get home,” I murmur, already knowing I’ll be tracking her on Life360 as soon as she’s gone.

She pulls back, the corners of her mouth tilting in a small, knowing smile. “I will.” She takes a few steps down, then pauses halfway, one hand gripping the railing. “And, Care—don’t Google him. Maybe there’s a reason he didn’t correct you. You should hear that from him, not some article.”

I nod, swallowing hard. I hate that googling him was my first instinct and I hate that she’s right. “Okay. Bye, Madi.”

“Bye, Care,” she says softly, and then she’s gone. Her heels click down the stairs, fading into the hum of the bakery below. A moment later, the front door bell rings, that familiar ding echoing up through the floorboards.

The silence that follows feels heavier than it should. I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My chest eases a little, but my mind doesn’t. I slide the loft door shut, the track giving a quiet groan before the lock clicks into place. The wood is cool against my back when I lean into it, attempting to ground myself.

For a second, I just stand there—breathing, staring at the outline of my kitchen against the dim evening light. My heart’s still beating too fast.

And then, against my better judgment, I push off the door and make a straight line for my phone on the counter.

If I’m going to lose sleep over Joel Miller, I might as well find out exactly who he is.

honestly wasn’t sure if anyone would still care about this story, so if you made it this far, thank you so much. i’m planning to update more often from here on out, even if a chapter feels a little imperfect. i really want to see this fic through so I can move on to new stories (and maybe some requests for y’all).

love you all endlessly,

xx, via

dt: @ashleyfilm @bau-muffin

My phone buzzes twice in my pocket as we turn onto Clark from Fullerton, the lake slipping out of sight behind us and traffic building ahead. Ellie and Dina are full volume in the backseat, going off about something that sounds like a heated debate over Halloween candy rankings.

I stopped listening after we passed the ferris wheel. Not because I don’t care, but because my brain’s been half-elsewhere all afternoon. Walmart didn’t help. I only went in for garlic and salad mix. But five minutes in, Ellie spotted the hot pink “Ken” shirt hanging on a clearance rack and made it her life’s mission to get it on my body.

“It’s for Carrie,” she said, grinning like she’d already won. “She’s Barbie so you’ll match.”

I told her no but then Dina chimed in. Then Ellie gave me that look that always has me bending to her will and suddenly, I was standing in self-checkout, holding black polyester and wondering how the hell I got here.

Now the shirt’s clinging to me like a second skin, sleeves stretched tight across my biceps. I look ridiculous but Ellie’s happy about it.

The third buzz in my pocket pulls me back. I shift at the red light and fish out my phone.

Three texts from a number I don’t recognize.

UNKNOWN: hiiii, this is carrington

UNKNOWN (maybe: carrington): i got your number from nic. hope that’s ok

UNKNOWN (maybe: carrington): ETA?

My pulse kicks up, tight in my chest. Carrington. Even reading her name scrambles something in my head. I shouldn’t be this into someone I’ve barely spent time with. But I knew about her long before she ever walked into The Austin.

Two years ago, I was half a drink into an overlong gala shift when Madeline Crown cornered me in the kitchen. She was half-slurring praise about her “perfect, beautiful, too-good-for-anyone” best friend who’d bailed on the event. Twenty minutes later, she pulled up a blurry photo of Carrington on her phone and said, “You’d like her. She’s so sweet and she bakes. Although she loves pink so much, it’s honestly sickening.”

I did like her. Even before I saw her face, something about her name hooked me. The second I saw that fuzzy little picture, it knocked something loose in me. It wasn’t just an attraction. It was like my ribs expanded too fast for my chest to keep up. Madeline caught the look on my face and immediately asked if I was single. I was but I was barely functioning. Freshly in over my head raising Ellie and trying to nail my first Michelin star. But I said yes.

I needed to know her.

I push the thought away and tap out a reply with my thumb.

Me: That’s fine. 10 mins out.

As I hit send, a pointed and impatient tap lands on my shoulder.

I glance at the rearview, already knowing who it is. Ellie stares back, her brow furrowed, demon horns wobbling slightly with every bump in the road. Her expression says you’re in trouble, and I don’t even know what for yet.

I drop the phone into the cup holder. “What now?”

“Did you hear what I asked?” she snaps, crossing her arms like she’s my parole officer.

I shake my head. “Nah. Missed it. Wanna try again with less attitude?”

She exhales dramatically, turning toward the window like I’ve just ruined her day. “Not really,” she mutters. Then, with a quick pivot, she turns her head back forward. “How do you know Carrie?”

Ah. There it is.

The light turns green. I ease us through the intersection and keep my tone neutral. “She had a birthday lunch at The Austin with her friends.”

“Madi and Nic?” Dina cuts in from the back seat.

I glance at her in the mirror. The kid’s dressed like Snow White and still somehow looks like she could start a fight and win it. "Yeah," I confirm.

“They’ve been friends since they were in boarding school. I hope we’re like that,” Dina says to Ellie, like they haven’t just met this morning.

Ellie grins, her horns reflecting red dots on the dashboard as she shifts. “I hope so too.”

There’s a brief lull, filled by the low hum of music and the occasional bag crinkle as one of them digs into their Halloween candy haul. I start to think I’m off the hook.

I’m not.

“Joel,” Ellie says, breaking the silence.

Tension grows in my shoulders from exercising my patience. “Kiddo?”

“Have you ever been on a date?” she questions pointedly.

I huff out a laugh, eyes still on the road. “‘Course I have, El. I was married. You know that.”

There are things she doesn’t know, though. Things I’ll probably never tell her. 

She doesn’t know my parents cut me off years ago, after I covered for Tommy when his gambling almost ruined them. Doesn’t know I held Sarah in my arms when leukemia finally took her. That my wife walked out not long after, too weighed down by grief to stay. 

She doesn’t know her mom was one of my favorite employees. Or that her mother overdosed even after I paid for her rehab twice. That I took Ellie in, not because I wanted to be a dad again, but because I couldn’t stomach the thought of failing one more kid.

Ellie keeps going. “Yeah, but I’ve never seen you hang out with a woman. Since…” she trails off like she’s thinking. “ever,” she finishes.

I inhale sharply because she’s right. Since I’ve adopted her, she’s been my priority. “That’s ‘cause I’m tryin’ to make sure you don’t turn out fucked up when you’re older,” I give a half hearted attempt at avoiding this topic.

Dina doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s got a point. Some people become serial killers.” If this kid stays on my team, she can hang around as long as she wants.

Ellie snorts and kicks the back of my seat. It’s just enough to get my attention but not enough to make me pull over and leave her on the curb. 

“But Uncle Tommy—” she starts, and I immediately groan.

“Don’t.”

“He goes out with women all the time,” she insists. “And he’s not that messed up.”

He’s the most fucked up in the head this family has to show for and has been in half the city. I don’t let my personal feelings for my brother show. Instead, I respond, “He’s also not picky. You want me out there chasing everything that moves like Tommy?”

Ellie makes a face. “Gross. No. I’m just saying… you don’t have to stay home and babysit me forever. I don’t want you to get old and blame me for having no life.”

I glance at her in the mirror. Her face is softer now, less smirk, more quiet worry. She’s wrong. One day, she’ll be the one packing for college resenting me and not the other way around. 

“I won’t resent you, El,” I say, and for once, it’s not just talk. “Ain’t how this works.”

She raises a brow like she’s not sold. “Well, as long as you remember the plan, Carrie would say yes if you asked her out.”

Dina doesn’t even look up from fiddling with her sleeves. “She totally would. Carrie likes corny stuff.”

I pull up to another stop sign, this one closer to Halsted. I don’t say a word, so naturally, they keep going.

“She’s like a thirty-year-old dad trapped in a hot woman’s body,” Ellie muses, pleased with herself.

Dina gasps. “Yes! They’d balance each other out. You’re all moody and gruff, and she’s like… a cupcake.”

“A super cupcake,” Ellie agrees, like they’re building a dating profile. “Probably says ‘thank you’ to the ATM.”

That earns a small huff from me, but they’re not wrong. Carrington’s got that sweet, soft kind of kindness most folks fake. Hers just lives in her bones. And suddenly I’m spiraling just thinking about her curls, the freckles across her cheeks, the way her voice goes soft when she talks about Ellie and Dina. She’s sunlight.

“Hey, Joel?” Ellie interrupts my daydreaming.

“Yes, El?” I return my attention to my kid.

She lets the silence stretch. “If you wanna ask Carrie out, I promise I won’t turn out all emotionally stunted or whatever,” she drops on me casually as hell.

I cough. Fully choke on my own damn breath. “Language,” I manage once I recover.

She rolls her eyes. “You started it. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind if she was around forever or somethin’.”

That hits like a stomach punch. Not because I haven’t thought about it, but because I have. Too god damn much.

“Don’t ya think that’s a little fast?” I ask, keeping it light. “You just met her today.”

“I’ve got good instincts,” she says with a shrug, like it’s settled.

I glance in the mirror again and catch Dina watching quietly, like she’s trying to figure me out. I don’t want to keep this conversation going in front of her. I’ll ask Ellie later when I can get a read on what she really thinks when she’s not showing off.

“We’ll talk about it later, alright?”

Ellie slumps in her seat like I’ve ruined her life. “Fine. Just remember to stay in the car and wait for Dina to wave.”

Some part of me hopes it works. That Carrington sees me and loses her damn mind. But the sensible part of me knows better. "Got it," I mutter back.

By the time we hit Carrington’s street, traffic’s crawling with trick-or-treaters and half-distracted parents. West Loop glows with jack-o-lanterns, plastic swords, and toddlers in light-up costumes. I spot her right away—sitting outside her bakery, framed by the blush-pink storefront like it’s a movie still.

She’s handing out sugar and sunshine. I watch her slip an extra cookie to a little girl in a ladybug costume, and the kid’s whole face lights up. Carrington beams back with a smile that doesn’t look practiced. The kind that wedges itself into your chest and doesn’t let go.

I park right in front, hand tightening on the wheel. I’ve heard Madeline’s long-winded rants about her best friend. But the real thing is so much more. Enough to make my chest tight.

Ellie jumps out first, backpack swinging over one shoulder, still mid-story like the drive never ended. Dina follows close behind, laughing as she slams the door. I hear their voices float over to the sidewalk, cheerful, greeting Carrington like they’re all best friends. Carrington stands, hugging both girls at once, while I stay in the truck.

Then she looks over their shoulders, toward me. Her brows knit, her mouth parts like she’s trying to make sense of something. I don’t blame her. If I were her, I’d probably wonder if Ellie’s dad was secretly unhinged.

Dina leans in and whispers something, probably laying the groundwork for their plan. Carrington laughs, and it carries through the glass, clear and bright. That sound cuts straight through me in the best way.

Dina shoots me a two-finger wave. I don’t even remember cutting the engine, but as soon as I see the signal, I’m swinging the door open and stepping out.

The wind’s sharp against my skin as I round the truck, boots steady on uneven concrete. Carrington watches every step. I swear her breath hitches, or maybe I’m just hoping it does. She’s staring, and for a second I think I might’ve overplayed the bit. 

Then she gives me clarity with her bubbly laugh.

"See, you didn’t have a Ken, so we brought you one. Surprise!" Dina throws her arms out toward me like I’m a damn birthday present.

Carrington’s still frozen, mouth slightly open, amber eyes locked on mine like she’s forgotten how to blink. “Joel,” she says finally, voice cracking just enough to wreck me.

"Hey there, sugar." I let the pet name land between us, loaded. She’s sweet enough to earn it.

I take a step toward her, ready to pull her into a hug, but hesitate mid-stride. But it doesn’t matter because Carrington’s already closing the distance. Before I can even think, her arms slide around my neck and pull me in tight.

It knocks the breath outta me. And judging by the stunned looks on the girls’ faces, I’m not the only one caught off guard.

I freeze for a beat, then wrap my arms around her waist. She’s warm and soft in a way that’s lived in my head more than I’d like to admit. I hold her too tightly, but I don’t care. She smells like cinnamon, caramel, and something I can’t name. Something I want more of.

She’s the one to pull back first, but her hands linger against my chest, fingertips brushing the fabric of my shirt like she’s not quite ready to let go. I try to stay still, keep it friendly, but every damn nerve in my body is on fire.

“Hi,” she murmurs, voice soft and lit up like morning sun. And just like that, the whole world narrows to her and the way she looks at me like I’m something worth keeping.

Her gaze flicks down, landing on the stupid pink “Ken” stretched across my chest. She breathes out a laugh. “Nice outfit. You look… perfect.”

My grin pulls slow and crooked, unstoppable. “That’s all you,” I say, rougher than I mean to.

I want to stay like this, memorizing the pink flush rising high on her cheeks. I want to tilt her chin and press my mouth to hers before I talk myself out of it. But I don’t. Instead, I step back, keeping my voice stable. “Now… lemme grab the supplies for dinner.”

As I turn, my hands skim down her sides. It’s barely a touch, but I make damn sure it counts. Her sharp little breath tells me she noticed.

I head to the truck unhurriedly on purpose. I want her eyes on me. Want her remembering. I drop the tailgate down like it weighs nothing, grabbing the bags easily. I don’t miss the way she’s watching me, her lips parted slightly, throat working as she swallows.

“Is it a lot?” she asks, stepping close, toeing the edge of the curb.

I shrug, slamming the hatch shut. “Yeah, but I got it. You ain’t liftin’ a finger.”

She scrunches her face giving the bags hanging from my shoulder a twisted look. That sweet kind of stubborn that makes my pulse tick faster. “Okay, but at least let me get the do—”

I catch her wrist before she gets too far. She turns, eyes wide as I step closer. “This’ll be the first and last time you open a door for me,” I say, low. “I was raised right. No woman, ’specially not you, opens a door for me. That clear?”

She blinks like she’s never heard anything so direct in her life. Her lips part, maybe to protest or to tease, but nothing comes out. A moment passes, then she whispers, "Yes, Joel," in response.

I let her go with a nod. She turns, a little flustered, and I catch the slight wobble in her step. She’s  tired and I can tell, even if she tries to hide it. I follow, the bags digging into my arms, but I barely notice. She opens the golden door handle smooth as anything, stepping aside like she didn’t just knock the wind clean out of me.

The girls barrel past her, grinning like they just won the lottery. “Dina didn’t stop talking about your place all day,” Ellie says, eyes wide, like she’s meeting a celebrity. “I’m excited to finally see it.”

