Hang on,Little one

you were with her in your shared apartment.

it was small. one bedroom, which was all you needed, one bathroom, and a living room that blended into a kitchen — a poor excuse for a counter being the only indication of a separation between the two. in the living room, wooden floorboards, a thrifted dark green couch, and a coffee table completely taken over by your books and her scattered flashcards — spotless, perfectly straight handwriting in blue ink over index bristols, composing scribbled notes on something like neuroscience or psychology or something else you didn’t really understand.

it wasn’t the fanciest, but it was charming. and it was yours — yours and hers. and the best part: the building was only a short walk away from rutgers, and an even shorter drive, making it absolutely convenient for you both to get to class.

yeah, yeah — you knew going to the same college as your girlfriend might come off as a little codependent and needy, but you didn’t care. not after everything you’d been through. not after the crash and the wilderness and almost losing her to the cruel canadian winter. you just didn’t want to waste any more valuable time, didn’t want to spend four years living away from her when life was that unpredictable.

her details were everywhere, all over the apartment. you saw her on the pink makeup bag left open on your dresser, overflowing with endless bottles of foundation and lip gloss. you saw her on the pile of CDs and records you kept by the player in the living room, your soft rock mixing with her bubblegum pop — a perfect representation of your overall dynamic as you skated between her nsync and britney and your the cranberries and the cure, which, somehow, just worked. she was all over the walls, on movie posters and pictures of the two of you together, smiling, leaned against each other, always touching, always reaching.

and, right now, she was next to you. both of your suitcases swung open on the bed, the creaking sound of the floorboards filling up your ears as she went back and forth, picking out enough outfits to spend the entire month in wiskayok, even though you’d only be there for the weekend.

“jesus, jackie.” you teased, a playful smile lingering on your lips. “you know you actually have to be able to close the suitcase in order to bring it with you, right?”

she dismissed you with a quick hand wave.

“it’s called having options.” she packed yet another jacket, even though the weather girl on the news had stated abundantly that the next couple of days were going to be pleasantly warm.

you huffed. looked at the suitcases spread open on the bed. your eyes drifted next to them, to the white, square piece of cardstock paper laid out over the sheets, decorated by loopy letters written in purple.

shauna marie shipman and jeffrey sadecki request the honour of your presence at their marriage

it didn’t feel real.

you stopped packing for maybe the third or fourth time, still stuck in disbelief.

“remind me again why we’re even going to this thing anyway?” you asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, jackie’s hands immediately flying to her hips as she stopped to look at you.

you didn’t want to go. in fact, it was the last place you wanted to be.

going back to wiskayok meant having to see everyone again — your old teammates, the people who’d seen you at your lowest, at your worst, at your most vile. the people who’d been there for every unspeakable thing you did, for every irredeemable act you committed. it meant having to sit through stares of pity and judgment from your old neighbors, especially now that you were openly out with jackie, which only drew more attention to the two of you — and that was the last thing you needed.

but, more than that, you just really didn’t want to see shauna fucking shipman.

because, before the crash, you and jackie were just friends — confusing, definitely homoerotic friends, estranged after a blurry first kiss incident (it’s just for practice, she said) and teenage angst —, plus, she was dating jeff.

and, as it turned out, shauna was fucking jeff behind her back.

it would have been fine if that was where it all stopped. if shauna had apologized, said it was a mistake. even if they’d just kept up some dynamic of petty mutual silence for a few days or weeks, it would have been fine.

but, well, there was that big fight. shauna putting her down with harsh words. jackie leaving the cabin and refusing to come back.

you instinctively getting a surge of worry in the middle of the night and walking out to check on her, only to find her blue and shivering and quite literally on the brink of death.

thinking you had lost her. crying desperately, carrying her back to the cabin. shauna just standing in the corner of the room looking guilty and quiet as you and your teammates covered jackie’s limp body in blankets and jackets and everything remotely warm you could find.

miraculously, after scaring you half to death, jackie got better. you two worked it out, figured out the decade old tension between the two of you — it was love. and the months spent in the wilderness, with no way to run or hide from your feelings, forced you both to see that.

as time went by, a few months after the fight, when shauna’s baby didn’t make it, jackie found it in her to try again at a friendship, even though it never went back to what it used to be. they were never close again, especially when shauna took over the position of leader. they had been completely estranged since rescue.

but jackie was soft. she was kind. forgiving — more forgiving than you, for sure, because, when the invitation unexpectedly came in the mail, she’s the one who wanted to go. she’s the one who forced you to go dress shopping and helped you pick something out, she’s the one who booked the hotel room for you two, refusing to stay at her mother’s house.

it took some convincing, of course. but it was jackie — you’d never been able to tell her no, anyway.

so, now, her voice was calm and her tone was patient as she answered your whine.

“because shauna’s getting married. it’s not something that happens every day.” she said, ever so reasonable. “it’s a milestone.”

“but she’s getting married to jeff.” you did that thing you always did whenever you mentioned his name — scrunched up your face in disgust and poked out your tongue, faking nausea. jackie let out a breathy chuckle. “you sure you wanna be there to see that? your ex best friend marrying your ex boyfriend?”

she laughed softly.

“well, when you put it like that, it does sound like a horror show.” her hand moved up from her hip, gently cupping one side of your face, her tender thumb brushing against your cheek. “but that baggage is in the past. and i have something way better now. you.”

you held back a smile.

“don’t start acting all adorable. i’m still mad about going.” your tone was completely devoid of any heat. instead, it was laced with amusement and softness. “flattery will get you nowhere.”

she leaned in and pressed a sweet, lingering, unfair kiss to your lips.

“mm.” she murmured against you. “nowhere at all?”

you stole another kiss, completely wrapped up in her scent and her touch, stuck in the everlasting trance that was being jackie taylor’s girlfriend.

“fine.” you muttered, feigning annoyance in your voice, but reaching out to pull her onto your lap. “maybe it’ll get you somewhere.”

jackie, who immediately tensed up when you actually got to the venue.

maybe she underestimated just how awkward this would be. walking in hand in hand with you and immediately squeezing your fingers, which were intertwined with hers, when she saw jeff in a black tuxedo, leaned over randy’s shoulder in order to make a joke that probably wasn’t funny.

it got even worse after the ceremony started, when shauna walked down the aisle, in that uncharacteristically puffy, feminine, blindingly white dress.

jackie always tried to appear stronger than she was, deep in denial about everything that had happened in the wilderness, but you noticed every single time she subtly sought out comfort in you. you noticed when she cuddled up to you silently on the couch after you got home on particularly hard days like anniversaries. you noticed how she laid out a jacket for you whenever you two left the house during the winter, even though you didn’t need her to remind you. you knew she had trauma, which she sometimes shared with you, but some things you just noticed.

just like you noticed the way her hand didn’t leave your arm for even a second during the ceremony, her grip tightening around it during the vows, during the kiss. you knew it brought back bad memories.

so you stayed there, steadying her, silently offering her the strength she needed.

jackie, who didn’t leave your side during the reception.

you couldn’t believe it. there was an actual yellowjackets table — you, jackie, van, taissa, lottie, natalie. even misty. all of you, together again for the first time in three years, awkward silences that quickly turned into old friends catching up. or at least trying to.

jackie’s hand remained glued to yours under the tablecloth, holding on for dear life, tensing up whenever someone asked her a question or mentioned something about the ceremony.

when tai stood up and walked away towards the bar, van leaned over to whisper in your ear.

“i thought i’d be the most miserable bastard here…” she started, still clearly shaken over her breakup with tai after the rescue, but using her humor to hide it in the most van way possible. “but tell me i’m not the only one who thinks shauna looks like she’d rather be literally anywhere else.”

you let out an involuntary sigh. finally, someone commented on it. the subject quickly shifted from a two person conversation between you and van into the topic of interest at the table. tai came back a few minutes later, mojito in hand, and stated:

“i don’t think i’ve ever seen her look so… passive.”

natalie nodded.