Dina groans. “Hey! It’s because I practically live here.”

My brow raises a little at that. The kid practically lives here? Thought she just worked for Carrington.

Carrington laughs, shaking her head. “Only because I’m the only person your sister trusts to keep an eye on you during her overnight shifts.”

Her voice is light, but something in my chest eases at that, like a knot loosening. Carrington doesn’t just run a bakery, she holds people up. Makes them feel safe. I wonder who does that for her.

The girls vanish down the hallway, their laughter echoing in their wake. I move slower, my age seemingly catching up to me, but I don’t care. Carrington steps inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft click.

The bakery’s quiet now. Earlier, it buzzed with life. But now, it feels almost intimate, like it’s holding its breath. The chairs are flipped up, the lights dimmed to a soft, amber glow. Through the glass behind the counter, I spot racks of dough already proofing for the morning. Of course she’s already prepared. She seems like the kind of woman who always is.

I follow her through the kitchen, my boots thudding against the clean tile. She moves ahead, light and sure, casting a glance over her shoulder to check that I’m still here. Like she wants me to be.

I try not to read into it too much. I made that mistake before with Sarah’s mom. In the end, I was wanting someone who didn't want me back. Now I’m believing I deserve good shit when I don’t.

There’s a narrow staircase tucked in the back, and she leads the way. The old wood creaks beneath our weight as we climb. I keep my steps steady. And not just because of the bags I’m carrying, but because of her. Because being near her makes me want to take my time.

She hums under her breath, soft and barely there. She probably thinks I can’t hear her, but I do. Her hair catches the light and, for a moment, I forget what air is. Every small, unintentional thing about her feels designed to undo me.

At the top, the door to her loft is already open from the girls rushing ahead. I step over a mess of jackets and bags near the door, taking it all in.

Exposed brick walls. Fairy lights wrapped around the beams. A worn-in couch draped in mismatched blankets. Books stacked high on every surface. It’s cozy and it fits her in a way that punches something soft in my chest. Carrington catches me looking, but she doesn’t say anything. Just smiles like she’s proud of what she’s built.

Dina wastes no time shoving Ellie toward the big window seat. "This is the best spot in the house. You can see everyone coming and going. Prime people-watching," she tells Ellie, pointing down to the street in front of Starlight.

Ellie snorts. "Alright, what is the worst thing a customer can order?"

"Plain croissant," Dina answers without a moment of thought, like it’s a mortal sin.

Carrington crosses her arms, mock offended. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with a plain croissant.”

I walk toward the kitchen, dropping the bags onto the counter. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a classic,” I add.

Shrugging out of my leather jacket, I glance around for a place to set it down. Carrington steps up without a word and holds out her hand.

I hand it over, our fingers brushing. Her chest rises and falls quickly in that way she probably thinks I don’t notice. But I do. Everything about her sticks to my brain like glue.

"Thanks," I murmur as she carries my jacket over to the coat rack, moving with that easy grace again. I watch her go, breathing in the lingering scent of her mixed with my cologne.

Meanwhile, Dina flops onto a giant beanbag by the TV. "And this is where you disappear if you want to be lazy for three hours," she says. "But if Carrie’s on a rom-com binge, you might never leave."

Ellie laughs and sinks into the beanbag beside her. "Good to know. What’s her stance on horror movies?" she asks as I begin unloading the ingredients onto the counter.

Carrington opens her mouth to answer, but Dina beats her to it. "Oh, she can’t handle them."

Carrington crosses her arms, pouting a little. "That is utterly untrue."

Dina smirks wide. "You made me leave the lights on after Smile. Totally killed the mood when we watched the second movie."

Carrington’s about to protest, but her expression shifts. I see a plan forming behind her eyes before she even speaks.

She claps her hands once to get the girls attention and for the first time tonight, they stop talking. "Why don’t you two go downstairs and finish passing out the cookies? I’d really appreciate it."

Dina squints, suspicious. "Wait. I thought you didn’t need help tonight?"

Carrington smiles sweetly. “That was before Joel offered to cook. And you know,” she adds, tossing a look toward the speaker on the wall, “the chef controls the music.”

Dina looks at Ellie, who instantly shakes her head like she’s already been traumatized. “You do not wanna be here when Joel starts playin’ his fifties playlist. Let’s go,” Ellie says, hopping up.

I try not to be offended by my teenage daughter’s words while Dina groans like she’s just been sentenced to life without parole. "Fine. But you owe us, Carrie."

Carrington waves them off with a sing-song, "Duly noted," like she didn’t just expertly clear the room.

Their footsteps fade down the stairs, leaving behind a quiet that feels heavier than it should. I stay where I am, leaning into the counter with my arms crossed, just watching her. 

Carrington turns back to me and catches the look on my face instantly. "That was real slick," I say, letting the amusement drip from every word.

She blinks up at me, all wide-eyed and fake innocence. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

She’s a bad liar. A cute one, but still bad. 

I let out a quiet chuckle, push off the counter, and roll up my sleeves. “Sure you don’t.”

I move to the sink and roll up my sleeves. Water rushes against the basin as I scrub my hands, stealing glances her way. Part of me still wonders if I’m reading her wrong. If I’m just some stray she feels sorry for. But when I turn, she’s still looking at me like I’m the only thing worth seeing.

I dry my hands leisurely, toss the towel aside, and nod toward the space between us. "So," I say, "I got full access to your kitchen?"

Carrington crosses her arms, her hip nudging the counter as she leans. "Depends. Are you planning on burning it down?"

I step toward her, cautiously. Close enough to reach for her if I wanted. Close enough to kiss her if I wasn’t such a damn coward.

“Ain’t plannin’ on it... unless you like your food extra crispy,” I murmur, my voice dropping low, just enough that it curls between us.

She bites her lip, trying not to smile. But she fails, beautifully. “Alright, fine. You’re in charge,” she concedes with a shrug.

“Good.” I start digging through the grocery bags for the cookware I thought I packed, coming up short.

I sigh through my nose, then glance back at her. “Where’s your pots and pans, sugar?”

“In this cabinet right here.” She motions lazily toward a cabinet near her knee.

I crouch down to open it, but my balance shifts and instinct kicks in. I reach to steady myself and my hand lands on her thigh. Her skin is buttery soft and smooth under my hand. The contact punches a jolt straight through me.

I freeze, registering just how close I am to her, how easy it would be to inch her legs apart and taste that sweet nectar of hers. Instead, I let go carefully trying to give us both a moment to breathe. But right now, all I can think about is how hard I am for her.

"Sorry, Care," I murmur. The nickname slips out without thought, rough and too honest. I don’t usually talk gently like this. But with her, it comes easier than with anyone I’ve ever met besides Ellie.

She shakes her head quickly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, like she’s trying to gather herself. She doesn’t speak, just watches me like she doesn’t trust her voice to come out right. 

I reach back into the cabinet, grab a pot and pan with more force than necessary. The clang fills the silence like a pressure valve releasing. When I stand, my knees pop, but I pretend I didn’t hear it.

I set the pot on the burner, twist the knob, and watch the flame curl to life. It licks the bottom of the steel with a warm flicker. I toss in a knob of butter and stare as it sizzles, swirling and melting like it knows what kind of tension’s building under my skin.

Carrington moves to the speaker across the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor. “I always listen to music while I work. Want to pick something?” she asks, pausing by the shelf. Her voice wavers, just barely, but I catch it.

I stir the pan absently, watching the butter froth. “Think I’ll spare ya. Ellie wasn’t lyin’. You don’t wanna hear my music.”

She presses the power button anyway, giggling. The speaker comes to life with a soft thump that echoes into the quiet room.

“And besides…” I say, voice just loud enough to be heard over the crackle of butter, “this ain’t work.”

Not for me. Cooking for her, in her kitchen, doesn’t feel like effort. It feels like something I wanna do again and again, if it means she’ll eat right. If it means I get to see that smile when she takes the first bite. Hell, I’d build a whole damn menu around her if she let me.

She taps through her phone and presses play. A sweet, high-energy beat fills the space, all pink glitter and nonsense. It doesn’t match the weight on my chest, but somehow it works.

I blow out a breath, not bothering to hide the judgment in my tone. “Lord have mercy.”

“Problem?” she teases, one brow lifted like she already knows the answer.

“Didn’t take you for the bubblegum pop type,” I mutter, tossing diced onions into the pan. The sizzle is sharp, the scent grounding.

She gasps, full of mock offense. “Excuse me! Bubblegum pop is a legitimate genre, thank you very much.”

I bite down a laugh, stirring the onions slowly as they turn gold. A few songs later, I catch myself nodding along without even realizing it.

When I look up from the half-finished meal, Carrington's staring, arms crossed, a teasing smile pulling at her mouth. "You like it," she accuses.

I shrug, nonchalant. "It’s catchy. Not sayin’ I’m proud," I counter, knowing damn well I don’t give a shit. As long as she keeps looking at me like that, she can play whatever she wants.

She flashes another one of those damn grins, the kind that makes my hands itch to reach for her. "You should be," she says.

I shake my head and turn back to the stove, working through the next steps without thinking. I reach for the ground beef, toss it into the skillet. The sizzle is sharp, satisfying. I season by instinct—salt, pepper, a little crushed red pepper for kick—letting the smell fill the kitchen.

Meanwhile, the pasta water starts to boil. I toss a handful of spaghetti into the pot without measuring, trusting my gut the way I always have in a kitchen. Carrington watches me move around her space, silent, like she can’t quite figure me out. I pretend not to notice. Pretend I don’t feel the heat of her gaze trailing every step I take.

Finally, I glance up, catching her mid-stare.

"You just gonna stand there lookin’ pretty," I tease after sliding the garlic bread into the oven, "or you thinkin’ about helpin'?"

Her cheeks bloom pink right away. She straightens up, clears her throat like she’s buying time.

"I don’t really like cooking much," she says, eyes flicking down to the floor for a second. "Baking is more careful and measured. If you don’t follow the steps exactly, everything falls apart. For some reason, I like that over the chaos that is cooking."

She bites her lip, then exhales. “Actually… I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve had a home-cooked meal in months.”

She says it like she’s embarrassed, like she expects me to judge her. I want to tell her not to apologize. That she could say anything and I’d still want to be around her. But I keep that to myself.

I glance at the spotless stove and start putting the pieces together. No smudges on the burners. Not a speck of oil anywhere.

“So if you don’t cook, what do you eat?” I ask, picking up the kitchen towel to wipe my hands.

She shrugs, lips parting slightly. “For breakfast I just have pastries from downstairs. Then I get takeout for lunch or dinner.”

The thought makes something twist in my chest. She shouldn’t be dining at shitty restaurants. Only the finest foods should touch her tongue.

“You do that all the time?” I ask, trying not to let the judgment slip into my tone.

She nods, brushing her fingers along the edge of the counter like she needs something to hold onto. “Yeah. But I’m trying to change that. I’ve got this idea to open a bookstore café with Willow. She owns the coffee shop next door. She’s great with drinks, so I figured I should focus on food. But I don’t even know where to start.”

She pauses, then glances up at me through her lashes. “I was actually hoping… maybe you’d have time to teach me? I promise it wouldn’t happen often. I just feel like I’m failing at adulthood not knowing how to cook.”

God help me.

She rambles like asking me to spend more time with her won’t gut me clean. Like she has no idea I’ve spent an ungodly amount of time thinking about her. No clue that letting me this close is like handing me a match and expecting me not to strike it.

“You ain’t failin’ at nothin’,” I say, setting the towel down. “Hell, we’re all missin’ somethin’. And yeah… I’ll teach you.”

Her eyes light up, all warmth and wonder, like the neon bakery sign downstairs. “Really? Thank you, Joel. You don’t know how much that means.”

I nod once, sure as ever. “’Course. When were you wantin’ to start?”

“Well…” she sways a little in place, fiddling with the hem dress. “I’ve been watching you tonight and, honestly? You make it look less scary. So, would next Sunday work?”

“Yeah. I’m free,” I say, knowing damn well I’ll catch shit from Tommy for missing another dinner shift to be her personal chef. “But we should do it at my place.”

“Sweet,” she says, grinning. “What neighborhood are you in?”

I pause. I’ve learned what happens when I say Lincoln Park out loud. Fancy zip codes complicate things. So I shrug. “Not sure. Somewhere up north.”

She raises a brow, not buying it for a second. “You don’t know where you live?”

I smirk, tossing a dish towel onto the counter. “Moved here a couple years back. Didn’t know much ‘bout Chicago. My brother said it’d be the next LA. Figured why not.”

She tilts her head, amused. “Where were you before that?”

“Arlington, born. Grew up near Austin.”

Her eyes go wide. “So that’s why your restaurant’s called The Austin. I feel like I’m finally connecting the dots.”

I glance at the oven, checking the garlic bread. “Well, now it’s your turn. I only know what Madeline’s ranted about. You always lived in Chicago?”

She nods, slower this time. “Yeah. My parents were both from here. My mom was a teacher and…” She trails off, lips pressing together. “She passed away a couple years ago. I don’t really know my dad. Haven’t seen him in, like… fifteen years.”

I lower the burner, setting my plan to stir the sauce aside. It can wait for her.

Crossing the room, I slip an arm around her waist and draw her close. “I’m real sorry, sugar. That’s a hard one.”

She lets her head rest against my chest. My arms wrap around her like they’ve done it a hundred times. She talks into the fabric of my shirt, voice muffled but clear enough. “She was great. Everybody loved her. I still miss her every day, but if she hadn’t passed… I’d still be a nurse.”

I rest my chin on her head. “How come?”

“She was an English teacher,” she says. “She kept these journals, and after she died, I found one where she said she was worried I wasn’t happy. That I was just… doing what I thought I should.”

I feel her words settle in my chest. “Was she right?”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I just wanted to be helpful. Didn’t mean I liked it.”

I nod. “I get that.”

She exhales shakily. “It was a wake-up call. I didn’t realize how bad I was doing until I read what she saw. I wasn’t hiding my struggles like I thought I was.”

I pull back a little, brushing a curl from her cheek. “You happy now?” I ask and regardless of her answer, I plan on making her feel like she’s on top of the world for the rest of her life.

She looks up at me, eyes shining. “In a way, yeah. I’m not all the way there, but I’m better. I just… wish I could tell her. Show her, I guess.”

My hand returns to stroke her back, grounding us both. “I’m bettin’ she knows. Wherever she is.” My voice sticks a bit in my throat, ‘cause I can see it in my head—Carrington’s mom up there next to Sarah. If she’s anything like her daughter, they’d get along just fine.

She nods, blinking fast. “Yeah. I hope so.”

Her hands slide from my back to my arms, giving me a soft squeeze. “Can we change the subject to something less sad?”

“Sure,” I say, clearing my throat and stepping back toward the stove. “You wanna start learnin’ how to cook now? I’m almost done, but there’s still some beginner work left.”

She nods, inching over like the floor might give out beneath her. I slide the salad bowl her way. “Alright, sugar. Let’s start small.”

She blinks down at it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

I chuckle, dumping the lettuce in. “That first. Lil’ olive oil, lil’ vinegar. Don’t go soakin’ it. Sprinkle the feta and toss the tomatoes on top,” I give her instructions before picking up the spoon on the counter to stir the pasta sauce.

She nods seriously, then immediately over-pours the vinegar like she’s trying to flood the bowl.

Abandoning the spoon to float down into the sauce, I step forward. “Okay. Fuck. Hold on,” I mutter, gently prying the bottle from her hands. “You tryin’ to drown the whole damn garden?”

She winces, laugh already bubbling up. “Sorry! I told you I’m terrible at this.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling slow. “She said she wanted to learn,” I mutter to myself.

“And I do,” she says quickly, tone too chipper to be trusted.

I shake my head and carry the bowl to the sink, tipping out the mess with one hand. When I turn back, she’s watching me with a look that says she’s either about to say something ridiculous. She proves me right.

“Maybe we could put my costume to good use,” she says sweetly.

I almost choke on my own spit. “What?”

She spins a little, motioning to the ridiculous pink ruffles that she makes look like designer clothing. “You know. Use me. Move me around like a doll.”

I stare at her, biting the inside of my cheek so I don’t laugh. It’s either that or saying the exact thing that comes to mind, which involves a lot less cooking and a whole lot of bending her over this damn counter. The dirty thought quickly flees from my brain because she’s too damn innocent to know what she just said and too cute for her own good.

“Alright then, Chef Barbie,” I say, stepping closer. “Guess I’ll help… so you don’t ruin it.”

I set the bowl down again and close the gap between us, one hand on either side of her, caging her in without touching her. She spins to face the counter, but her shoulders go stiff for half a second when she realizes I’m not moving away.

Still, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back off. She stays right there, spine brushing my chest, waiting.

I reach around and slide my hands over hers, guiding her fingers to the olive oil. “Grip it like this,” I murmur near her ear. “Not too tight. Just firm enough so it don’t slip.”

She nods once, following my lead, her body syncing to mine like we’ve done this before. My hand stays over hers, steadying the bottle as we move together. “Good,” I say lowly, “just like that. Small circles.”

Her ass brushes right against my crotch and I forget what breathing is. I don’t move, not right away. If I say anything, my voice’s gonna give me away. If I move too fast, I’ll make it weird. But she doesn’t pull back.

I guide her hand gently away, setting the oil down with more control than I feel. “Now grab the feta,” I say, voice tighter than I want. “Just a pinch. Not the whole damn bag.”

I keep my hand over hers a second too long, guiding her through scattering the feta. She’s quiet, focused, but there’s a smile tucked in the corner of her mouth that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

“See?” she says softly. “I’m learning.”

I lean in, nudge her shoulder with mine. “Barely.”

She laughs, and I shift her hands toward the small bowl of tomatoes. “Go on. Dump ’em in.”

She does, carefully. “There,” I say. “Now it almost looks like somethin’ worth eatin’.”

She spins around with a grin, bouncing like she just won the lottery. “Yay! I did it!”

I nod, keeping it cool. “Yeah, you did,” I confirm, pride blooming inside my chest.

Turning back to the stove, I scan the counter for something to occupy my hands before I do something stupid, like pull her back into me. “Where’s your oven mitts?”

I hear her heels tap across the floor before she answers, “Over here.”

She opens the drawer, and I glance over just in time to see the whole thing is filled with pink oven mitts. Pink with hearts. Pink with glitter. Pink with some kind of cartoon pastry on them.

“How many do you need?” she asks, head tilted.

“Just two’ll do,” I say, watching her like a man staring down a problem he doesn’t mind having.

While she’s turned, I shift, trying to discreetly adjust my jeans. It’s no use. My dick’s been betraying me all night, and she hasn’t even touched me. Just her laugh, her voice, the way she sways when she walks— it all drives me up the wall.

She turns, handing them over. “Here you go.”

I clear my throat and take the mitts. “Almost done.”

She moves and grabs the plates and forks from a cabinet. “I only have two bar stools, so I hope you’re okay with us eating on the couch?”

“That’s fine,” I say, making sure my voice doesn’t give away how much I actually like the idea of being close to her like that.

While I finish up by pulling the garlic bread out of the oven and stirring the sauce one last time, she drifts toward the living room. Music’s still playing in the background and she moves like she’s in her own world. She lays a roll of paper towels on the coffee table, swaying a little to the beat. It’s the simplest thing, but I can’t take my eyes off of her.

I plate the food and wipe my hands on a towel. “Let me grab the girls so you can try everything while it’s hot.”

She flashes a smile over her shoulder. “Sounds good. Tell them to watch the steps.”

“Will do.”

I slide open the loft door and head down. The bakery’s dark now, still warm from earlier. Through the front windows, I spot the girls curled up on patio chairs, deep in some conversation.

I push the door open and hold it. “Hey, kiddos. Dinner’s ready. Go on up and wash your hands.”

“Okay!” Ellie hops up, tugging Dina with her. I follow them inside, lock up, and jog up the stairs.

When I step back into the loft, it’s warm and golden with soft shadows. Carrington’s already set two glasses down in front of the girls, who’ve claimed one end of the couch, talking about costumes and candy like it’s the most important thing in the world. Her heels are kicked off and she’s much shorter now.

“Thank you, Carrie,” Dina says, flashing a grin.

I slide the door shut behind me and she turns at the sound. Her face lights up and for a second, all I can think about is what it’d feel like to wake up to her every damn morning. “I should’ve asked earlier,” she says, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Want something to drink?”

“Beer’s fine, if ya got it.”

“I do,” she says, flashing that dimple again. She crosses to the fridge, bending slightly as she opens it. Her skirt lifts just enough to test my self-control.

I look away. Try not to think about how easily I could pull her back against me, fist that hair in my hand, make her moan my name ‘til she breaks. But the thoughts don’t go anywhere. They stick.

I wait for the sound of bottles shifting, the clink of glass. It doesn’t come. Five seconds pass. Then ten.

She’s probably just scanning the shelves but from here, I can tell ain’t shit in there but condiments and drinks. “Care?” I call, casual at first.

Still nothing. Her hand’s braced on the fridge door, body slouched like she forgot what she was doing. The slope of her shoulders is all wrong.

“Carrington,” I say, voice firmer now.

No response.

By the time I reach her, she’s swaying. Her skin’s clammy, heat rolling off her in waves. My hand brushes the back of her neck, moves to the small of her back.

“Sugar,” I whisper. “It’s alright if there ain’t no beer.”

She tilts forward, then her knees buckle.

“Shit,” I grunt, catching her before she touches the tile. I slide one arm under her knees, the other bracing her back. She’s limp and too damn light. My chest clenches.

“Fuck. Fuck,” I mutter, cradling her tight, heading straight for the couch.

I sit down at the far end, keeping her in my lap, her head tucked beneath my chin. Her breathing’s shallow, but steady. I start rubbing slow circles into her back, willing myself to calm down. Then it hits me.

Coffee and a donut for breakfast. Maybe nothing else since. No food, no rest. Just fumes.

I hear a phone dropping to the floor. “Joel?” Ellie’s voice is tight.

Dina gasps a second later. “Holy shit. What just happened?”

“She fainted,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “She’s alright. Just gimme a sec.”

I glance over at the girls who are bouncing anxiously, like they need something to do to feel helpful. “Hey. Can y’all grab some water? And a plate with the extra garlic bread on the island. She needs somethin’ in her system.”

They scramble off, no questions asked. Cabinet doors slam open in the kitchen.

Carrington stirs against me. Her lashes flutter, brow creasing like she’s climbing her way back to the surface.

“Hey there,” I murmur, brushing a curl from her cheek. “You’re alright, sugar. Take it slow.”

She shifts, trying to sit up, but she’s weak. I slide my hand behind her back, helping her stay upright. “What... happened?” she mumbles.

“You passed out,” I say quietly. “Pretty sure it’s ‘cause you ain’t eaten anythin’ real all day.”

She opens her mouth, maybe to deny it, but nothing comes out.

Ellie returns with the water, Dina behind her with a plate full of garlic bread. I nod at them. “Thanks. Go ahead and eat. We’ll join y’all in a sec.”

They hover for a second, then move toward the kitchen island. Carrington tries to get up again, but she’s too unsteady. I keep my arm around her and tear a piece of bread, holding it up. “Eat.”

She hesitates, but lets me feed her.

“That’s it,” I say. “Good girl.”

She chews deliberately. I lift the glass and hold it to her lips. She sips, and when she pulls back, the corner of her mouth twitches.

“You’re bossy,” she slurs sleepily.

“Yeah, well,” I tear another bite, “someone’s gotta be.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to,” I say, nudging it toward her. “I’m doin’ it anyway.”

She gives me a weak glare, but it’s all bark. The garlic bread disappears piece by piece, her color coming back, slow but sure.

“You feelin’ up to real food now?” I ask, stroking her cheek.

She nods, voice steadier. “I think I can manage a few more bites.”

“Perfect.” My thumb lingers along her jaw before I ease her back and stand.

The plates are still warm. I grab ours, bring them over, and set mine on the coffee table. She’s trying to sit up, sluggish.

“Lean back, sugar,” I say, sliding an arm behind her. “I got you.”

She settles into me again. I lift a forkful of spaghetti to her lips. She takes it with no fuss, chewing and swallowing. My eyes follow every movement like she’s the only thing that matters in the world.

“There ya go,” I say gently. “Nice and slow.”

Bite by bite, she eats. Across the couch, Dina and Ellie shoot us matching looks—part horror, part amusement.

“Oh my God,” Dina stage-whispers. “You two are gross and cute.”

Ellie covers her mouth. “I’m gonna puke.”

Carrington groans into my shoulder. “Alright, alright. Someone pick a movie so I can stop being heckled while I’m hand-fed like an heiress.”

“Nightmare Before Christmas,” Dina declares. “It’s tradition.”

Carrington shrugs. “Can’t argue with tradition.”

As Dina sets it up, I help Carrington finish her plate. She’s eaten more than I expected, and she looks steadier now. I hand her the rest of her water and brush a kiss against the top of her head—light, nothing demanding.

I polish off my own plate one-handed, her still tucked against me. When I finish, I glance over at the girls. “Pass me your plates,” I tell them.

Dina offers hers up with zero hesitation but Ellie makes a face. “Why? You always make me clean up after you cook.”

“Considerin’ tonight’s circumstances, I’ll handle it,” I say, stacking their dishes on mine. “Y’all just relax.”

Carrington shifts like she might argue. “Joel, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” I cut in, quiet but firm. “Let me take care of it.” Let me take care of you.

I head into the kitchen, rinsing plates in the sink, the water running steady as I scrub. The girls’ voices are hushed now, low like they think I can’t hear. I’m not trying to eavesdrop, but Carrington’s voice drifts through the kitchen air anyway.

“I’m sorry if I scared you two,” she says gently. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. I should’ve taken better care of myself.”

There’s a pause but I can’t hear the kid’s response over the sound of clattering dishes. “It was just… a long day,” Carrington adds. “But I promise, next time I’ll eat. You can’t survive off nothing, right?”

Dina mumbles something I can’t quite catch, probably giving her shit in a way only someone who loves you can. Ellie hums in agreement, quieter. I hear Carrington laugh softly under her breath, but it’s not one of those carefree giggles she gave out earlier. It’s thin, a little tired.

“You both need to make sure you eat too,” she warns them. “No skipping meals to keep up with work or school or… whatever. Deal?”

“Deal,” Ellie murmurs.

I shut the faucet off and dry my hands, heart heavy. She’s still worried about them. Still thinking of everyone else before herself.

I head back just as they’re pulling blankets down from the back of the couch. The lights are dim, movie already playing, shadows flickering over the room. Carrington looks up at me as I settle beside her. Then she leans in without a word, curling into my side and resting her head in my lap.

I freeze.

She fits there too easy, her arm tucked beneath her, cheek warm against me. I don’t dare move. My hand hovers for a second, then lowers to her hair, fingertips brushing gently through soft curls.

She’s just using your legs as a pillow. This means nothing.

Ellie shifts, tucking her feet under my leg. “I’m usin’ you for heat,” she mutters, settling in. I don’t protest the regular occurrence.

She leans into Dina, scrolling through her phone and giggling at something. But soon even they get pulled in by the movie’s lull.

An hour passes with the three of them singing low and off-key, trading verses with familiarity. Eventually, the room softens. The music plays on, but the laughter fades.

Carrington’s breathing evens out first. I glance down and find her completely out—cheek still pressed to my thigh, lashes resting soft against her skin. She twitches once, then goes still again.

Not long after, the girls quiet too. Ellie slumps into Dina’s side, and Dina tugs the throw blanket higher without a word.

I shift carefully, easing my phone from my pocket without waking anyone. The screen’s too bright in the dark, so I turn the brightness down, then thumb in the alarm for 5:00 AM. I’ll get six hours of sleep, give or take.

I slip the phone next to Carrington’s back. My head tips against the cushion. The ceiling blurs above me with flashes of blue from the TV glow. Across the room, Halloween lights flicker faint red and orange. The scent of garlic bread still hangs in the air, wrapped in sugar and something floral from whatever candle she burned recently.

Carrington stirs. Her fingers brush against my side in her sleep, curling slightly. My hand stays steady on her back, feeling each slow breath as it rises and falls.

The couch is too damn small. My legs are restricted in jeans and my neck’s gonna hate me come morning.

But none of it matters.

Because this? This is what I forgot I’ve been missing. Not just a quiet night in someone else’s home. Not just her curled up against me like she belongs here. Not just two girls whispering like they’ve been friends forever.

It’s the stillness. The weight of being needed without demand. The peace of fitting into a space that never asked me to change.

A home and a family. Something I lost, something I never thought I’d get back.

I close my eyes and let myself feel this euphoria just a little longer. I let it wrap around me like a blanket. I let her stay right where she is.