“and that robotic fucking smile on her face?” she scoffed. “creepier than the time she pointed the gun at mel.”

the comments kept flowing, and everybody seemed to be surprised at how… wifed up shauna looked. submissive, girly, delicate. completely different than the person the wilderness had turned into three years before.

but jackie stayed quiet. you didn’t grasp exactly what it was that bothered her, just that something did. it could’ve been anything — the mentions of your time in the wilderness, the fact that her former best friend seemed completely unhappy and catatonic now, the stares from everybody else. the way mrs. sadecki had given her a tight hug earlier when they ran into each other in line at the buffet.

you didn’t push, didn’t ask, didn’t alarm. just held her hand tighter, squeezing it, earning a small, barely noticeable smile from her.

when she tensed up even further, you leaned closer.

“wanna dance?”

jackie, who gripped your shoulders tightly as you danced.

the band played some ballad. most of the couples were out on the floor.

including the bride and groom.

you noticed the way jackie couldn’t stand to look at them. the way she physically averted her gaze whenever shauna and jeff did so much as threaten to get in her field of view.

you pressed a sweet, tender kiss on her cheek, taking the fact that you were finally away from the others as an opportunity to lean in and whisper:

“do you wanna leave?” your voice was soft, careful, attentive. “we can always go back to the hotel.”

she shook her head.

“no. i think i just… need some air.” she said ever so quietly, those big, beautiful eyes troubled with something you couldn’t quite place. “take me outside?”

jackie, whose eyes were filled with unshed tears as you two stepped out of the venue.

“jax,” you reached over to gently caress her shoulder, your heart breaking from seeing her so upset, “what’s going on in there?”

she sniffed, a stubborn, stray tear rolling down her cheek and smudging her mascara.

she didn’t talk.

“baby, i’m here.” you said, still rubbing her skin softly, trying to soothe her. “i know you’re sad. i know how hard it is for you to be here tonight. seeing shauna like that must be tough, huh?”

then, jackie lifted her head a bit, sad eyes meeting yours.

“i’m not… it’s not that.” her voice came out charged, broken, heavy with the lump she carried in her throat.

“what is it, then?” you cupped her cheek. "you can tell me."

she stayed quiet for a second. looked down again, then back up. hesitated.

then, unexpected and abrupt, she threw her arms around you.

“god,” she huffed against your ear, voice muffled, “i’m so grateful for you.”

you held her back, arms tightening around her figure, and pressed a kiss to her cheek as your face scrunched up in confusion.

“what?”

after a few moments, she pulled away. looked at you. really looked at you. analyzed your face, every detail, every nuance. tenderly brushed a strand of hair away from your eye.

“shauna looks… unrecognizable.” she finally said. “she looks so miserable. so fake. not like herself at all.”

then a pause.

jackie pursed her lips, took a deep, shaky breath, and spoke again.

“that was supposed to be me.” her eyes never left yours, still filled with tears, chin trembling adorably, heartwrenchingly. “this was supposed to be my life.”

“baby…”

“if it hadn’t been for you.” she stepped an inch closer, hand carefully grazing your jaw. “if you hadn’t been there for me, if you hadn’t been patient enough to— to wait for me. till i was finally ready to come to terms with us… that would’ve been me marrying jeff today. that would’ve been me, sad, miserable, living a lie.”

then you understood.

jackie might’ve been overwhelmed to be there, sure. it might’ve been difficult for her to see the yellowjackets again, to sit through jeff and shauna’s wedding, to pretend to ignore the stares directed her way.

but, above all, she was happy.

happy it wasn’t her in shauna’s place — when, if anything had been different, it probably would have been. happy to finally be living according to what she wanted, and not what other people expected from her.

happy to be with you. the one she loved. the one she truly wanted.

and it showed. it seeped through the way she grabbed your face with both hands now, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks, and pulled you into a kiss. it seeped through the way she looked at you, so lovingly, so carefully, so gratefully.

“i love you, jackie.” you reassured, guaranteed, promised. “i’m glad i’m the one here with you today.”

she pulled you into another hug, squeezing you tightly, never wanting to let you go.

“i love you too, baby.” the words came out whispered, fading into the warm night, just between the two of you.

she didn’t let go. gripped you more. sunk her head into the curve of your neck and breathed in your scent like it gave her life meaning.

then a huff.

her voice sounded out muttered against your skin, muffled and syrupy. relieved.

Lena takes one look at her and snorts into her clipboard. “Oh,” she says flatly, falling into step beside her. “Love that you had fun last night.”

Charlotte flinched, blinking fast. “What?”

Lena lifts a brow, then just tips her chin slightly toward Charlotte’s neck. She freezes. Right. The marks. The obvious constellation of purpling hickeys creeping up from her collarbone, where her button-down doesn’t quite close all the way. Charlotte instinctively pulls her blazer tighter, but it’s a lost cause.

“Jesus,” she mutters, face blooming crimson.

Lena just laughs and tosses her a smug look. “No judgment. Just… wow. I haven’t seen you smile like this since… maybe ever.”

Charlotte tries to school her face, but she can’t help it, the goofy grin creeps back in, her cheeks aching from how often she’s smiled since waking up to the sound of your soft voice, since kissing you again and again, since watching you fall asleep with your hair splayed on the couch, the most beautiful thing Charlotte’s ever seen.

“I just…” She exhales dreamily. “Last night was…”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Lena says, holding the door open. “You look like someone who fell face-first into love.”

“I didn’t fall,” Charlotte huffs, stepping through. “I walked. Confidently.”

Lena cackles. The joy, however, is short-lived. Lena flips through her clipboard as they approach the staff office, and says in a much-too-casual voice, “Anyway, you’ll want to get changed. You’ve got back-to-back corporate meetings all day — starts in twenty. I’ll get you coffee. It ends around six.”

Charlotte stops dead in her tracks. “What?”

“All-day meetings,” Lena repeats, like she didn’t just crush her very soul. “Remember? Aspen site visit prep, budget finalizations, branding updates, new vendor contracts—”

“No.” Charlotte groans, pressing a palm to her face like she’s in mourning. “You’re telling me… I don’t get to see her all day?”

“Not unless she shows up in the boardroom with a PowerPoint and a neck covered in matching hickeys,” Lena teases.

Charlotte exhales sharply through her nose, pinching the bridge of it.

She’s still warm and tingly from the morning. Still half-drunk on your kiss. All she wants—all she wants —is to find you again, press you against the kitchen counter and kiss you until her knees give out. Or sit with you over coffee. Or tell you everything she’s feeling. Or—

God, the other things she wants to do.

She shifts where she stands, suddenly warm under her collar. Her blazer feels too tight, and so does the waistband of her slacks. Her brain is already drifting in very non-corporate directions.

“I’m going to die in that conference room,” Charlotte mutters under her breath.

Lena pats her shoulder. “Well. At least you’ll die smug and well-kissed.”

Charlotte glares half-heartedly and mumbles, “Don’t remind me.”

But even as she sulks toward her office, her mind is already elsewhere, picturing your laugh, the way you kissed her like you meant it, and the promise of the next time. And if her face stays flushed the entire walk down the hallway? Well. That’s between her, her hickeys, and God.

The conference room is sterile, white-walled, and humming with polite tension, suits, laptops, polished shoes. A fortress of numbers and strategy. Charlotte sits at the head of the table, pen clicking in a slow, rhythmic beat as the morning meeting drones on. Her blazer is buttoned, her hair pinned just right, but her expression is all steel. Focused. Sharp.

The regional director offers a nervous projection of next quarter’s numbers. Someone from corporate marketing pushes a slide deck with bold fonts and safe ideas. An investor suggests pivoting the Aspen concept toward something “more approachable.”

Charlotte just raises a single brow.

“‘Approachable’ isn’t our problem,” she says coolly, flipping a page on her notepad. “Our problem is a confused brand identity. You can’t market excellence if the messaging dilutes it. The Aspen location is supposed to feel like exclusivity, escape, elevation. You want locals and tourists to crave it, not find it familiar.”

Silence. Then someone clears their throat. “Right. So… stronger narrative?”

“Stronger everything,” Charlotte replies, already noting down a to-do list. “We’ll handle the narrative. Focus on sourcing. I want hyperlocal produce—blueberries, dairy, microgreens—and I want supplier contracts solidified by end of next week.”

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to. People nod. Investors nod. She’s not just being heard, she’s being followed. By the end of the second hour, there’s a collective understanding: Charlotte Matthews is not to be argued with in her domain.

But even as she lays down strategies with the confidence of someone who’s built empires before lunch, her fingers twitch by her side. Her mind wanders to skirt hems and soft lips and the way you said her name last night…breathless, like a prayer. She signs off on a vendor agreement. Cross-checks two proposals. Taps her pen. And when the clock finally clicks to 12:01 PM, she’s up from her chair like a shot.

“Lunch?” one of the investors offers.

“I’m booked,” she says, already halfway to the door.

No explanations. No apologies. Just a storm of perfume and heels down the hall—Charlotte Matthews, unstoppable force and, currently, girl on a mission. Because she’s not thinking about budgets anymore.

She’s thinking about your voice. Your smile. The hickeys she left behind. And maybe…maybe if she’s lucky, the way it might feel to kiss you again in broad daylight. Lunch meetings can wait. Charlotte has better things to do.

You are perched on the prep table, legs swinging gently as you scribble into a grease-stained notepad. Your brows are furrowed in concentration, surrounded by chaos—half-tested appetizers, smudged ramekins, notes scrawled on parchment like a mad scientist in a kitchen lab.

Your sweater slips slightly off one shoulder, revealing the faintest purple imprint blooming near her collarbone. Hickeys. Charlotte’s hickeys. Charlotte sees you before you see her.

And time just slows down.

The midday light filters through the back windows of the test kitchen, hitting you just right. Ink-stained fingers. A bit of flour on your cheek. Lips slightly parted, mouthing some silent measurement conversion. Charlotte has sat through hours of business strategy, budget breakdowns, and vendor negotiations, but nothing prepared her for this.

Not the way you look. Not the way her own heart kicks like it’s remembering last night all over again.

You glance up and immediately flush. “Hey,” you say, a little shy, a little smug, eyes darting to the spot just beneath Charlotte’s collar where the edge of a hickey peeks through.

Charlotte clocks it instantly and gives a slow, knowing smile. “You’re staring.”

You laugh under your breath, cheeks burning. “You’re showing off.”

“Maybe,” Charlotte hums, closing the distance to stand between your legs. She doesn’t kiss you, though she aches to, just pulls you into a long hug, burying her face in your shoulder. Her voice is muffled, playful. “You smell like caramelized onions.”

“Oh yeah, but I thought you said you looooove that,” You tease, hugging her back, grinning against Charlotte’s hair.

“I really do.”

They part…barely, and Charlotte offers her hand, eyes still soft with something vulnerable and awestruck.

“Lunch?”

You hop down. “Hell yeah. I’m starving.”

They head toward the back door, teasing and laughing, but the second they’re alone in the alleyway, out of sight—Charlotte’s hands are on your waist, spinning you in one smooth, urgent motion, and kissing you hard.

You gasp against her mouth, stunned and already undone. It’s a greedy, teeth-clashing kiss, the kind that’s been sitting under Charlotte’s skin for hours, building up through board meetings and daydreams and that damn hickey showing on your neck like a secret promise.

You melt into her, fingers twisting in Charlotte’s blazer, standing on your toes like you want more, closer, deeper. By the time they break apart, breathless and wide-eyed, Charlotte’s hand lingers on your jaw, thumb brushing softly over your lips.

You were dazed. “What was that for?”

Charlotte swallows, eyes still locked on yours. “For surviving five hours of hell,” she whispers. “And looking too good for your own damn good.”

You laugh, the sound breathless and sweet. “Next time,” you murmur, tugging Charlotte forward by the lapel, “let’s skip the meetings and just do this all day.”

Charlotte grins, hopelessly in love. She doesn’t say yes, but the kiss she gives you next makes it pretty clear. The little bistro near the market is half-empty for the lunch rush, soft jazz humming in the background. Lottie doesn’t even glance at the other side of the booth—she slides in right next to you without hesitation, hip to hip, knees brushing under the table.

You raise a brow. “There’s a whole other side, you know.”

“I know,” Lottie says simply, leaning back like this is the only place she belongs.

The server drops off their sandwiches and roasted veggie soup, and they start sharing bites like it’s second nature, Lottie trading you a forkful of her salad for a crisp fry, stealing a piece of bread without asking.

You’re in a teasing mood, spinning some ridiculous story about the time a batch of soufflés in culinary school rose perfectly—only for the fire alarm to go off and make everyone think the place was burning down. Lottie laughs so hard she nearly chokes on her soup, hand covering her mouth as her eyes crinkle.

“You’re terrible,” she says, still giggling.

“I’m hilarious,” You correct, nudging her shoulder.

And then Lottie, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. It’s soft, warm, and entirely unhurried.

You freeze for half a beat, then turn to her with a flushed face. “You can’t keep kissing me. My face is going to stay permanently red.”

Lottie just grins, her eyes bright and a little mischievous. “Maybe that’s my plan.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it comes out more like a shy smile, one Lottie tucks away in her memory like a treasured recipe she’ll never forget. And for the rest of lunch, every time you say something funny or reach for her hand, Lottie looks at you like she’s exactly where she wants to be. They stroll back toward the car, the sun warm against their backs and the smell of fresh bread from the bakery still clinging to their clothes.

Lottie’s walking slower than usual, her hand brushing against yours like she’s trying to draw the moment out. When they reach the parking lot, Lottie pauses, fingers drumming against her keys, and looks at you with this soft, almost pouty expression. “I don’t want to go back,” she says, voice dipping into a quiet whine.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Well… we technically don’t have to do anything.”

Lottie’s eyes widen like a light bulb just went off in her head. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across her face. “So true.”

The next thing you know, they’re both in the car, doors shut, the air between them suddenly electric. Lottie leans over the console, one hand finding your jaw, the other resting on your thigh. She kisses uou—hard, urgent—like she’s been holding it in all afternoon.

You melt instantly, fingers curling into the fabric of Lottie’s sweater. The taste of iced tea and the faint sweetness of the pastry they shared still lingers, and it’s dizzying in the best way. Lottie deepens the kiss, thumb brushing against your cheek, like she’s afraid to let go.

The windows are fogging just a little, and the hum of the outside world feels miles away. When they finally pull back, both of them are flushed and grinning, breathless in the kind of way that makes going back to work seem utterly impossible. The kiss turns slow for half a second, just long enough for Lottie to tug you closer by the waist, before it tips right back into heat. Your hand slips into Lottie’s hair, fingers curling, and Lottie’s answering groan sends a shiver down your spine.

The center console isn’t even a barrier anymore; Lottie leans fully into you, her lips moving with a kind of hunger that makes your pulse trip. Her hand trails down your side, thumb brushing the hem of your skirt, teasing without crossing.

You break for a breath, but Lottie’s mouth is already finding your jaw, then the soft spot below your ear, and the sound you make, quiet, caught—has Lottie dizzy. The car’s Bluetooth chimes, breaking the spell.

Incoming call: Lena.

Lottie freezes, forehead still pressed to yours. They stare at each other, breathless. “Don’t answer it,” you murmur, but Lottie’s mouth is curling into something between a smirk and a groan of frustration.

“She’ll hunt me down if I don’t,” Lottie mutters, reluctantly leaning away to jab at the dashboard controls.

Her voice, when she answers, is an octave higher and far too casual. “Hey, Lena.”

Meanwhile, you are sitting there, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen, trying not to laugh at how painfully obvious it is what they were just doing. Lena’s voice filters through the speakers, all brisk and business-like. “Just making sure you’ll be back in time for the three o’clock investor call.”

Lottie swallows, eyes still locked on you. “Yep. On my way.”

You meet her eyes.

And God, she’s looking at you like that again. Like you hung the moon. Like you’re the only thing in the room she wants. You don’t say anything. You can’t. Your chest is too full of nerves and heat and the ache of finally.

“I—” Charlotte starts, then falters. Her lips twitch into a nervous smile. “I think about that night all the time. About us. About what we were. About what we could’ve been.”

Your breath catches.

You study her face, the flush climbing her cheeks, the way her lashes sweep downward when she’s overwhelmed. You know this face. You remember this face. The first time you kissed her, she looked just like this…unsure, breathless, hoping.

You scoot your chair back, slow, deliberate. Charlotte sits up straight like she’s startled, but she doesn’t move. You walk around the table and pause beside her, letting the silence stretch. She tilts her face up toward you, wide-eyed, lips parted.