Let this feel real, even if it’s just for tonight.

The last sugar bat wing settles onto the cupcake, and I tuck a stray curl behind my ear with a huff. Two hours of baking and decorating has left my fingers sticky with icing, while the warm scent of cinnamon and apples lingers in the air. The counters are a battlefield of mixing bowls, piping bags, and stray sprinkles, but the result is worth it—sixty tiny masterpieces lined up in neat rows, ready to steal hearts.

The bakery hums with life, the morning rush in full swing. My bubblegum-pink Barbie dress brushes the counter as I wash my hands, my glittering heels impractical but completely on-brand. Through the kitchen window, Dina flits past in her Snow White costume, her crimson cape trailing behind her. At fifteen, she has become my secret weapon, always ready to jump in when things get overwhelming.

Out front, the crew moves like clockwork, dodging each other as they hand out pumpkin muffins and caramel-drizzled croissants. Betty, green-skinned as Elphaba, arranges scones. Augustine, dressed as Jessie, passes out pastries with cowgirl confidence, while James, sharp in a Fantastic Four suit, reaches for another tray. Somehow, despite the costumes, the crowd, and the sugar-fueled atmosphere, everything runs smoothly.

After drying my hands I slip off my headphones, letting the familiar sounds of the bakery settle around me. Laughter rings from the front, a kid squeals over spiderweb cookies, and the air buzzes with Halloween’s loud, messy, perfect energy.

“Dina!” I call, waving a hand to catch her attention. She pops out an earbud and looks up. “I’m going to get a coffee. Would you like anything?” I offer.

She shakes her head, her faux bob rippling. “No thanks. I’m good.”

Grinning, I gather my things, pulling my jacket from the hook by the fridge and my bag from the counter. “I’ll take you to school when I get back,” I say, slipping my arms into the sleeves. Dina doesn’t argue, and I can tell she’s relieved. She always prefers my car over taking The L.

“Cool,” she says, leaning against the counter. “Need help after four?”

“No, you should be out having fun. There must be a party or something you teenagers are into,” I wave her off as I sling my bag over my shoulder.

She scrunches her nose, making it clear she has no interest in parties. “That’s more Jesse’s thing,” she says, referring to her friend and classmate who works at the coffee shop. They always end up hanging out after their shifts since it’s next door.

Her words give me pause. Her sister, my neighbor and friend, is probably pulling a long ER shift tonight at the hospital I used to work at. Which means Dina’s plans likely involve homework and an empty house. I hesitate before offering, “Want to come over? I’ll be handing out leftover cookies until six, then watching a movie.”

Her face lights up, and she nods. “Yeah, that sounds fun.”

“Perfect. I’ll be back in a bit,” I tell her loud enough so the other employees can hear where I’m going. I wave as I step onto the sidewalk, already typing a message to Talia about our plans. But at this rate, I think she expects Dina to be at my place whenever she's working. 

The crisp air bites at my skin, and the familiar tap of my thumbs against my phone fills the quiet between passing conversations. I only take two steps before colliding with someone, my phone nearly slipping from my hand.

Instinctively, I reach out, my hands landing on thin, tense shoulders. Looking down, I meet the sharp glare of a freckled girl. Her auburn hair is damp and tangled around a devil horn headband. A bruise sits near her temple, a scrape on her brow, but she stands firm, eyes wary and unflinching. She scowls and shrugs off my hands like she has been through worse.

"Ow, watch it!" she snaps, her small frame carrying the kind of confidence that comes with being young and full of attitude. She’s a pint-sized version of me from years ago, all sharp edges and misplaced bravado.

I force a patient smile. The younger me would have snapped back, but today is my favorite holiday, and I refuse to let anything dim my mood. "My sincerest apologies, tiny human. I wasn’t paying attention," I say lightly, already stepping aside.

Before I can move forward, she plants herself in my path, arms crossed. "Hey, I’m not tiny," she says with absolute conviction.

I blink at her for a moment before offering a small, placating smile. "Don’t take it personally. I call everyone under eighteen a tiny human," I explain, hoping to diffuse the tension.

She doesn’t look convinced, but she shifts her stance. "Well, now that avoiding a lawsuit should be your main concern, maybe you'll actually hear me out."

My eyebrows lift. "A lawsuit? For what exactly?"

She rolls her eyes, long and exaggerated, like she’s practiced it in a mirror. "You know, I got hurt at your job, and you discriminated against me? You’re supposed to pay me or something."

I’ve dealt with enough teenagers to recognize a half-baked scheme when I hear one. Suppressing a sigh, I choose my words carefully. "Very clever," I say with a nod. "But we’re on the sidewalk. Public property." I gesture to the cracked concrete beneath us.

Her face flushes as she glances down, then back up. "Damn. Maybe I should have done this differently," she mutters.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and picture the vanilla latte with almond milk I intend on ordering just a few steps away. "Okay. How about we multitask? You can attempt to blackmail me while I get my coffee,” I say with exaggerated patience. 

She fidgets, her sneakers scuffing the pavement. Up close, she looks about the same age as Dina, maybe younger. Her lip is caught between her teeth like a stress ball, and she stares at me like I’m holding the last piece of cake on earth. "Well, that is the thing..." She hesitates, eyes flicking to my chest, then just stops.

My head swims with confusion before realizing she’s probably waiting for my name, which is conveniently hidden on the name tag under my jacket. "Carrie," I say warmly, taking pity on her. "My full name is Carrington, but everyone calls me Carrie."

She blinks, nodding too quickly. "Carrie," she repeats, like she’s testing it out. For a second, she looks like she might burst into tears or take off running, but she squares her shoulders and rushes through the rest. "Okay, so, I have class in like thirty minutes, and my da—" She cuts herself off, face twisting like she bit into a lemon. She mutters something I can’t hear, exhales sharply, and pushes forward. "Anyway, he won’t admit it but I know he forgot to pick up the cookie order for my home room’s Halloween party last night. It might be under my name. Or his. Can you check?"

Her words spill out so fast I almost miss them. She seems young, stressed out, and clearly having one of those mornings. 

"Oh," I say with a cheerful laugh, already walking toward Starlight and holding the door open for her. "Let’s sort this out. We can’t have you being late for class."

Her wide eyes meet mine, panic shifting to cautious hope. "Really? That’s... thank you, Carrie."

"It’s no big deal," I chirp, ushering her inside as if I’m inviting her in for cookies and milk. "The worst outcome here is if I don’t get a coffee. Maybe this is a sign to cut my caffeine intake down. Now, what’s your name?"

She glances over her shoulder before stepping past me into the bakery. "Ellie," she says with a bright smile.

I extend my hand, and she shakes it firmly, confidence growing. "A pleasure to meet you, Ellie," I say. 

Starlight's still bustling, conversations blending with the music playing through the speakers. Customers are still crowding the counter while Betty and James weave around each other, handing out orders. “Do you own this place?" Ellie asks and I barely hear her.

I grin. "Guilty as charged," I confirm.

Her expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before she nods. "Cool."

The noise makes conversation impossible, so I guide Ellie through the swinging doors into the kitchen, where the relative quiet is a relief. Dina sits in the corner, scrolling on her phone, her backpack at her feet. She glances up as we enter.

"That was fast," Dina comments, starting to stand.

I wave her off. "A situation came up so I haven’t gotten coffee yet. Pay us no mind, I can handle this," I say, already tapping through the iPad. "Alright, let’s be logical. What’s your last name?" I ask, returning my attention to Ellie.

"Williams," Ellie says clearly.

I type her full name in. Nothing. "You're not in here so is your last name the same as the person who ordered?” I ask next.

Ellie shakes her head. "No, his is Miller," she replies. My eyes lift from the iPad and on Ellie’s.

Ellie stares at me with her brows furrowed, probably at my reaction to her answer. The name tugs at something in my memory. Miller… why does that sound familiar? And why is Ellie looking at me like I'm insane? I clear my throat before asking, "First name?"

“Joel," she answers without hesitation.

Shit. That is why it sounds familiar. Maybe it is not the same Joel?

"Joel Miller, the chef?" I ask, fingers hovering over the screen.

Ellie’s brows furrow, and she nods. "Yeah. Do you know him?"

I try to keep my face neutral, but my brain is already spiraling. Joel Miller is hot. Not in a polished, effortless way, but in a rugged, I-could-ruin-your-life way. He looks like he has been through hell and walked out of it with a cigarette between his lips, a little older, a little meaner, and somehow even more attractive because of it.

And his mouth. That mouth has probably said some dirty things. It’s the kind of mouth that could whisper something sweet one second and tear you apart the next. His arms that are veined and strong from hours in the kitchen could either hold you steady or break you in half. And his hands… Jesus. Those hands could do unspeakable things.

I swallow hard and force myself to focus. Do not think about him like that. Do not think about him like that.

I quickly click on the order, desperate for a distraction. "Yes, though I had no idea he had a child," I make an assumption about their relationship. Not that it’s a bad thing. It’s actually kind of endearing.

Ellie shifts, glancing at Dina, who is now watching curiously. She lowers her head towards the ground like she’s embarrassed. "Joel adopted me a little while ago," she mutters.

So that’s why she cut herself off earlier. "You don’t have to explain. I get it," I say, already grabbing a box. Ellie lifts her gaze from the floor, looking at me like she’s confused. "Looks like you need twenty cookies and they’re still on the cooling racks. Want to pick them yourself?" I offer.

Ellie’s face lights up. "Holy shit, yeah. But I have to be quick. I have art first thing this morning."

"Then let’s not waste time," I say, waving her toward the racks. "Dina, do you want to bring some cookies to school too?"

Dina perks up at my words. "Yes, please." As Ellie fills her box, I focus on Dina’s, making sure to add a mix—chocolate chip, snickerdoodle, peanut butter, and a couple of ghost-shaped sugar cookies just for fun. 

Dina suddenly gets up, eyes widening. "Wait, that’s where I’ve seen you! You go to Waldorf, right?" she asks, her red snow white cape flowing from the air coming out the vent above her.

Ellie freezes, her cheeks turning pink. Then she nods very slowly like she’s been caught. "Yeah. I’m a freshman,” she replies.

Dina grins, gesturing to herself. "So do I! I thought you looked familiar."

Ellie blinks, clearly caught off guard. Jesse says everyone wants to be around Dina, so she must be popular. Meanwhile, Ellie looks like she’s not used to being noticed, let alone by someone like Dina.

"You... know who I am?" she asks, barely above a whisper.

Dina shrugs. "Yeah, of course. You’re in my art class. You’re pretty good, by the way,” she compliments.

Ellie stares, mouth slightly open. I bite back a smile, enjoying the exchange. After adding tape to the top of Dina’s box, I take Ellie’s from her, continuing to fill the empty space with the best cookies.

"Since we’re all getting along so well, Ellie, do you want to ride with us? We’re heading to the same place, so no need to rush,” I offer, the parchment paper in the box crackles with each movement I make.

Ellie blinks and shakes her head quickly. "Oh, no, I’m good. I don’t want to bother you."

Dina snorts and steps closer. "Don’t even try to run. Carrie likes to collect strays, so you’re coming with us." She hooks her arm through Ellie’s. "Seriously, it’s no big deal. We have room and Carrie’s car always smells like sugar cookies, so it’s a win."

Ellie hesitates, glancing between us before finally nodding. "Well... okay."

"Excellent decision," I say with a laugh. "Let me tape this up, and we’ll be on our way."

The girls murmur in agreement and begin giving each other compliments on their costumes as I add the final seal to the edges of Ellie’s container. Passing the boxes back to the teenagers, they give a quiet thank you before Dina shrugs her outerwear on. 

Walking back toward the front, I remind myself to push past my social anxiety and call Joel about this. It’s only hard because I still haven’t finished my text to Talia about Dina. Everything feels like it’s piling up on this already busy day.

Both girls hug their boxes as they slide into the back of my Volkswagen Beetle, Ellie’s dipping her head to avoid her headband knocked off. Dina throws her a friendly wink, and I can’t help but think this unexpected connection is the kind of sweetness that makes days like this special.

The clock reads 11:07 AM as my body shakes with quiet sobs, the tissue in my hand soaked beyond use. I’m overwhelmed by the amount of rude customers that have come in after I dropped the girls at school. My office feels smaller than ever, the walls pressing in while the muffled buzz of the bakery rumbles through them. I tilt my head back, willing the tears to stop, but they keep coming, hot and relentless.

The door suddenly slams open, hitting the wall with a loud thud. I jump in my chair and spin around to see Betty standing in the doorway, her face twisted in concern. "Carrie—" she starts, then falters when she sees me, her wide eyes flicking to my tear-streaked face.

"Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry," she blurts, hands up like she’s been caught trespassing. She shifts awkwardly, glancing aside as if trying to give me privacy while still standing in the room.

I force out a watery chuckle and wave dismissively. "You’re fine. What’s the matter?" My voice cracks, betraying my attempt to sound composed.

Betty hesitates, shifting her weight. "There’s a customer out front saying he never got his order, but the system says it’s been picked up. Can you help us figure it out?"

I nod quickly, and the realization that I still own this bakery sets in. "Yes, of course. I’ll be right there."

Betty gives a crooked smile and hurries back to the front. As the door clicks shut behind her, silence settles again. I take a deep breath, stand up, and wipe my face with the back of my hand. My legs ache from sitting hunched at my desk, but the sharp pain in my chest is worse. Grabbing a pack of baby wipes from the cabinet, I shuffle to the floor-length mirror in the corner.

My reflection is a mess. Red-rimmed eyes, mascara smudged into gray shadows. My dress is pristine, but it feels like a cruel joke, mocking my tear-streaked face. Peeling a wipe from the pack, I press the cool dampness to my cheeks, a small comfort. My heels dig into my feet with each shift of weight, and I wince. At least my hair is still perfect, every brown curl pinned exactly where it should be. Small wins, I guess.

Leaning closer, I dab at the last smudges under my eyes and practice a smile. It’s forced, but it’ll do.

"Alright, Carrie," I whisper, tossing the wipe into the trash. "Time to pull yourself together."

The soft click of my heels echoes through the quiet kitchen as I head to the front, the bakery’s hum growing louder with each step. Pushing through the doors that separate the kitchen and the dining area, I spot Betty near the counter, gesturing toward a tall figure with his back turned. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly styled, his flannel sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. Before I can fully register the sight, Betty spots me.

"There’s the owner. Her name is Carrington," she says, her voice cutting through the low chatter.