“You’re not gonna drop a spatula this time, are you?” you tease, your voice a low murmur.

Charlotte lets out a quiet, breathless laugh. “No. But I might forget how to breathe again.”

Your heart is racing. You reach for her face, thumb brushing her jaw, fingers curling gently beneath her chin. Charlotte leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat, and that’s all the invitation you need.

You kiss her.

Soft. Sure. Full of all the unspoken things between you. It’s not rushed or messy. It’s warm. Familiar. Like you’ve done this a thousand times in your dreams. And maybe she has too, because she kisses you back with this quiet desperation, like she’s been waiting forever.

Her hands slide to your waist, holding you there, grounding you. When you pull back, your foreheads touch. Charlotte’s smile is dazed. “Okay,” she breathes. “Okay, yeah. That was even better than I remember.”

You can’t help your grin. “I don’t know… I think we should test it again just to be sure.”

And Charlotte who is flushed and glowing and completely smitten, just laughs and pulls you back in. Charlotte breaks the kiss first. Not out of hesitation, but something heavier, something that lives in her chest and has for years. Her brows draw slightly, and she exhales like she’s trying to steady herself.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “For what?”

“For always running,” she says, her hands still at your waist like she doesn’t want to let go. “For never staying long enough to actually… try. For letting you give so much, and never giving enough back. I think part of me was always waiting for you to realize you deserved more than me.”

You study her face, the vulnerability there, the regret, the earnestness. You’ve waited a long time to hear this. To feel this from her.

You smile at her gentle, a little crooked, and lift your hand to her cheek, brushing your thumb along her flushed skin. “Lottie…”

She leans into your touch instinctively, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “We were kids,” you say softly. “I was tangled up in still being obsessed with my ex, kinda in love with you, and chasing something that didn’t even want to be caught. You didn’t want me, not then. And my ex—” You laugh under your breath. “My ex was a trainwreck. It wasn’t ever gonna work. Not with all that chaos.”

Charlotte opens her eyes again, and you see the way they shine a little, glassy and raw. “But we needed to grow,” you continue. “We had to. And honestly? I like this version of us more anyways.”

Charlotte swallows hard, a soft breath hitching in her throat. “Yeah?”

You nod, smile widening. “Yeah. So shut up and kiss me again.”

And this time, you lean in firm and certain, and Charlotte melts into it like she’s been waiting her whole life for this second chance. Because maybe she has. Her hands slide up to your face, holding you like you’re something precious, something she’s terrified of ruining again, but this time, she kisses you like she means to stay.

And for the first time, you both believe she will.

The kiss shifts slow turns eager, gentle turns greedy. Charlotte’s fingers twitch against your waist before she slides them up, gripping your hips like she’s grounding herself, like you’re the only thing keeping her upright. And maybe you are, because the moment your tongue brushes hers, she lets out the softest whimper, like the years apart are suddenly catching up to her in the form of sheer, physical need.

You’re pulling her closer without even thinking, pressing flush to her body as your hands roam, up her back, into her hair, down again to the soft dip of her waist. Charlotte gasps as your teeth graze her bottom lip, and she clutches at your sweater like it’s a lifeline.

And then it really unravels.

Because once she feels you suck just below her jawline, slow and wet and possessive, she groans — low and broken, and her nails dig into your sides. “Oh my god,” she breathes against your mouth. “You’re so unfair.”

You smirk, already kissing along her jaw, down the side of her throat where her pulse races under your lips. “Payback.”

“For what?” she gasps, tilting her head to give you more access.

“For making me wait years for this.”

She makes a noise that’s half-laugh, half-moan, and it dies in her throat when you suck another mark into the skin just below her ear, a messy hickey that will definitely show tomorrow, and maybe that’s the point.

Her hands are in your hair now, tugging just enough to make you gasp against her skin, and then she’s kissing you again hard, uncoordinated, desperate. She nips your lip, pulls back just enough to whisper, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Try me,” you whisper back, breathless, mouth already trailing down the open column of her neck.

She gasps again when your teeth graze her collarbone.

It’s all heat and friction and hands everywhere. She pushes you gently toward the kitchen counter, like she’s trying to slow things down but she’s still chasing your mouth between each heartbeat. Your hips lock between her thighs, and it’s intoxicating how good she smells, how soft she is under your palms, how hot her mouth feels against yours when she kisses like she’s finally, finally allowed to want you this much.

By the time you both pull apart you both are panting, flushed, lips kiss-bitten and pupils blown. Charlotte’s blouse is wrinkled beyond repair, her hair slightly mussed, and the side of her neck a constellation of fading red. You grin, thumbing one of the love bites like you’re proud of your work. “Hope you brought a turtleneck.”

She breathes out a laugh, but she’s still dazed. “Hope you brought concealer.”

Charlotte raises an eyebrow as she leans back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes tracking your every move. “Since when do you follow rules?”

You shrug, rinsing off the dishes. “I follow the ones I like. And I like the idea of impressing you with my dishwashing technique.”

She snorts. “You think you’re gonna impress me with soap and a sponge?”

“I’ve got great wrist action.”

Charlotte chokes on her coffee. You glance over your shoulder innocently. “What? I’m just saying. You’ve seen my knife work.”

Her cheeks are pink again. “You’re ridiculous.”

You shoot her a grin, stacking a pan onto the drying rack. “And yet, here you are. Still standing there like you’re mesmerized.”

Charlotte watches you a moment longer, then steps in beside you, her hip brushing yours lightly as she grabs a towel. “Fine,” she murmurs. “You wash, I dry. Teamwork.”

You smile and nudge her gently. “Teamwork makes the dream work.”

She hums, low and pleased, as she dries the plate you just handed her. It’s domestic in a way that feels dangerous, like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Like this could be a ritual. A rhythm.

Charlotte hands you the towel and leans in slightly, her voice quieter now. “Thanks for not running this morning.”

You glance at her, eyebrows raised. “Why would I run?”

“Because I made things weird. I also was staring,” she admits, cheeks pink. “BUT only because you looked… perfect.”

There’s a beat where neither of you move. Then you reach past her for a mug, face ghosting close to her cheek. “You’re really bad at hiding how much you like me.”

Charlotte’s breath catches. “I’m not trying to hide it.”

That earns her a smile, soft, but a little crooked. You hand her the last dish and pull the plug on the sink, shaking off your hands. She sets the plate down, drying her hands, and then straightens up, like she’s remembering something.

“Okay,” she says, clearly trying to refocus. “We have plans.”

“Oh?” You arch a brow. “What kind of plans? Plans that require you looking all serious and flustered at the same time?”

Charlotte’s lips twitch. “No plans that require you getting dressed. Something warm. Comfortable. Sneakers.”

You narrow your eyes, intrigued. “This sounds suspiciously like cardio.”

She grins. “No comment.”

“Charlotte—”

“You’ll love it,” she insists, stepping closer. “Promise.”

You pretend to hesitate, tapping your chin. “I don’t know. You already seduced me with pancakes. Anything after that is just showing off.”

Charlotte smirks, and for a second it looks like she might say something bold, something reckless. But instead, she tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear and murmurs, “Ten minutes. Meet me by the car.”

And before you can tease her again, she’s gone. leaving you standing there with a towel in your hand and your pulse doing something very stupid. You meet her by the car like she asked, bundled in a warm sweater and sneakers. Charlotte’s already waiting by the passenger door, leaning casually against it, the mountain sun haloing her in soft gold.

She looks you over with a satisfied smile. “Perfect,” she says, like she expected nothing less.

“You know,” you tease, sliding into the seat, “if this is a secret murder spot, you’re doing a great job of making it feel romantic.”

Charlotte laughs as she starts the engine. “Relax. It’s a vendor visit.”

You glance at her suspiciously. “You say that like it’s supposed to sound normal.”

“It is,” she says, grinning. “Sort of.”

The drive is winding and scenic, all rolling meadows, distant snowy peaks, and stretches of trees that blush copper and amber this time of year. When Charlotte finally pulls up to a family-run farm with rows of berry bushes, a greenhouse, and the smell of fresh bread wafting through the air, you feel your eyes widen. “This is a vendor?”

“One of the oldest ones,” Charlotte says, beaming as she climbs out. “They supply a lot of the seasonal produce to the Aspen location. But they also let me visit whenever I want because… well, they love me.”