My stomach clenches as I force a polite smile, ready to handle whatever minor crisis has brought this customer in. But when he turns around, the smile freezes.

Joel Miller.

Time slows as my gaze locks onto his chestnut eyes. The sharp features, the confident stance—it's all unmistakable. Joel Miller, the man I gave a bad review a couple of months ago. My “birthday present” and the last person I ever expected to see standing in my bakery today.

"Carrington," he says, his voice carrying that same low, steady tone as the first day we met.

I blink, struggling to keep my composure. "Chef Miller?" My voice comes out softer than I intend.

"Joel, sugar. Just Joel."

My mouth falls open slightly before I repeat his name under my breath to make sure I remember not to call him Chef Miller. "Joel. Joel. Joel."

His gaze flicks over my bright pink Barbie dress and glittering heels before settling back on my face. His lips twitch like he is suppressing a smile. "Didn’t know you owned this place," he says, his voice even.

For a second, I am too stunned to respond. My brain scrambles for an explanation, as if I owe him one. "Well... surprise." I force a laugh. "This is my bakery. I own the building, so I live upstairs too." I glance around at my pink surroundings with pride.

Joel tilts his head slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "Lec and Madeline mentioned you baked, but I figured they meant, you know, as a hobby."

"Oh." My pulse quickens, and I glance at Betty, who is suddenly very busy behind the counter. It doesn’t help. The bakery feels smaller, the air charged. "Well, what brings you here?"

His brows furrow, as though he is just now remembering. "Ordered some cookies for my daughter’s school, but I forgot to pick 'em up. Was gonna run 'em by now, but the system says they’re gone. Reckon I got too much goin’ on in my brain these days." His voice softens on the last word, and for the first time, he seems less intimidating and more like a tired man with too much on his plate.

"Oh, yeah. Ellie came by earlier, and we handled everything. Since she goes to Waldorf with one of my employees, I dropped them both off with cookies in hand." I offer a quick smile. "I meant to call, but today has been hectic. Sorry for taking her without your permission."

He exhales, relief clear in his expression. "Don’t apologize. Didn’t have to do all that, but ya did so… thank you, Carrington." His voice dips, and something about the way he says my full name makes my stomach flutter. With everyone else, it makes me want to die. But he could say it a million times and I’d never get sick of it. "Really. You are a godsend," he adds.

The air between us shifts, heavier now. I bite the inside of my lip, unsure of what to say. "It was no trouble," I manage, my voice quieter than before.

He watches me for a long moment, his chest rising slowly. "I was just gonna order a new batch if that’s what it took. It’s been one hell of a week," he exhales in one go.

His shoulders are so tense they are nearly touching his ears and my heart is still racing. "Join the club," I say softly, surprising myself.

His eyes meet mine and heat rises to my cheeks. I clear my throat, slightly put off by his anxious demeanor that’s so different from the last time I saw him. "Joel, are you alright?" I check.

"’m fine," he says quickly, though his tight voice says otherwise.

I step forward and put my hand on his back, pushing him closer to an open table. "Sit down and let me grab you something—apple cider, a cookie, something to ease your mind,” I urge as politely as I can. 

He hesitates, then nods. "Alright," he murmurs, sliding into a seat with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

As I turn toward the counter, I feel his gaze following me, a quiet weight pressing against my back. Moving around Betty, I pull open the display case with more force than necessary and grab a cookie shaped like a bat, sugar-dusted with tiny chocolate chip eyes. Perfect. Pouring a small mug of apple cider, I carry everything to Joel’s table, the warm liquid sloshing slightly as I walk.

Out of breath from my shoes and the nerves I can’t quite shake, I set the plate and cider down. "Here. On the house. Consider it an apology for the confusion."

Joel shakes his head, pulling a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. "This is all the cash I got, but I’ll throw in two redo meals at the restaurant for the price of one." His mouth quirks in a wry smile as he slides the bill toward me.

I scoff and shove it back. "Absolutely not. It was hardly an issue,” I assure him.

Joel narrows his eyes and pushes it right back. "No, it is. You saved her from feelin’ embarrassed. Oughta be tippin’ ya tenfold."

Frustrated, I shove it with more force, planting my hands on the table. "Put it in the tip jar before you go, Joel. You already tipped on the order so I don’t need it. My staff can divide it at the end of the shift."

He pauses, clearly caught off guard, then exhales and tucks the bill into his back pocket. "Fine," he mutters, though the twitch of his lips betrays his amusement.

He picks up the cookie, examining it like it might bite him. "So, how was she?" he asks.

I tilt my head, confused by his question. "What do you mean?"

“Ellie. How’d she seem? Just wanna make sure she’s doin’ alright—happy, y’know?" He asks, voice laced with concern. Then he takes a large bite of the cookie, chewing slowly.

I cross my arms, watching as his eyes flutter shut. Then, low and unguarded, he lets out a throaty groan. "Mmm, now that’s a damn good cookie," he compliments.

The sound shoots through me, leaving heat in its wake. My thighs clench. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. It’s the kind of sound meant for a bedroom—dark, rich, and sinful. My face burns, and suddenly, the space between us feels too small.

I clench my fists, willing the thought away. You’re barely acquaintances, Carrie. Pull it together. I force my voice into something steady. "Thank you. And to answer your question, she seemed well. Spoke about you most of the drive. She reminds me of myself at that age."

"That so? Well, hell, that’s… good. That’s real good."

I seize the moment for levity. "Although, I never thought I’d meet someone who swears more than I do."

Joel shakes his head, setting the half-eaten cookie down and taking a sip of cider. His face shifts into amused exasperation. "Told her no more goddamn swearing in public," he grumbles.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. "Joel?"

His eyes flick up, waiting.

"If you want her to stop swearing in public, you might want to, you know… lead by example,” I suggest.

His chewing halts. He swallows hard, eyes widening slightly as realization dawns. "Guess I walked right into that one, huh?" His voice is warm, teasing.

The way he says it, so easy and unguarded, makes something light and dangerous bloom in my chest. I allow myself to giggle for the first time in a while. Talking to him feels like cracking a window for a breeze, only to realize I’ve invited the entire season inside.

I catch myself watching him. The crinkle around his eyes when he smiles, the calm way he carries himself, the sound of his voice, familiar like a song I forgot I loved. A thought sneaks in before I can stop it: I want more of this. More of him.

Months ago, when Nic and Madi tried to set us up, I couldn’t imagine letting anyone in. I was too raw, too guarded. But now I wonder if I might be ready. Could I open myself up to someone like Joel? Even now, with him sitting across from me, steady and patient, part of me hesitates. If he knew how difficult I could be, would he still want me?

If my friend’s matchmaking attempt had worked back then, maybe we would already be something. They mentioned Joel was interested. Maybe he still is.

My thoughts swirl, trying to find a way to run into him again. Maybe he’ll say yes if I ask him to come over tonight. Only one way to find out.

I tap my fingers against the table, warmth blooming in my chest. The room feels too quiet, heavy with something unspoken. "Did you and Ellie have plans tonight?" I ask, my voice coming out too chipper to be convincing.

Joel finishes his cookie, shaking his head. "Nah. Ellie’s first Halloween in high school, and turns out there’s a damn age limit on trick-or-treatin'. So, no plans." He leans back, running a hand through his hair, his voice carrying the barest hint of uncertainty.

A smile tugs at my lips as an idea sparks. "Well, I’m closing early. My neighbor’s little sister, Dina, is coming over for a movie. You should bring Ellie by so she has someone to keep her company." The words tumble out faster than I intend, leaving no room for second-guessing.

Joel’s shoulders ease as he processes the suggestion. "Reckon she’d like that," he says after a moment. "Took off work for the day, so I can grab ‘em from school and bring somethin’ to cook for dinner."

"That would be great. My upstairs kitchen hasn’t seen much action lately, and my microwave is on its last legs. So I was just going to order pizza," I say being honest about my disdain for cooking.

Joel smirks. "That's about to change. You still want pizza for dinner?" he confirms.

I laugh, the sound is light and easy. "I’m okay with whatever you want to make, chef. I’m sure anything will be good."

"That ain’t what you were sayin’ a few months back," Joel quips.

I giggle, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

Joel takes the last sip of his cider, but a few drops escape past his bottom lip, catching in his short beard. My eyes linger there a second too long, and I have to resist the sudden, irrational urge to reach out and wipe them away. Get it together, Carrie.

"Okay, well, now I’m really looking forward to tonight," I manage, sliding out of the booth. I glance at the growing line of customers. "I need to get back."

Joel stands, his large frame almost dwarfing the booth. "Take it easy. And… thanks again, sugar," he says sincerely.

As I walk away, something gnaws at me. He’s so clearly worried about Ellie, and I can’t stand to leave him without telling him how great he’s doing. On impulse, I turn around and pick up the pace to catch him near the door. “Joel,” I call after him. 

He halts then turns, eyes softening as they meet mine. "Yeah?" he asks.

I clear my throat, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. "You’re a wonderful father. Ellie is intelligent, beautiful, and healthy. I can’t say for certain if she is happy. But, what teenage girl is? All I know is that her love for you is unmistakable,” I ramble, grateful that I spoke low enough that only he hears me.

Joel’s half-smile deepens into something softer, tinged with gratitude or maybe relief. "That’s real sweet of ya, Carrington," he says, his voice low and warm, making my heart stutter.

I shrug, trying to ignore the heat creeping into my cheeks. "It's just the truth. You’re a good person, Joel. Anyone can see it."

He chuckles quietly, almost self-deprecating, glancing down as if unsure what to do with the compliment. A customer clearing their throat pulls him back, and he steps aside.

"Thank ya," he murmurs, barely audible at first. Then, louder, "Hell, I needed that."

"I know," I say, smiling. "I'll see you tonight."

I wave, spinning on my toes and floating toward the counter. Behind me, Joel’s voice calls out, lighter now, almost playful. "See ya later, sugar."

The door jingles as someone leaves and when I turn around, he’s gone. His cologne lingering like a whisper. I close my eyes briefly, committing the moment to memory before forcing myself to focus on the growing line of customers.

Tonight cannot come soon enough.

tysm for reading!! here's the next chapter if you can't get enough sugar.

"Welcome to The Austin. I assume you have a reservation?" The host’s voice is polished, crisp, and practiced—the perfect balance of professionalism and mild disinterest. Of course, we have a reservation.

This isn't the kind of place you just walk into. The Austin is one of Chicago’s most exclusive restaurants, the type people name-drop to prove they've made it. It's rumored to be gunning for a Michelin star, and judging by the sleek decor and the low hum of conversation behind frosted glass dividers, they’re probably close.

Reservations are nearly impossible to get unless you're someone like my best friend, Madeline Crown. With golden hair cascading in effortless waves and a beauty that makes people pause mid-sentence, Madi is high society. She moves through the world with the kind of confidence that makes you believe doors open simply because she asks.

"Yes," Madi says, leaning in slightly, her smile warm and calculated. "It’s my best friend’s birthday, and we have a reservation under Madeline Crown."

Before I can process what she's just done, she pulls me forward, the reluctant twenty-sixth birthday girl.

I stumble slightly, nearly tripping on the hem of my dress. "Ah, yes, that would be me," I mumble, raising a weak wave. The cheap plastic tiara shifts on my head, and I fidget with it, resisting the urge to rip it off. Madi insisted I wear it, along with the sash that now feels less like a fun accessory and more like a flashing neon sign.

The host, a young man with perfectly styled hair and the detached air of someone who deals with people like Madi daily, offers a polite, practiced smile. "Many happy returns," he mutters, already tapping on the sleek tablet in front of him. "Just the three of you, Ms. Crown?" He barely glances at me before flicking his gaze behind us for confirmation.

That phrase, just three, sends a sharp pang through my chest.

It's been five hundred seventy-six days since my mom died in a car accident. For that long, I've been trying to survive without her. My dad is some unknown face and name to me but my mom was everything. My anchor. And now, as an only child, I'm left adrift, clinging to whatever family I can create for myself.

Madi and Nic are that family. My lifeline. I couldn’t bring myself to ask for much this year. That’s why today is just lunch. Quiet. Simple.

We’ve been a trio since boarding school at Saint Joan of Arc Academy. An expensive exile for kids whose parents wanted them out of the way. I got in on a scholarship at eleven, suddenly surrounded by weekend chauffeurs and lavish shopping trips. Madi was already queen bee at twelve. Nic was being groomed for politics at fifteen. We weren’t meant to be friends, but somehow we clicked. The nasty combination of boredom and trauma will do that to you, I guess.

"Yes, just the three of us," Madi confirms breezily. 

"And somewhere discreet," Nic adds, his voice smooth but firm.

Nic, the final member of our trio, shifts beside me. Dressed in a dark tailored suit, with every strand of hair perfectly combed, he looks like he belongs in GQ. However, the way his sharp eyes flick toward the entrance betrays his calm demeanor. He hates attention as much as I do, but avoiding it is impossible.

He is Nicolas Lec, the youngest state senator in Illinois history. A walking headline and a magnet for cameras. It doesn’t help that he and Madi have been the subject of countless tabloid articles, their friendship often mistaken for something more.

"Right this way," the host says, snapping me out of my thoughts as he grabs a few menus and gestures for us to follow.

My feet carry me forward automatically, trailing behind Madi, who stops to exchange pleasantries with someone she probably doesn’t remember but will pretend to. I barely register her words as I brush past, following the host. Behind me, Nicolas moves in measured steps.

The restaurant sits atop a sleek downtown building, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing a breathtaking view of the Chicago skyline. Below us, the streets are alive, day drinkers spilling onto sidewalks, clad in red, white, and blue, celebrating the other reason for today’s occasion. But from up here, they look like scattered confetti.

Sunlight floods the room, bouncing off crystal glasses and polished silverware. The faint scent of steak and butter lingers in the air. My shoulders tense slightly as we weave through the tables, the effortless elegance of the fabulously wealthy pressing in around me.

I’m not exactly broke. My bakery’s just started turning a profit, but moments like this remind me of the stark divide between me and people like Madi and Nic. My mom left me twenty-grand while Madi and Nic come from families that have millions. If not for my mom’s accidental death life insurance policy, I’d still be a nurse. After she died, I decided to only do things that didn't drain me. Turning my hobby into a business seemed like the right move but now, sitting here, surrounded by wealth and privilege, the separation feels like a slap in the face.