You follow her up the dirt path to a wooden farmhouse, where an older woman in an apron bursts through the screen door and yells, “CHARLOTTE MATTHEWS, YOU DIDN’T TELL ME YOU WERE BRINGING SOMEONE BEAUTIFUL!”

Charlotte blushes and waves. “Hi, Carla!”

The woman, Carla, hugs Charlotte fiercely, then turns to you with a sly grin. “You must be the one. The consultant.”

Charlotte coughs. “Carla—”

Carla waves a hand. “Oh hush. Come. You’re picking blueberries and eating cheese and that’s final.”

The next hour is a blur of sunlight, laughter, and dirt under your nails as you wander rows of blueberry bushes with a wooden crate in your arms. Charlotte moves between them with a grace that surprises you, like this isn’t her first time, like this place is a memory she’s revisiting.

“You’re awfully good at this,” you say, popping a berry into your mouth.

“I used to come here during breaks,” she says, brushing her fingers along the leaves. “Sometimes I just… needed quiet.”

You nod. “I get that.”

She glances over at you then, eyes soft. “Feels different now.”

Your heart flips. You drop a few more berries into your crate and distract yourself by changing the subject. “So what else is on the agenda?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

Carla insists you both try a spread of fresh ricotta and crusty bread with figs, tomatoes, and basil. You sit under a canopy near the stables, snacking and watching the horses graze nearby.

“This is… insane,” you murmur. “Like a dream.”

Charlotte looks proud. “Thought you’d like it.”

Then she gestures to the nearby paddock. “And now for part two.”

You freeze, looking from her to where she was gesturing. “Please don’t say horseback riding.”

Charlotte smirks. “Okay, I won’t say it.”

Minutes later you’re both being helped onto horses by a farmhand, and you shoot her a narrow-eyed glare from atop your very tall, very real horse.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” she grins, adjusting her helmet. “Besides, it’s romantic.”

You scoff. “Only if I don’t fall off and break my neck.”

“Then you’ll have to hold on tight.”

You pause. “To the horse?”

She meets your gaze with a mischievous smile. “You fall you’re riding with me cowgirl. You’re holding tight onto me.”

Your stomach flutters, and not because of the horse. The trail is quiet, winding through tree-lined paths and open fields. Charlotte rides close beside you, and every now and then you feel her eyes on you. Not in a way that makes you self-conscious—in a way that makes you feel seen.

When you loop back to the farm hours later, cheeks flushed and hair windblown, she looks at you like she’s trying to remember this exact version of you for the rest of her life. You hop down, a little awkwardly, and hand the reins back to the farmhand.

Charlotte catches you by the elbow as you steady yourself. “You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.” You look up at her. “Thanks for today. This was… really special.”

She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “You’re special.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes. Then you grin, stepping past her. “C’mon, Matthews. You gonna feed me again or what?”

Charlotte lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Oh, I’ve got plans.”

The front door swings open to the warm scent of garlic and rosemary. You step inside, cheeks still flushed from the day, wind tangled in your hair. The house is quiet, lights dimmed, soft jazz floating through the air like a memory.

You slip off your shoes and glance around “Charlotte?”

“Upstairs!” her voice calls.

You head to your room to shower, the warmth rinsing away the dust and sunlight of the day. You dress slower than usual, slipping into a soft ivory sweater tucked loosely into a flowy skirt, your hair damp and curling at the ends. You’re not sure why you’re putting in this much effort. Except, you are.

You want her to look at you like that again — like she did when you reached for blueberries, when you were laughing on horseback, like you were something irreplaceable. When you come downstairs, you freeze.

The table is set.

Not just set, curated. Candlelight flickers in vintage glass votives. Two wine glasses gleam with something dark and velvety. In the center of the table: a dish you haven’t seen in years.

You widen your eyes. Charlotte steps in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, then she sees you—and she stares. “Wow,” she breathes. “You look… I mean, I was hoping you’d—okay, yeah. Wow.”

You smile, heart skipping. “Is that—?”

She nods. “Pine nut chicken with roasted lemon asparagus and truffle mashed potatoes.”

Your eyes widen. “We haven’t made this since—”

“Since we were twenty-one,” Charlotte finishes. “Since you kissed me in the kitchen.”

You laugh softly. “I remember. You dropped the spatula.”

“You bit my lip,” she murmurs, stepping a little closer. “I forgot how to breathe.”

The air shifts. Softer. Charged. You glance at the table. “So this is…?”

“A dinner,” Charlotte says. “A thank you. For coming. For helping. For today.”

“For today?” you tease, nudging her gently. “Or the fact that I didn’t fall off a horse?”

“Both,” she grins.

You settle into your seat as Charlotte pours the wine. She sits across from you, wearing a sleek, deep emerald blouse you’ve never seen before and soft makeup that makes her look almost ethereal in the candlelight. She was trying tonight. You can see it in the set table, in her perfect plating, in the way her eyes flicker to you every few seconds like she’s memorizing every detail.

You take a bite and groan softly. “Still perfect.”

Charlotte beams. “It’s not just the food.”

You glance up, cheeks warm. She meets your eyes for a long, unbroken second. No more teasing. No more hiding. Just you. Her. And a table between you that feels like it’s shrinking.

“I thought about that night for weeks,” you finally say. Your voice is low, honest. “That kiss.”

Charlotte’s throat bobs. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Me too.”

Your thumb fumbles over the screen, closing the message like it’s hot to the touch, and your voice wobbles when you answer, “Yeah?”

The door creaks open, and there’s Charlotte, out of her corporate blazer, in an oversized sweater and leggings, hair damp from a shower and curling around her face.

“Hey.” She’s holding two mugs, steam curling from both. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you say a little too fast, and she eyes you like she doesn’t fully believe that.

Charlotte steps in anyway, gaze flickering from the dark screen of your phone to the soft pink still lingering on your cheeks. She lifts one mug in offering. “Chamomile. I made too much.”

You smile and take it. “Thanks.”

Charlotte lingers in the doorway a second longer, biting her lip like she’s working something over in her head. Then she just blurts it out, “Do you wanna… watch a movie or something? I can put on something dumb. Or nostalgic. Or both. I’m not picky.”

Your heart stutters. She’s still got that open, hopeful look about her, like she’s offering more than just a movie night. Like she’s saying I like having you near. And you, still buzzing with the electricity of Natalie’s text, nod quickly. “Yeah. Sure. Sounds perfect.”

Charlotte gives you a slow, amused smile, like she’s clocking the tension in your shoulders and the way you’re gripping the mug like a life raft.

“You okay?” she asks gently.

You tuck your phone into your pocket like it’s radioactive. “Mhm.”

Charlotte doesn’t press. She just turns on her heel and leads the way to the cozy den, where she queues up something familiar, a rom-com you both half-watched in culinary school The Proposal, mostly during hangovers and stress baking breaks.

You sink into the plush couch beside her, your knees brushing now and then. The movie plays. You talk during half of it, the kind of running commentary that dissolves into laughter and mimicked lines and teasing. But somewhere along the second act, the words run out.

You both go quiet. Not tense. Not awkward. Just… comfortable. The mug grows cold in your hands. Charlotte shifts, and you let yourself lean into her ever so slightly.

She doesn’t move away. Eventually, your eyes flutter closed. And Charlotte’s do, too. By the time the credits roll, the two of you are asleep on the couch, tangled in the kind of closeness that asks for nothing and says everything.

Charlotte wakes first.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft, blue glow of the TV menu screen looping idle trailers. Her neck aches slightly from the way her head tilted against the back of the couch, but she doesn’t move, not when you’re curled so perfectly into her side, breath warm against her collarbone, fingers unconsciously tangled into the hem of her sweater.

She’s not sure how long she just lays there, heart pounding softly in her chest, but it’s long enough for the quiet to settle. God, look at you. Charlotte lets her eyes trace the curve of your cheek, the slack softness of your mouth, the way you’ve absolutely melted into her. Her fingers twitch before she gives in, brushing a few stray hairs from your face with delicate care. Like you’ll vanish if she touches you too roughly.