We reach a square table tucked in a corner, secluded enough to make Nic comfortable while still in view of the restaurant. He steps forward, pulling out the chair closest to the window for me.

"Thanks," I say, sliding into the seat as the city skyline stretches behind me like a postcard.

The host sets the menus down with the same efficiency he’s maintained since we arrived. "Your server will be with you shortly," he says smoothly before stepping away.

"Appreciate it," Nic replies, taking the seat next to me, his back to the majority of the room. He exhales deeply, shoulders loosening as he finally relaxes.

Madi breezes in a moment later, dropping into the chair across from us with a dramatic sigh. "What’d I miss?" she huffs, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Nic and I exchange a glance, rolling our eyes in perfect unison. "Literally nothing," I say, a teasing smile tugging at my lips as I open my menu. "We just sat down."

A few minutes pass as we scan the options. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Madi’s perfectly manicured fingers tapping against the table, her sparkling purple polish gleaming under the natural lighting. It’s so dazzling it practically demands attention.

"This place is to die for. What’s everyone getting?" she asks, her voice a mix of genuine excitement and her usual dramatic flair. Her wide smile makes it clear she’s in her element.

I furrow my brows, flipping between the sides and appetizers, hoping for something to stand out. No such luck. "Why’d you bring me to a place with no fries on my birthday?" I shoot back, glaring over the menu’s edge.

Nic snorts, sliding his menu across the table. "They’ve got baked potatoes," he says, pointing at the page like he’s solved a crisis. His tone’s calm but laced with a hint of smugness, like I should be grateful for this revelation.

I push the menu back toward him, unimpressed. "I hate to break it to you, darling, but that’s not remotely the same as french fries," I counter, raising an eyebrow.

Madi throws her hands up in mock surrender, her sparkly nails catching the light again. "It’s still a potato. I just assumed you’d be content with any potato," she replies defensively, though amusement lingers in her voice.

Leaning back, I press my fingers to my temples, rubbing away my frustration. "Yeah, but I don’t even like steak, and here we are, at a steakhouse on my birthday. You know what? Forget it. I’m getting Wendy’s after—"

I stop mid-sentence as a server approaches, pulling myself up short. Even in my irritation, I don’t want to be loud or rude, especially when they’ve been so accommodating to Nic’s presence.

The server, a brunette dressed sharply in the restaurant’s all-black uniform, stops just shy of the table. Her smile is bright and professional. "Welcome to The Austin. My name’s Victoria, and I’ll be your waitress today. Can I get you all started with something to drink?" Her tone’s cheerful and practiced.

I straighten up, ready to reply, but Madi speaks first. "Three margaritas, and keep ‘em coming," she says confidently, not even glancing at the drink menu.

Victoria nods, her smile unwavering. "I’ll be right back with those for you." She turns on her heel and disappears toward the bar.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Nic turns toward Madi, his brows drawing together in disapproval. "I can’t drink on the job, Mads," he scolds, his voice low and annoyed.

Madi shrugs, her signature smirk creeping across her face. "Well, what a relief no one needs to know but the three of us, golden boy," she teases, twirling a finger in lazy circles on the table.

Nic scoffs, crossing his arms. "Oh, fuck off. I'm not golden," he mutters, defensive but laced with exasperated humor.

I shake my head, patting his arm. "No, you're not. You’ve just become Mr. Americana to the rest of the world. But don’t worry, we know who you really are," I say, hoping to lighten the mood before anyone starts noticing the tension.

Nic’s hazel eyes crinkle as he breaks into a reluctant smile. "Thank you, Carrington," he says, warm and teasing as his body relaxes slightly.

And just like that, the moment sours. The full name he knows I hate. God, the government name. It’s like nails on a chalkboard. How the fuck did Madi ever date him? Even though it was in school, I can’t help but gag every time I think about them kissing.

I pull my hand back, arching an eyebrow. "How many times do I have to remind you to stop calling me that?" My tone’s sharper than I intended.

Nic leans back, grinning. "You might want to ask my assistant about that. I wouldn’t know," he jokes, looking way too pleased with himself.

I clench my fist under the table, resisting the urge to smack him. Not in public, and definitely not in a place that’d kick me out in seconds.

Victoria returns with our drinks, placing a margarita in front of each of us. I take a long sip, the tart lime cutting through my irritation. "What can I get you to eat today?" she asks, glancing between Madi and me, pen poised over her notepad.

Madi jumps in immediately, her enthusiasm infectious. I almost don’t notice the prices glaring at me from the menu. Almost. My stomach tightens as I scan the entrees again. None are under two hundred dollars, and I haven’t eaten since I had one of the fudge brownies my staff made for my birthday. I can’t drink on an empty stomach, but I also can’t justify spending this much.

Almost as if he can read my mind, Nic leans closer and murmurs, "Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it," so only I hear him. 

I shake my head quickly, closing the gap between us. "No. Fuck no," I whisper fiercely. He could put it on his card, sure, but I’d still be compelled to Venmo him afterward.

He flashes a toothy grin, confidence unwavering. "It’s your birthday, and you’re not paying so order whatever you want," he says firmly before turning to Victoria to place his order.

I exhale quietly, frustrated but grateful, and glance back down at the menu. If nothing else, at least the margarita’s strong enough to make me forget the awkwardness of being the broke friend for a little while.

Nic’s deep voice hums like a distant bassline as I scan the menu again. The words blur slightly, each option teasing with indulgence. Finally, I settle on the scallops and rice, hoping it’ll live up to the restaurant’s reputation and shift my mood. Victoria glides over to take my order, her smile unwavering. I try to sound confident, even though a small knot of doubt twists in my stomach.

Two rounds of drinks later, Victoria reappears, balancing a tray of appetizers with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. She sets down plates of decadent dishes and smiles warmly. "These are compliments of the chef," she says, light but professional. "He wanted you to have a taste of some of his favorites for your birthday."

Madi perks up immediately, eyes gleaming with something far too mischievous. Nic exhales through his nose, shaking his head like he already knows where this is going.

"Oh, how lovely," Madi coos, entirely too pleased, picking up an oyster and tilting her head dramatically. "The chef must be quite thoughtful. Tell him we said ‘thank you.’"

Nic raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Good man," he says, leaning back.

I blink, glancing at the food. "That’s... incredibly generous of him. Please thank him for us," I manage, trying not to sound as stunned and confused as I feel.

The aromas pull my focus back to the table. The mussels are decent, the oysters smooth but unremarkable. Though, the escargot is something else entirely. Rich, garlicky butter soaks into crisp breadcrumbs, crunching against soft sourdough. The first bite is an explosion of flavor that makes me momentarily forget I’m eating a snail. The second is indulgent. By the third, I don’t care who’s watching.

Nic and Madi exchange amused glances as I scrape the plate clean, spoon chasing every last trace of sauce. "Should we order more?" Nic asks, his tone casual yet knowing.

I shake my head, laughing softly. "No, I’m finished." But I have to actively restrain myself from licking the plate.

Before our meals arrive, a waiter approaches with a fresh cocktail in hand. Instead of setting it down immediately, he presents a small cream-colored envelope along with it, the restaurant’s logo embossed in gold.

I frown, glancing between Madi and Nic. "What is this?"

Madi leans in, eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement. "Oh, how intriguing."

Nic barely looks up from his phone now in his hand, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Maybe it’s my lawyer sending my cease and desist to you. You’ve been terrorizing me for years."

I scoff and unfold the thick cardstock. "Happy Birthday, beautiful. Hope your afternoon is as lovely as you are. -J" I blink, my grip tightening slightly around the note.

"Who the hell is J?" I murmur, pulse kicking up half a beat. My mind races, but I come up empty. I don’t know a ‘J’. I don’t even know anyone who works here. And yet… the words on the card are undeniably charming.

Before I can question it further, our entrees arrive, stealing my attention. The presentation is theatrical, the waiter reciting ingredients and techniques like a poet delivering a sonnet. It feels extravagant, almost performative, but no one else seems to mind.

My scallops and rice are placed in front of me with reverence, the plate looking like an edible masterpiece. Madi leans in for a photo, carefully angling her phone for the perfect shot, while Nic wastes no time digging into his steak. I follow his lead, setting aside the card with eagerness to taste what I ordered.

The first bite is a rude awakening. The scallops are tough, their delicate flesh now charred and bitter. The rice, promising an infusion of flavors, is bland and dry, like it gave up halfway through the cooking process. My mouth rebels, and I force myself to swallow before quickly reaching for my margarita.

Nic notices, brows furrowing as he tilts his head. "The fuck’s the matter with you?" he asks, voice low enough to avoid drawing attention but sharp enough to cut through the restaurant’s ambient noise.

I shake my head, plastering on a weak smile and draining the last of my drink. "Nothing," I murmur, avoiding his eyes. I should be grateful just to be here. A place like this is leagues beyond what I can afford.

Madi’s gaze darts between Nic and me before she jumps in, her tone a mix of annoyance and authority. "It’s not nothing. If you don’t like the food, they’ll remake it," she says, gesturing pointedly toward something—or someone—in the room. "Look, here comes the owner."

My eyes sweep across the dining area, searching for whoever Madi is referring to. The moment I spot him, the air shifts.

He moves like he owns the place. Not just because he does, but because he looks like someone built from grit and control. Broad shoulders, strong build, tan skin, rolled-up sleeves revealing scarred forearms. The chef’s jacket clings to him in all the right ways. His hair is thick, streaked with silver, messy in a way that makes it worse. Better. Dangerous.

Then he looks up.

His eyes are deep, unreadable, and I swear they hold every hard thing he has ever survived. There is no smile. No need. He radiates something heavy, calm, masculine, sharp. Like a war god in an apron.

And I forget how to breathe.

"Lec. Mrs. Crown," he greets, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble with a slow Texas drawl. "Good to see y’all again. Appreciate the support."

It is then I realize I have been staring, caught somewhere between admiration and outright ogling. That is a beautiful specimen of a man.

"The thanks is all mine to give, Chef Miller," Nic says, his usual authority softened by rare gratitude. "The catering you did for my election gala? Best in the city. People still talk about it."

So, this is the famous chef they've been raving about. The one whose cooking supposedly won over my best friends while I was nowhere to be found. That night, I was drowning in the chaos of finalizing my mom’s affairs, my grief so consuming that the idea of facing a gala or even a five-star meal felt impossible. Nic never pushed me to go and I was grateful he understood.

Chef Miller listens to Nic’s praise without a trace of false modesty. He gives a slow nod, like he is used to people complimenting his work but doesn't let it go to his head. "Glad to hear it, Senator," he says, voice steady but distant, as if his mind is only halfway in the conversation. He avoids eye contact for a moment, his fingers flexing slightly at his side. Then, as if shaking off a thought, his attention shifts to Madi.

"Everything tastin’ good, Ms. Crown?" he asks, raising a brow. It softens his otherwise rugged features, though it does nothing to diminish his intensity.

Madi lights up under his gaze, straightening as if about to be crowned queen. "Mine? Absolutely," she says, her voice saccharine and deliberate. Then she glances sideways at me, her lips curving into a slow, knowing grin. "But Carrie’s? Not so much."

I freeze as her words land like a spotlight aimed directly at me.

Chef Miller’s gaze follows her gesture, locking onto me with an intensity that sends a slow, simmering heat through my spine. His brown eyes, dark and sharp, flick over my face, quiet and assessing. His skin, golden and sun-warmed, hints that he spends more time outdoors than in a kitchen.

"Joel, meet the birthday girl I've told you about, Carrington Scott," Madi announces with dramatic flair, like my introduction is meant to change the course of history.

My breath catches as I process both her words and the man standing in front of me. Joel Miller is overwhelming, not just because of his commanding presence or how good he looks, but because of the way he looks at me. It's not just a glance. It's piercing, deliberate, like he's seeing me in a way that makes my heart pound a little too fast.

His gaze lingers, unapologetic, and I swear he's cataloging every detail. The way my fingers fidget in my lap, the flush creeping up my cheeks, the way my breath hitches. Giving a bad review is hard enough, but giving one in person? To a man like him? Borderline impossible.

"Hi," I manage to squeak out, raising a hand in a small, awkward wave.

Joel’s eyes narrow slightly as they flick down to my plate before lifting back up, his expression unreadable. His stare is heavy, enough to make my brain fog. Then, just when I think I have caught a reprieve, he pins me with it again.

I let my hand crumble and fall into my lap. "You don't like the scallops, sugar?" His deep, gravelly voice drips with Southern charm, and the casual endearment slides off his tongue so effortlessly it makes my heart stutter.

Oh, fuck off. The man might be devastatingly gorgeous, but some of his food is awful. Still, the way he says sugar leaves me clinging to every syllable like my life depends on it. I square my shoulders, forcing myself to push past whatever spell he just cast over me.

"Or the rice," I say, my tone steady despite the warmth creeping up my neck.

Joel’s eyebrows lift slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Nobody’s ever complained about my cookin’,” he says, a touch of disbelief edging into challenge. “What’s wrong with it?”

I clear my throat, sliding the plate closer. “It’s dry and burnt,” I say plainly, then gesture for him to come take a look.

His shoes thud softly as he steps forward, closing the space between us. He leans down, shoulders brushing the back of my chair, and suddenly I feel boxed in. The faint scent of smoke and cedar clings to him, and I breathe it in before I can stop myself.

I motion to the scallops, my voice quieter. “Look.”

Joel leans closer, his arm brushing past me to rest on the table, chest nearly grazing my shoulder. The heat of him is distracting.

His brows knit together as he studies the plate. Then, with a quiet grunt, he lifts it. “I’m sorry ‘bout that,” he says, voice lower now, almost gentle. “Can I get you somethin’ else, Ms. Scott?”

The way he says my last name shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

I shake my head, thinking through the menu. “No, it’s fine. I don’t really like anything else on here.”

Joel frowns, not buying it. “It’s your birthday, sugar. I’m not sendin’ you out hungry.”

Before I can think better of it, I reach out and touch his forearm. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, muscles tightening under the contact. “I’m not upset,” I say softly. “I wouldn’t lie.”

His eyes drop to my hand, then back to my face. The look he gives me is quiet, heavy, unreadable. But it sears straight through me.

I pull my hand back as Victoria appears to refill drinks, her chipper voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Joel straightens, handing her the plate without a word, but when she steps away, his eyes are back on me.

“Why don’t you come back to the kitchen with me?” he asks, voice smooth, almost coaxing. “My sous chef made that but I’ll whip up somethin’ just for you.”

The suggestion feels less like an offer and more like a dare. My cheeks flush. “No, that’s alright,” I say quickly. “We’re leaving soon anyway.” The white lie burns in my throat.

He studies me for a beat, then gives a small nod, hands raised in surrender. “Alright,” he says, a hint of something teasing in his voice. “If you change your mind, just let Victoria know.”

Then he turns to the group, his voice steady and composed. “Y’all have a good time celebratin'. Hope to see you again soon.”

Nic and Madi both murmur goodbyes like they’ve just encountered some divine figure. And then he’s gone—broad shoulders disappearing through the kitchen door, leaving the space around me buzzing.

I exhale, but it does nothing to cool the heat in my skin. 

When I glance at Madi, she’s staring at me like I just insulted her in public. She shoves her plate aside with the force of someone preparing to fight. “I’m going to murder you,” she announces, too calm for comfort.

My head jerks back so fast I'm one vertebra away from whiplash. "What? Why?"  

She sighs and takes a long sip of her margarita, then slams the glass down like she means business.

“That was your birthday gift, you dumbass.” Her glare could level buildings. “You think we didn’t know they don’t serve fries? They don’t need fries. They have Joel Miller. Fine-ass, single, definitely-into-you, Chef Joel Miller.” Her voice rises. “He was practically drooling on your shoulder, and you just sat there like a statue!"

Joel Miller. The hot, single chef. Into me?

"What?" I repeat, because apparently my brain has decided to go on strike.  

Madi groans like she's physically in pain. “I was trying to set you up with the sexy. Single. Chef. I told him about you at Nic's gala and he asked to meet you. That man was giving serious signals. He’s like the blue-collar Timothée Chalamet, but with muscles and home improvement skills.”  

Nic leans back, arms crossed, watching me like a car crash. “Does she need flashcards, or is she just frozen?” he asks Madi sarcastically.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I mutter, “Buffering. Please hold.”

"Well, you don’t have time to buffer,” Madi snaps, slapping the table. “We’re ditching you while they flip for dinner, and you’re going back there. You’re going to let that man make you something. Just the two of you. And then—” she leans in, eyes gleaming, “you’re gonna let him whip you up... later. At home," she demands, referencing Joel’s words just moments ago.

My body combusts on the spot. “Madi!” I hiss, horrified. Half the restaurant turns. Lowering my voice, I add, “I’m not ready for that.”

Time seems to freeze and the moment hangs in the air way too long for my liking. Then, Madi's face softens, the scheming energy melts away. "Oh, Carrie," she says gently, her hand reaching out to cover mine.  

The words spill out of me before I can stop them. "I just... I haven't been with anyone since my mom died. It's like—like there's this invisible wall, and every time I think about dating, I remember she’ll never meet him, and it's just... crushing. I don't even know where to start." My voice shakes, tears threatening.

Nic clears his throat. “Told you this was a bad idea,” he mutters.

Madi’s whole face folds with regret. “I’m sorry. I pushed too hard. Forgive me?” she pleads with puppy dog eyes.

I tuck a curl behind my ear, breath shaky. “It’s fine. Really. Can we just... change the subject?”

Madi, never one to dwell, immediately perks up. "Yes! Okay!" She claps her hands like an excited toddler. "You know what? Redo gift. Let's go shopping down Magnificent Mile. On me so you get to shop all the stores, none of the guilt."  

A grin starts to creep onto my face. Hours of wandering through overpriced boutiques and mocking terrible designer trends? Now that I can get behind. "Deal."  

Nic, already standing, smiles as he pushes his chair in. "I have to go but you two have fun. I'll see you this weekend. Oh, and happy birthday, Care. I'll cover the bill on my way out."  

"You're the best!" I call after him, my gratitude outweighing my embarrassment for my full name.  

Nic pauses at the partition separating us from the general population, shooting me a wink. "Anytime, sugar."  

Madi immediately grabs her chest and fake-retches like she's just been poisoned. "Why is it," she says, voice dripping with melodrama, "that when Joel does it, my panties evaporate, but when Nic does it, I want to throw my shoe at him?"  

"Ditto," I say, draining the last of my drink and grabbing my purse.  

Happy freakin' birthday to me.

thank you for reading if you made it this far! here's the next chapter.

This is my first fanfic, and it's been a long time coming (word to Taylor Swift). Three years, a full rewrite, and a lot of growth later, I'm finally ready to share it. The characters are mostly from TLOU2 during the early Jackson era, but I've played with the ages to make the dynamics work. Yes, that still includes giving Joel a controversially young and hot love interest. There's no outbreak in this world, but Sarah still dies, and it still hurts. Please check the trigger warnings before each chapter because they're there for a reason. Whether you're new or returning from the original draft, thank you for reading.

꒰FACECLAIMS꒱

thirty-seven

chef, restaurant owner, & millionaire

twenty-six

baker & bakery owner

fourteen

high school freshman

fifteen

high school sophomore

bakery employee

thirty-two

chef, restaurant co-owner, & millionaire

twenty-five

barista & coffee shop owner

thirty

senator, nepo baby, & millionaire

twenty-seven

influencer, nepo baby, & millionaire

The journey to Nicholas’ grandparents’ house is filled with quiet anticipation. We haven’t visited in a while, not since Colette was born. I can’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness at the thought of introducing Colette to her great-grandparents, Nick SR and Betty. Nicholas always speaks of them with such affection, often recounting tales from his childhood spent at their cozy home. They were instrumental in raising him, and their influence is deeply ingrained in who he’s become. Now, I’m eager to see how they’ll respond to our little family, especially to me as a new mother.

The sun is high in the sky as we pull into the gravel driveway, which crunches under the tires. The house is a charming, white colonial-style home with flower boxes beneath the windows, bursting with vibrant blooms. It looks like something out of a postcard—quaint and welcoming. Nicholas squeezes my hand as he turns off the car.

“You ready for this?” he asks, his brown eyes twinkling with excitement.

I smile, though my heart races. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I respond unwilling to let his hand go for the last time.

I eventually gain enough strength to go a second without touching him. We both step out of the car, and I unbuckle Colette from her car seat, carefully lifting her into my arms. She’s dressed in a soft, pastel onesie with tiny flowers embroidered on the front. Her big espresso colored eyes, so much like Nicholas’, blink up at me as she squirms a little in my hold. I kiss her soft forehead, breathing in that sweet baby scent that always seems to calm my nerves.

Before we even reach the front door, it flies open, and Betty appears on the porch. Her face lights up in a radiant smile as she hurries down the steps toward us. She’s a small woman, but she moves with surprising speed and agility, her silver hair tied back in a loose bun.

“There she is! Oh, it’s about time!” Betty exclaims, ignoring Nicholas entirely as she comes straight for me and Colette. Her arms are wide open, and she pulls me into a hug, careful not to crush the baby between us. “You, my darling, look even more beautiful than the last time I saw you. And this precious girl…” Her voice trails off as she gazes at Colette with shining eyes. “Oh, she’s just perfect.”

I laugh softly, returning her hug. “I’ve missed you, Mrs. Betty and thank you.”

Betty steps back, her hands still on my arms, her attention fully on Colette. “No, thank you! You brought another little angel into our family,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “You’ve made me the happiest great-grandmother.”

Nicholas, standing off to the side, grins as he watches the scene unfold. “Hey, Grandma,” he chimes in, clearly amused. “Good to see you too.”

Betty waves a hand in his direction without even glancing his way. “Yes, yes, Nicholas. We’ll get to you in a minute.” Her eyes shimmer as she reaches out to gently stroke Colette’s chubby cheek. “She’s absolutely precious,” she coos. “She looks just like Nicholas did when he was a baby.”

Just then, Nicholas’ grandfather steps out onto the porch, his tall frame casting a shadow as he approaches us. His blue eyes light up when he sees me holding Colette. “Well, if it isn’t our favorite girl,” he says with a warm grin, pulling me into a quick hug before peering down at Colette. “And look at this—another beauty in the family. You’ve done well,” he adds, giving Nicholas a nod of approval before clapping him on the shoulder.

“Well she is 50% of me so…” Nicholas’s twinge of jealousy for his favorite girls peeks out.

“Oh, hush, Nicholas,” Betty replies, waving a hand at him dismissively before turning to me again. “Come on, dear, let’s get you inside. You must be exhausted after the drive. And you must let me hold this precious girl as soon as you’re settled.”

Inside the house, the smell of freshly baked bread wafts through the air, mingling with the scent of herbs and flowers. The living room is cozy and welcoming, filled with family photos and knick-knacks that speak of years of love and memories. There are pictures of Nick as a little boy, his brother, and even one of us on our wedding day.

Betty leads us to the couch, offering to take Colette for a little while so I can rest. “She’s such a calm baby,” Betty remarks as she cradles Colette in her arms. “I remember Nicholas being a little firecracker at this age—always kicking and fussing. But you, my dear, are an angel, aren’t you?” she coos, her voice full of love as Colette blinks up at her.

Nick Sr. settles into an armchair nearby, watching with a contented smile. “Betty’s right,” he says, his voice warm. “Nick was a handful. Always running around and getting into trouble. I don’t know how we managed to keep up with him.”

Nicholas chuckles, settling beside me on the couch and wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, I’ve heard those stories a few times.”

“I bet you have,” Betty says, her eyes twinkling. “But look at you now—such a wonderful father and husband. We’re so proud of you.”

My heart swells at their words, and I feel a wave of gratitude wash over me. It’s clear how much they love Nicholas and how deeply they cherish their family. Their affection extends to me as well, making me feel welcomed in a way that eases the nervousness I had felt earlier.

Betty carefully passes Colette back to me, and I can’t help but notice how her eyes linger on us—on the way I hold my daughter, the way Colette nuzzles into me. After a moment, she glances at Nick Sr., sharing a look that seems to speak volumes.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Betty says suddenly, rising from her seat with a bright smile. “We have something to show you.”

She disappears into another room, returning moments later with a large, leather-bound photo album. She hands it to Nicholas with a wide grin. “These are pictures of you when you were about Colette’s age. I thought it’d be fun to compare.”

Nicholas takes the album and begins flipping through the pages, his eyes lighting up as he sees the photos. “Oh wow,” he says, pointing to a picture of himself as a baby, bundled in a blanket. “Look at that, she really does look like me.”

I lean over to see the photo, and sure enough, the resemblance is striking. Colette has inherited her father’s dark hair and expressive eyes, and there’s something about the way she smiles that’s undeniably Nicholas Chavez.

Betty beams. “She’s got that same spark in her eyes that you had. And those cheeks! I could pinch them all day.”

I can’t help but smile as Nicholas flips through more photos—Nicholas as a toddler, covered in mud from head to toe; Nicholas on his first day of school, looking serious and determined; Nicholas holding a toy sword, pretending to be a knight. It’s clear that his grandparents were there for all of it, capturing every moment with care.

“Look at this one,” Nicholas says, laughing as he holds up a picture of himself as a toddler, sitting in a high chair with spaghetti sauce smeared all over his face.

Betty chuckles. “You loved spaghetti. Still do, if I remember correctly.”

As we continue to flip through the album, Betty excuses herself and motions for me to follow her into the kitchen. I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what she wants to talk about, but her kind smile reassures me.

Once we’re alone, she turns to me, her expression soft and full of understanding. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re doing a wonderful job, Y/N,” she says, her voice gentle. “Being a new mom is hard, and it can feel overwhelming sometimes. But from what I’ve seen, you’re handling it beautifully.”

I feel a lump form in my throat at her words, the unexpected kindness bringing a surge of emotion. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “It’s been… challenging at times. I have moments where I wonder if I’m doing it right.”

Betty reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it gently. “Those moments of doubt are normal. Every mother feels them. But you have such a natural way with Colette. She feels safe and loved with you—that’s the most important thing.”

I nod, blinking back tears. “It’s just… sometimes I feel like I should be able to do more. I get so tired, and Nick’s been amazing, but…” I trail off, stopping myself from revealing my biggest insecurities.

Betty’s eyes soften even more. “It’s okay to ask for help, dear. You don’t have to do it all on your own. If you ever need anything—advice, a break, someone to talk to—you can always come to me. I’m here for you, and so is Nicholas. We’re all family now,” she offers.

Her words wrap around me like a comforting embrace, and for the first time in a while, I feel a sense of relief. “Thank you,” I whisper, grateful beyond words.

Betty smiles and gives my hand another gentle squeeze. “You’re doing wonderfully. Just remember to take care of yourself too, okay?”

I nod, my heart swelling with appreciation for this woman who has welcomed me into her family with open arms. As we walk back into the living room, I feel lighter, the weight of my doubts lifting just a little.

Nicholas looks up as we enter, his eyes softening as they meet mine. “Everything okay?” he asks, his brow furrowing slightly in concern.

I smile, feeling a warmth spread through me. “Yeah,” I say softly. “Everything’s perfect.”

As the afternoon fades into evening, Betty leans forward with a warm smile, her hands clasped in her lap. “It’s been so wonderful having you all here today,” she says, her eyes soft as she looks between Nicholas, me, and Colette. “Why don’t you stay the night? It’s been far too long since we’ve had a full house, and we’d love the chance to spend more time with you.”

Nicholas turns to me, his voice gentle as he asks, “What do you think? We don’t have anywhere to rush off to, and it would give me a break from driving back tonight.”

I hesitate for a moment, weighing the offer. I think about Colette’s bedtime routine, the packed bags in the car, and my own exhaustion. But as I glance around at the warmth of the house, Nick’s grandparents’ eager faces, and the calmness that seems to settle over everything, I feel myself relax. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a change of scenery, and the idea of spending more time here—surrounded by family—sounds like exactly what I need.

“That sounds wonderful,” I say, smiling at Betty. “Thank you. We’d love to stay.”

Betty’s face lights up, and Nick Sr. nods with a wide grin. “Perfect,” he says. “We’ve got the guest room ready, and I can set up the bassinet in the guest room next to it. It’ll be like old times, having a little one in the house again.”

Betty stands, already making her way toward the kitchen. “I’ll put some tea on for later. You two make yourselves at home.”

Nicholas squeezes my hand, a smile spreading across his face. “See? It’s going to be a nice, quiet night—just us, Colette, and the best grandparents ever.”

The evening unfolds comfortably from there. Betty and Nick Sr. share stories about Nick’s childhood over cups of tea, their voices light with laughter and nostalgia. As the night deepens, we finally make our way to the guest room. It’s cozy and inviting, with a soft bedspread, and warm lighting.