And that’s when your phone buzzes. Just once. Then again. Charlotte’s gaze flicks to it instinctively, barely even thinking about it. Your lockscreen lights up with a FaceTime banner:

Natalie !!! is calling…

Her stomach drops. Her body goes hot with something molten and bitter— something she hasn’t let herself feel in years, not like this. Not since the last time she loved someone who could choose someone else.

She FaceTimes you?

The thought hits like a truck. Charlotte swallows hard, eyes still fixed on the glowing banner as it buzzes once more and then goes silent. Her heart races, not just from the jealousy, but from what it means. This—this person who gets to call you baby, who gets to send you pictures that make you blush, who gets to exist in your phone screen in a way Charlotte hasn’t been allowed to in years—this girl could ruin everything Charlotte’s trying to rebuild.

No. Not this time. You stir lightly beside her, but not enough to wake. And Charlotte watches you for a beat longer, her mind suddenly spinning with a new kind of clarity.

You needs to know she is all you need. That she see you. That she’s always seen you. No one else gets to win you. Not again. Not this time.

Charlotte slips out from under you gently, grabbing the throw blanket to tuck around you. Then she pads quietly out of the room, eyes sharp, breath steady. It’s time to up the ante.

No more waiting. She’s going to make you hers. Officially. And she’s going to make sure Natalie never stands a chance. The kitchen is already warm with the scent of browning butter and cinnamon.

Charlotte moves with practiced precision, slicing strawberries with a little more force than necessary, her knife tapping too loudly against the cutting board. A pan hisses behind her as batter hits it, a puff of steam rising into the air. She’s cooking like she’s racing a clock no one can see. Like if she keeps her hands busy, the thoughts in her head won’t boil over.

She needs a win. She needs to remind you why you’re here. Why she brought you. Why it’s always been her. Not Natalie.

Charlotte mutters something under her breath and reaches for a whisk with a kind of tension that could snap steel. Behind her, soft footsteps echo on the hardwood. You step into the kitchen doorway, sleep-lined and still dressed in last night’s clothes, blinking in the light. You’re alone on the couch. No blanket over your shoulders. No Charlotte beside you.

Your eyes land on her immediately, the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenches even as she flips a perfect golden pancake onto a plate. She doesn’t hear you yet. Or maybe she’s pretending not to.

And you know this version of Charlotte. This is angry cooking Charlotte. Distract-herself-before-she-says-something-dangerous Charlotte. You saw it once after a bad phone call with her father during culinary school. Again when her ex sent her a wedding invite. And now…

You step toward her quietly. “Lottie?” your voice is soft, careful.

Charlotte jumps just slightly, startled. “Oh—hey. Morning.” She wipes her hands on a towel quickly, not quite meeting your eyes. “I, uh… I figured you’d be hungry.”

You cross the kitchen slowly and stop just behind her. “Are you okay?” you ask.

Charlotte lets out a humorless laugh, brushing hair from her face. “Of course I’m okay. Just needed to, you know. Cook.”

You don’t push with words. Instead, you step forward and wrap your arms around her from behind, a loose, comforting hug that settles around her waist. And that’s it. That’s the moment.

Charlotte’s whole body seizes, then softens, like she’s been cracked open from the inside. Her heart practically somersaults. She can’t breathe for a second. Her hands freeze over the pan and her face lights up red, like a stove flame turned to full.

“I—I wasn’t expecting that,” she mumbles, voice suddenly far too high and far too soft for the tough act she had going.

You just hum into her shoulder. “You don’t have to talk about it. But I know that kind of cooking.”

Charlotte swallows hard. “You do?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

“Yeah. And I know it doesn’t help as much as pretending it does.” You loosen the hug, just enough to lean around her, catching her eyes. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Lottie.”

But that’s the thing—she wants to. Desperately. Not because she has to. Because she wants to be enough. The way she wasn’t before.

She clears her throat. “I, um—these pancakes are almost done. I used oat milk, ‘cause you said the regular kind makes your stomach weird.”

You blink, and then raise your eyebrows in surprise. “You remembered that?”

Charlotte smiles, it’s crooked, proud, all shy blush and melted sugar. “I remember everything about you.” And god, she means it.

You sit at the kitchen island, barefoot and still a little rumpled from sleep, watching Charlotte stack pancakes like she’s constructing a temple. The sunlight pouring in through the tall windows hits her just right, golden in her hair, bright against the soft line of her jaw. Her expression’s mostly calm now, but her ears are still a little pink.

You prop your chin in your hand. “You’re aware this is a borderline seduction breakfast, right?”

Charlotte huffs a laugh, sliding the plate in front of you. “Seduction wasn’t the intention.”

You raise an eyebrow.

She hesitates. “…At least not the only intention.”

You stifle a grin and pick up your fork. Warm pancakes. Perfectly browned edges. Strawberries macerated in a little honey and citrus. There’s even whipped cream, slightly melting.

“You cooked your feelings into these,” you murmur after the first bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Like… I can taste the angst.”

Charlotte laughs, shoulders shaking, eyes flickering toward you like she can’t look away too long. “Better than yelling,” she says. “Or texting things I regret.”

You glance at her. “That bad of a morning?”

She shrugs, pours herself coffee, then leans against the counter across from you. “Let’s just say… some people don’t know when to let go.”

Your phone buzzes softly where it’s facedown on the counter. Neither of you move to check it.

Charlotte raises an eyebrow. “That her?”

You don’t answer at first, just take another bite. “Does it matter?”

Charlotte swirls her mug between her hands. “Not if you’re here with me. But if you’re here thinking about her…”

You set your fork down. “Lottie,” you say gently, “I’m here.”

She nods slowly. But you can tell she’s still caught in it, that place in her head where she’s trying to outrun the version of you that might go back to someone who hurt you. You reach across the island, press your fingers lightly over hers.

“I don’t know what’s happening between us,” you admit. “But I know what’s not. And that’s me running back to what it used to be. Which is a situationship that left me feeling unwanted. I also am grown enough not to run back to my ex who also used to leave me feeling small. Besides, I’m here and I want to be here. That’s what should matter…right?”

Charlotte blinks, her eyes softening. “I just…” she starts, then stops. “I want to do this right.”

You lean your chin on your palm again, smiling faintly. “You are. Even if you’re doing it while grumpy-cooking at 7am.”

She gives you a mock glare. “Grumpy? I was being intentional.”

You nod solemnly. “Intentional like a woman possessed.”

“Exactly.”

You both laugh, and the tension lifts just a little, replaced by something warmer, more magnetic. You finish your pancakes slowly, your feet brushing hers under the table. Charlotte’s still watching you like you hung the moon.

“Hey,” you call.

Charlotte jumps slightly and then spins around, beaming. “You made it!”

You give her a suspicious look. “Why do you look nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” she says too quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m…curating an experience.”

“Oh god.” You cross your arms, eyeing the setup, an open picnic blanket, a few bundled towels, a thermos, and a covered tray. “Am I about to be sacrificed to the Aspen gods?”

She laughs, a little too breathy. “No! I planned a picnic. And an activity.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned?”

Charlotte lifts the cover off the tray to reveal two small canvases, neatly clipped to portable easels, along with a set of paintbrushes and tubes of paint.

“I thought we could paint,” she says, smiling nervously. “You know, decompress a little. You’ve been in the test kitchen nonstop. This is still technically team-building.”

You stare at her. “You’re having me paint in the snow?”

“It’s spring snow,” she argues, but her voice is wobbly with anticipation. “And I brought blankets. And cider.”

You walk over and pick up a brush, turning it in your fingers. “You trying to distract me from the fact that this is a date?”

Charlotte flushes red, her mouth opening and closing. “It’s not—I mean—I wouldn’t say no to that interpretation.”

You smirk. “Relax. I think it’s sweet. You planned this whole Pinterest-core afternoon just for me?”

Charlotte groans and drops her face in her hands. “Lena told you, didn’t she.”

“No,” you say, fighting back a smile. “But now I’m going to make her tell me.”

She lifts her face, and her expression softens as she watches you settle onto the blanket, tucking one leg beneath you. Her nerves seem to melt just a little.

“I just wanted to spend time with you,” she says, quieter now. “Without any kitchen pressure. Just…us.”

Your breath catches. Not because of the words, but because of the way she’s looking at you. Like she’s not just seeing you, she’s remembering you. Wanting you.

“Okay,” you say, gently. “Then let’s paint.”

A little while later, you’re both halfway into your canvases, yours more abstract, hers a chaotic attempt at the mountain skyline, and you feel a peace settle in your chest. Charlotte’s making fun of her own lack of painting skills, and you’re teasing her for the blush that won’t go away.

“Yours looks like a chicken nugget on fire,” you say, leaning over to squint at her sky.

“That’s supposed to be the sun!”

You laugh. “Sure, Van Gogh.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, her shoulders finally relaxed. And then, for a moment, the laughter dies down, and you’re both just staring at each other, cheeks flushed, the quiet settling soft between you. Her eyes flick to your mouth. It’s almost a kiss.

Almost.

But instead, she coughs and looks away, fumbling with her paintbrush. “Okay, no more flirting, we have to focus. This is still a team-building exercise.”

“Charlotte,” you say, barely holding in your smile, “you are the least subtle person I’ve ever met.”

She just shrugs, cheeks pink again. “Yeah, well. I have a plan.”

You tilt your head. “A plan?”

She smiles—that sly, slightly wicked, I-know-what-I’m-doing smile that always makes your heart skip. But she doesn’t elaborate. And that silence says more than any words ever could.

The walk back to the house is quiet in the best way. Snow crunches beneath your boots, and the wind has finally stilled, leaving only the faint rustle of pines and the occasional puff of your shared laughter echoing through the trees.

Charlotte walks beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. She’s still holding the ridiculous, half-finished canvas she insisted on keeping (sun nugget and all) and every time she looks at it, she laughs under her breath.

You glance over. “You’re really proud of that disaster, huh?”

“It has personality,” she defends, bumping you gently with her elbow. “Plus, it’ll look fantastic in my office. Right next to the stress relief cactus Lena gave me.”

“I think it might give your cactus a complex.”

Charlotte snorts. “You’re mean.”

“I’m honest,” you say, grinning.

She slows when you reach the porch, but neither of you makes a move for the door right away. There’s a stillness to this moment, not awkward, but expectant. Like both of you are waiting for something.

Charlotte shifts her canvas under one arm. “I… I had fun today.”

You nod. “Me too.”

Her eyes linger on yours again. And there it is…that same flicker of want, of maybe-this-is-the-moment, but then her phone buzzes in her pocket, and the spell breaks. She sighs, checks it, and mutters something like saved by the bell before slipping it away.

You raise an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“I may or may not have ordered something,” she says, fidgeting.

You squint. “Like groceries?”

“Like… dinner. Or, um, a fourth meal.”

You narrow your eyes. “Lottie. What did you do.”

A beat passes, and then headlights flash across the driveway as a car pulls up, tires crunching in the gravel. You hear it before you see it. The crinkle of paper bags. The unmistakable scent of fast food.

And then Charlotte, beaming like an idiot, says, “Hope you like Taco Bell.”

Your jaw drops. “There’s Taco Bell in Aspen?”

“There’s delivery Taco Bell in Aspen,” she corrects proudly. “And I ordered extra Baja Blasts because I remember how grossly obsessed you were with them in school.”

“I—” You blink at her. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” she says. “You used to hoard the hot sauce packets like they were currency.”

You try to play it cool, but your smile gives you away. “Okay, well, this might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Charlotte laughs, and her voice is soft when she says, “Just wait till you see the nacho fries.”

Later, the two of you are curled on the massive couch under separate throw blankets, sharing an enormous spread of fast food. Charlotte’s giggling at the expression you make after your first sip of Baja Blast. “It’s like you’re drinking nostalgia.”

“It tastes like bad decisions and skipping class,” you sigh, sipping again. “God, I missed this.”

She nods, quieter now. “Yeah. Me too.”

The laughter dies down. You’re both full and warm and settled into a soft sort of silence, the kind that feels safe. She looks over at you, lips curled into the ghost of a smile, her lashes low. Her eyes dip to your mouth again. And this time… you almost let her.

Almost.

But instead, you stretch your arms above your head and yawn. “Alright, you gonna walk me to my door again or what?”

Charlotte blinks like she’s been caught. “R-right. Yeah. Of course.”

You both stand, toss your wrappers, and walk upstairs, slower than necessary, footsteps echoing against the hardwood. When you reach your room, you turn toward her. Charlotte is looking at you again like she’s so close to saying or doing something bold. Like she wants to kiss you right there in the hallway with hot sauce still on your breath. Instead, you step closer, brush her hair behind her ear, and lean in to kiss her cheek, soft, deliberate, lingering.

Just near her mouth. Just enough to leave her breathless. You pull back slowly, and Charlotte is frozen, pink-cheeked and stunned. “Goodnight, Lottie.”

You slip into your room before she can say a word, and close the door with a wicked grin on your face. You’re sprawled across the guest bed, your laptop open but long-forgotten, when your phone buzzes and Travis’s name lights up the screen.

You answer with a lazy grin. “Look who remembered I exist.”

His voice crackles through the line, warm and familiar. “Hey, don’t guilt-trip me, chef. I’ve been busy planning something big.”

You sit up a little straighter. “Oh yeah? You finally trying to fix your disastrous fantasy football lineup?”

Travis just chuckles. “Not even close. Hang on—lemme show you something.”

The camera flips, and you’re staring at a velvet ring box perched in his palm. Inside: a delicate, beautifully understated diamond ring. Elegant. Soft. So Akilah. Your jaw drops.

Travis is glowing. “Wanted you to be the first one to know… I’m proposing to Aki.”

You gasp. “Shut up.”

“I swear,” he says, laughing, voice thick with emotion. “It’s happening. Next month. I’ve got this whole idea—sunset, tacos, candles—”

You’re suddenly blinking back tears, unable to keep the smile off your face. “Trav, that’s… that’s incredible.”

“I’m freaking out,” he admits. “But like in a good way.”

You press a hand to your chest. “Do you need help planning? Do you want me to cook something? I’ll fly back. I’ll—”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he grins. “Okay so picture this—she loves music, right? What if right as she says yes, boom, full mariachi band comes out playing her mom’s favorite song—”

Your phone buzzes. A text banner appears at the top of the screen, and you see Natalie’s name.

photo dump :)

missed you today.

kept thinking about your face.

let’s ft soon

Your heart skips—no, lunges. A string of candid photos loads in behind the preview. Natalie in a sun-drenched field somewhere. A blurry iced coffee. A book she knows you loved. A close-up of her pouty smile. A mirror selfie in a tank top that makes you physically bite your lip.

Heat crawls up your neck. Natalie always does this somehow. Makes you feel like you’re tethered to something dangerous and delicious all at once.

“You good?” Travis asks, eyebrow raised. “Who texted you?”

You blink and tilt the phone just slightly out of view. “Nothing. Just—um. Work stuff.”

Travis narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You’re flushed.”

“I’m not—flushed.” You clear your throat, change the subject. “Okay, so—a mariachi band?? No way, dude. That’s bold.”

Travis beams. “Right?? But you think it’s too much?”

“A little,” you laugh, grateful for the shift, “Why mariachi band? I think I’m lost on that part.”

He nods like you bring up a valid point. And starts describing the playlist he’s building and why mariachi makes sense, where he plans to hide the ring box, your eyes flicker back to your phone on the comforter. Natalie’s name still glowing at the top. And your chest aches, with joy for your best friend, yes. But also with that awful, swoony pull toward someone who makes your stomach flip and your judgment blur.

Steam curled up from the pan as you flipped the fish one last time, tossing in a handful of shaved fennel and citrus segments. The sauce on the back burner was thickening perfectly, fragrant with white wine and lemongrass. Behind you, a row of already-tested plates sat in neat order: duck, short rib, some daring vegetarian risotto you were still workshopping.

You didn’t notice the door open.

Didn’t notice Charlotte until she spoke, her voice soft, still laced with morning husk.

“God. Look at you.”

You turned, startled, only to find her standing in the doorway, dressed in an immaculate navy suit, hair pulled back into a sharp twist. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a business magazine. But her eyes were tired, a little worn—sparked with something real the moment she saw you.

You smiled. “Morning. I didn’t think you’d be up yet.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, stepping in. “But Lena said the kitchen was already alive, and I had a feeling it was you.”