Colette falls asleep easily after nursing, making for an easy bedtime routine. Nicholas and I kiss her on the forehead goodnight once we’ve got her situated in the bassinet. We separate briefly to prep for bed and when I’m finished, I crack open the door to the en-suite bathroom.

Nicholas looks up from a script, setting it to the side of the bedside table. My feet patter over to him and he pulls back the duvet for me to climb in. “I’m so tired,” I note as I slide between the sheets.

He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me closer to his body. “I know, baby. Maybe my grandparents will watch her in the morning so we can sleep in,” he theorizes lowly, but I can still feel the bass of his voice rumbling from his chest into my back.

I sigh, letting my eyes flutter closed. It’s been an emotional day, and I’m ready for sleep. “It’s okay if they can’t. I love you,” I whisper.

“I love you too, Y/N,” he breathes out with his lips kissing my ear one last time.

My body lets me drift into sleep, hearing nothing but Nicholas’ breathing and the faint sound of crickets outside. But that peace is eventually interrupted by the familiar sound of Colette’s soft cry filling the quiet room.

I blink awake, momentarily disoriented, unsure of where I am. The dimly lit room feels unfamiliar, and for a brief, groggy moment, I can’t remember how we ended up here. But then the memories come rushing back—the visit to Nick’s grandparents, Betty’s kind words, the warmth of the evening.

With a heavy sigh, I sit up in bed, my body aching with fatigue. I haven’t gotten nearly enough sleep, and Colette’s cries, though soft, feel like they’re pulling me out of the little bit of rest I’ve managed. The sheets feel cold, and for the first time tonight, I realize Nick’s arms aren’t wrapped around me as they usually are.

The bed dips beneath me, and I hear the soft thud of feet padding across the floor. “Shit,” Nicholas mutters under his breath as he comes into view. I lift my head, watching him groggily fumble with the baby monitor to turn down the volume.

His chocolate tinted eyes meet mine in the dimly lit room, his face softened with a sleepy smile. “I got it, baby. Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, his voice thick and gravelly.

I don’t resist as my head falls back onto the pillow. Nicholas tucks the duvet around my shoulders, his touch warm and reassuring, and leans down to kiss my forehead before slipping out of the room.

As my eyes flutter shut once again, I can’t help but feel immense gratitude for him—for understanding, for seeing me. Nicholas has always been an amazing partner, but since Colette was born, something has deepened. Maybe it's the way he’s embraced fatherhood, those tender daddy traits emerging in him day by day.

I don’t know how long I drift in and out of sleep before the bed dips once more. This time, I turn over to face Nicholas, only to find him kneeling on top of the duvet, cradling Colette in his arms. He gently rocks her, and his brown eyes, full of apology, meet mine. “I'm sorry, babe,” he says softly. “She’s hungry, and I checked the fridge and my Grandma must’ve given her the rest. We’re out of pumped milk,” he gives his valid reason for disturbing me.

With a tired sigh, I push myself up, scooting back against the headboard. “It’s okay,” I reply, motioning for Nicholas to hand Colette to me. “It’s not your fault I don’t pump fast enough for her.”

Nicholas shifts closer, still kneeling, his eyes warm with reassurance. “It’s not your fault either, baby girl,” he says tenderly. “You’re doing everything right. She’s just got my appetite, that’s all.”

Nick’s words bring a smile to my face as I take our little girl in my arms, feeling the love and support that radiates from him. Colette’s small body relaxes the moment she’s nestled in my arms, and I adjust my position to help her latch on. Instinctively, her tiny mouth finds its way, and I feel that familiar pull as she begins to nurse. The room is quiet now, save for the soft sounds of her feeding and the gentle rustle of the duvet as Nicholas shifts beside me, sitting back in his spot where he just laid.

The weight of exhaustion still presses heavily on my body, but there's something calming about this moment—something intimate and grounding. Colette’s little hand rests against my skin, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling as she nurses. Despite the tiredness, I feel a sense of peace wash over me.

Nicholas watches us, his expression soft and filled with admiration. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from my face, his touch tender. "You’re amazing, you know that?" he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath in the dark.

I smile faintly, my heart swelling at his words, but before I can respond, he continues, his eyes never leaving mine. "I don’t tell you enough how much I love you... both of you." His gaze flickers to Colette, his eyes warm and full of adoration. "Watching you with her... seeing how strong you are, how much you give every day. You’ve made me the luckiest man in the world, Y/N."

His words sink into me, wrapping around my heart like a warm blanket. The weight of my earlier guilt begins to lift, replaced by the quiet assurance that I’m not alone in this. We’re a team, navigating the highs and lows together.

"I love you too," I murmur, my voice thick with emotion as I glance down at Colette, her soft breaths steady against me. "And I’m so grateful for you. I couldn’t do this without you."

Nicholas leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead, lingering for a moment as if sealing the promise of his words. "You’re the best mom, you know that? And she’s lucky to have you," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my skin.

I close my eyes, soaking in the warmth of his presence and feeling the steady rhythm of Colette’s nursing. In this moment, the exhaustion, the doubts, and the guilt of my postpartum depression fade into the background, leaving only the love we share—the love that brought Colette into our lives.

Nicholas settles back into bed beside me, his hand resting gently on my leg, a silent reminder that we’re in this together. And as Colette’s soft suckling continues, I let myself fully relax.

Once Colette finishes nursing, her tiny body grows limp in my arms, signaling she’s drifted back to sleep. I carefully adjust her, cradling her small frame against my chest. Nicholas is still sitting beside me, his hand never leaving my leg, his eyes filled with the kind of tenderness that makes my heart swell.

“Do you want me to take her?” Nicholas asks softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

I nod, and with practiced gentleness, he scoops her up and places her between us on the bed. Colette barely stirs, her little hands curling up by her face as she nestles into the space between us. The sight of her lying there, so peaceful and content, brings a soft smile to my lips. My body involuntarily slides down and I stoke her cheek with the back of my finger.

Nick lays down with his head propped up in one arm, the other sliding around me. But as I gaze at Colette sleeping peacefully between us, a small wave of anxiety creeps in. What if we roll over onto her during the night? My breath hitches slightly, and I turn my head toward him.

Nicholas immediately senses my concern and shifts closer, his hand coming to rest gently on my cheek. "Hey, don't worry," he says softly, his voice reassuring. "I’ve got her. We’ve got her. I won’t let anything happen." His thumb brushes against my skin as he speaks, his gaze steady and full of calm. "I’ve read up on this, remember? She’s safe with us. We’re light sleepers, and we’re both hyper-aware she’s here. I’ll make sure we’re careful."

I nod, though the worry still lingers. Nicholas leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear. "You won’t roll over on her. I won’t either. Trust me, baby. And if you’re still worried, I can take her back to the bassinet,” he assures me.

I glance down at Colette, her tiny chest rising and falling, completely at ease between us. There’s something comforting about her being so close, something I don’t want to give up. "No," I say softly, shaking my head. "I want her here with us. I just... I get nervous sometimes,” I admit to him, the concerns laced with my postpartum depression symptoms.

"I know," he murmurs. "But you’re not alone in this. We’re doing it together, okay? She’s safe. We’ll keep her safe,” he promises.

His warmth and the calm assurance in his voice help to ease the anxiety a little, and I let out a slow breath. I snuggle closer to him, nestling my head in the crook of his neck. "Thank you," I whisper.

Nicholas kisses the top of my head, his hand stroking Colette’s tiny arm before returning it to my waist. “I used to dream about this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “You, me, and a baby… just lying here like this, all together.” His eyes shine in the dim light, filled with a quiet wonder. “I’d imagine what it would feel like, how perfect it would be. But this... this is even better than I imagined.”

His words sink deep into my chest, filling me with warmth. I glance down at Colette, her chest rising and falling steadily between us, and I feel a wave of contentment wash over me. “I’m glad too. It’s everything I didn’t know I needed,” I whisper back.

Nick’s thumb rubs gentle circles over the exposed skin on my side, and for a while, we lie there in comfortable silence, both of us watching Colette sleep. I feel the weight of his arm around me, the warmth of his body, and I can’t help but think about our future—about the life we’re building together.

After a while, I glance up at Nick, my voice soft but curious. “Do you ever think about… having another one? Another baby, I mean.”

His reaction is immediate. His brown eyes light up, the glint of excitement undeniable. He grins, that boyish, playful smile I fell in love with, and there’s no hesitation in his voice. “Oh, absolutely. I thought one of you was cute, but two though? Didn’t think I could handle it. But now that I’ve experienced it, I want three of you as soon as possible,” he rambles.

I laugh softly, both amused and surprised by his enthusiasm. “Three of us, huh?” I ask to clarify he’s not drunk on love.

“Yeah, babe,” he says, his hand moving to stroke Colette’s tiny hand before trailing over my arm. “We could start trying as soon as possible. I mean, why wait? We make great babies together,” he jokes and I stifle a laugh to not wake up our sleeping child.

His grin turns mischievous as he leans in closer, his voice dropping a little lower. “We could even try out some freaky positions this time… you know, spice things up.”

I roll my eyes playfully, shaking my head at him, though my heart flutters at his words. “That’s all you, God bless your dad’s genetics,” I tease, eyeing him with a smirk.

Nicholas chuckles, clearly enjoying my response, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes too—a real desire to keep building this life together. “I’m serious though,” he murmurs, his hand moving to rest on my waist. “I want more of this. More of us. I want a whole bunch of mini versions of you running around, driving me crazy in the best way.”

His words hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting, and I feel a flush of warmth spread through me. I lean closer, letting my fingers trace over his arm. “You’re really ready for another one, huh?”

Nick’s gaze locks with mine, intense but full of love. “Yeah, Y/N. I don’t just want another one. I want a whole football team of kids with you. As soon as you’re ready,” he says firmly.

I bite my lip, considering his words, feeling the quiet excitement bubbling up inside me. “I might just let you lock me down tonight,” I tease, my voice soft but playful.

His eyes darken slightly, that same spark of mischief flickering in them. “Oh, baby, don’t tempt me,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a lingering kiss against my lips.

I pull back slightly, laughing against his mouth. “Let’s not rush it,” I whisper, even though my hormones are raging at the thought. “But... I do love the idea of growing our little family,” I add to soften the blow of sex denial.

Nicholas grins again, his arm pulling me closer as Colette sleeps peacefully between us. “Then let’s make it happen,” he says softly. “One more baby… and then another after that, we can talk again. I just know I want it all with you. Every first word and every first day of school, my love.”

I smile, resting my head on his shoulder, letting the warmth of his words and the future he envisions wash over me. “One step at a time,” I murmur, though the idea is already taking root in my mind, the thought of more little ones filling our home with love.

As we lay there, cuddling around Colette, the future feels wide open—and incredibly full of promise. The room is quiet, the soft hum of the night surrounding us, and as we lay there, I feel the steady rise and fall of Nick’s chest beneath my palms.

“Goodnight, baby,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear. I smile softly, my body already succumbing to sleep as I whisper back,

“Goodnight, Nicholas. I love you,” I murmur, never getting tired of reminding him.

“I love you too,” he replies, his voice full of warmth and certainty. “Both of my girls.”

With that, the last thing I feel is the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of Colette’s breathing between us, and the overwhelming sense of love that wraps around the three of us, pulling us into the soft cocoon of sleep.

The next time I stir awake, it’s to the feeling of the sun shining on my face. Nicholas’ familiar presence is next to me, his body relaxed as he leans back against the headboard. I can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the slight rustle of pages as he quietly reads. For a moment, I let myself enjoy the comfort of having him close.

But something is wrong.

I don’t feel Colette.

The tiny body that was nestled between us is gone, and in an instant, a wave of cold panic floods my chest. My breath catches, and my heart starts to pound, my worst fear bubbling to the surface. Oh God, did I roll over her? Did we…?

My eyes snap open, and I sit up abruptly, frantically scanning the bed. My hands reach out, patting the mattress in blind desperation as my breath quickens. Where is she? My mind spirals into worst-case scenarios, and my pulse races faster with each second I can’t find her.

Nicholas looks up from his script, his brow furrowing as he notices my panic. “Y/N, baby, what’s wrong?” His voice is calm, but I can hear the concern lacing his words.

“Colette,” I breathe, my voice barely a whisper as the fear clutches at me. “She’s not here, Nick. I—where is she?”

Nicholas immediately places his script aside and sits up, reaching for me. His hands find my shoulders, grounding me. “Babe, she’s fine,” he says gently, his voice steady, though I can see the alarm in his eyes as he realizes why I’m panicking. “Grandma has her. She came in earlier to take her so you could rest. She’s with her now, probably showing her off to her knitting group. Everything’s okay.”

I stare at Nicholas, the rush of adrenaline still coursing through me, but the words slowly sink in. Colette isn’t in danger. She’s not here because Betty took her.

I let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my chest as the fear begins to ebb away. “I thought… I woke up and she wasn’t there. I thought we—” My voice falters, not even wanting to finish the thought.

Nicholas pulls me into his arms, holding me close. “I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve woken you to tell you, but you looked so peaceful, and I didn’t want to disturb you,” he apologizes profusely.

I nod against Nick’s chest, the tension finally loosening from my body as I cling to him. “I just… that’s what I’ve been afraid of, rolling over her in our sleep,” I admit.

“I know,” Nicholas murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “But I would never let that happen. I swear that to you,” he adds.

I take a deep breath, letting the warmth of his embrace steady me. My pulse slows down, and the overwhelming panic that had gripped me starts to dissipate, leaving me feeling drained. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked out.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Y/N,” Nicholas says, his hand gently stroking my back. “You’re a mom. It’s normal to worry, but I’ve got you. I’ve got both of you.”

I pull back slightly, meeting his eyes that are full of understanding. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice still shaky but filled with gratitude.

Nicholas smiles softly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Get some more rest, okay? Grandma’s got Colette covered.”

I nod, feeling the last remnants of panic finally fade. I glance at his script beside him and give a tired smile. “You’re memorizing lines this early?” I pry.

He chuckles. “Just passing the time until you woke up. But you come first,” he vows.

I sink back into the pillows, the warmth of Nicholas beside me a comforting presence now that the fear has passed. As I close my eyes, the world feels right again. Colette is safe, Nicholas is here, and I let myself relax fully for the first time since waking up. The panic has faded into the background, leaving only the steady hum of reassurance from my husband beside me.