You shrugged, turning back to your station. “Menu doesn’t write itself.”

Charlotte watched you move, the fluid, unthinking confidence in the way you stirred, reached, plated. You didn’t need to ask questions. You knew what you were doing. And damn if that didn’t do something to her.

You glanced over your shoulder. “You hungry?”

She hesitated. “I should probably say no.”

“But?”

She sighed, smiling. “But… yes. Absolutely starving.”

You nodded once and grabbed a fresh pan. “Sit. I’ll make you something.”

She slid onto a stool at the island, watching you like she used to, chin in hand, completely transfixed. You worked quickly, pulling ingredients from memory, barely even thinking as you reached for the gruyère, the crusty bread, the roasted tomatoes already cooling on the rack.

The smell of butter hit the heat and Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment like it physically calmed her. You were nearly done when she said it. “Wait… is this—?”

“Your comfort meal,” you said over your shoulder, grinning. “Gruyère grilled cheese, roasted tomato soup. No tweaks, no twists. Exactly how you liked it.”

Charlotte’s face softened into something almost childlike. “You remember that?”

You slid the plate in front of her, sitting across the counter. “Of course I remember. It was your favorite thing to eat after we… you know.”

Charlotte blinked, and her face went bright red. Eyes widening in realization before blinking again. You just smirked as you sipped your coffee.

“Oh my god,” she mumbled into her hands, face burning. “You’re the worst.”

“Am I wrong?”

Charlotte glanced at the plate like it might save her, then back at you, eyes shining with laughter and something else, something a little molten.

“No,” she muttered, cheeks still flushed. “You’re not.”

You winked. “Thought so.”

She bit into the sandwich and groaned softly. “Jesus. Okay. This? This is still illegal levels of good.”

You beamed, pleased. She looked at you like you were the best part of her day…and maybe, just maybe, you were. The kitchen had quieted down by mid-morning—the burners off, the pans resting, and the hum of the prep fridge the only sound left.

Charlotte had finished her grilled cheese and soup but hadn’t moved. Her suit jacket was folded neatly over the stool, sleeves rolled up, heels kicked off. She looked comfortable in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time, eyes glassy with warmth, watching you with that fond, awestruck look she always tried to hide but failed miserably at.

You turned, wiping your hands on a towel and grabbing a clipboard from the counter. “Okay, so,” you began, eyes lit up, “I wanted to run the draft Aspen menu by you.”

Charlotte straightened, visibly excited. “Yes, hit me with it.”

You laid the board between you both and pulled up a few printed mockups, annotated with your quick notes in sharp, tidy handwriting. “So the direction I’m leaning into is kind of… rustic luxury. Local-forward, but not obnoxious. Like, dishes that feel indulgent, warm, and elevated without being pretentious.”

Charlotte’s smile tugged wider. “Go on.”

“Starters,” you said, tapping the first line. “We open with a trio, mushroom consomme with brown butter breadcrumbs, whipped goat cheese with rosemary honey and grilled flatbread, and a little venison tartare on puff pastry. All small, clean, rich.”

Charlotte nodded slowly, already picturing it. “Sexy. Love it.”

You grinned. “Mains are where it gets a little wild. I’m playing with a roasted elk loin with blackberry demi-glace, served with parsnip puree and fried sage. Then a steelhead trout dish over charred leeks with preserved lemon gremolata. And… I’m testing a plant-based shepherd’s pie—oyster mushrooms, white beans, roasted root veg under a golden cauliflower-potato mash. Rustic but craveable.”

Charlotte looked like she was in a trance. “God. I’d eat all of that right now.”

You shrugged modestly, but your eyes glinted with pride. “And dessert’s still in the sketching phase, but I’m thinking a warm brown butter cake, maybe with bourbon-glazed apples and spiced creme fraiche. Or… a snow sugar pavlova with juniper cream and candied pine nuts. Something whimsical. Playful.”

Charlotte blinked like she’d just remembered to breathe.

“I mean, obviously everything will get a wine pairing and some rotating seasonal swaps,” you added, flipping the page. “And I want to test a fondue moment, but, like, deconstructed. Less ‘tourist trap’ and more…” you paused, thinking, “…Michelin fantasy sequence.”

Charlotte let out a little laugh, breathless. “You’re brilliant.”

You tilted your head. “You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” she said, eyes locking onto yours. “But still—brilliant.”

You shrugged one shoulder, cheeks warm. “It’s a draft. I’ll keep tweaking.”

Charlotte leaned in just slightly, elbow resting on the island, chin in hand. “Do you know what you look like when you talk about food?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Alive,” she said, without hesitation. “Like… every part of you is switched on. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath caught just slightly, the kind of pause that could become something if you let it. But you didn’t let it. Not yet.

Instead, you looked down at your notes and smiled “Glad you like it. Because I’m dragging you into test tastings this week whether you want to or not.”

Charlotte grinned. “Oh, I want to. Make no mistake.”

And for the first time that morning, she looked a little nervous, like she realized she was maybe saying too much, feeling too much, falling too much. But it was already too late. Because watching you come alive like this?

She was already gone.

Charlotte scrolled through the notes on her tablet as she slid into the cushioned booth across from Lena at the café inside the Aspen property’s admin wing. The place was all glass walls and dark pine, sleek, quiet, and too formal for either of them, but it was the only place on-site with halfway decent espresso.

Lena didn’t look up from her laptop. “You’re late.”

Charlotte dropped her tablet on the table. “You’re lucky I’m here at all. I’ve had three meetings since seven. I swear my father breeds new executives in his sleep.”

Lena’s eyebrow arched. “Charming. And what do these purebred execs want now?”

Charlotte sighed and leaned back. “Someone embezzled from the Aspen branch’s renovation budget last year. Dad wants me to clean up the mess before the board hears about it.”

“So a normal Tuesday,” Lena deadpanned.

Charlotte grunted. “Unfortunately.”

They went over a few key points, names, numbers, deadlines, and Lena updated her on the investor dinner that was being finalized for the end of the week. Then, just as the conversation started to edge back toward the tedious, a chime dinged softly from Charlotte’s watch. Charlotte’s entire expression lit up.

Lena didn’t even look. “There it is.”

Charlotte beamed, tapping the screen. “You know what that means!!”

Lena rolled her eyes and closed her laptop with a soft snap. “Yes. It’s time for one of your highly curated, questionably justified ‘team-building activities’ with our dear consulting chef-slash-situationship.”

Charlotte made a face. “She’s not—okay, maybe—but these activities are important!”

Lena arched a brow. “Important for the Aspen menu?”

Charlotte hesitated. “Emotionally, yes.”

Lena snorted and sipped her espresso. “God help me.”

“I planned something good today,” Charlotte said, practically glowing. “Like, really good. Outdoorsy, but not terrifying. Thoughtful. Pretty.”

“Did it come with a Pinterest board and a secret Spotify playlist?”

Charlotte flushed. “…Shut up.”

Lena’s smirk softened. Despite the eye-rolls and sarcasm, there was a flicker of something warm in her gaze as she packed up her things. “You really like her.”

Charlotte looked down at her watch, the buzz of the alarm still humming against her wrist. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I do.”

Lena stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Alright. I’ll send her to the house in twenty. You better not make her wear a helmet again.”

“That was one time,” Charlotte said, indignant. “And it was adorable.”

“Traumatizing,” Lena corrected, walking off. But she paused in the doorway, glancing back with a dry smile. “You got this. Try not to spontaneously combust.”

Charlotte was already on her feet, nerves and excitement rolling through her like electricity. “I got this. Can you just make sure she meets me at the house?”

Lena nodded. “Done.”

And as she disappeared down the hallway, Charlotte stood there for a beat, heart pounding like she was about to go on a first date all over again.

But what you walked into instead was…

Charlotte in a worn long-sleeve Henley and joggers, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her hair loosely tied back, standing barefoot in the sleek marble-and-wood kitchen, grinning like she’d just found a secret. Her whole face lit up when she saw you. And you? You swore you saw her sway a little when she took you in.

“God,” she murmured under her breath, then caught herself and smiled wider. “You clean up nice.”

You glanced down at your simple jeans and fitted sweater, brushing a hand through your hair, but her gaze was unwavering. Like you were divine. You swallowed hard at the thought.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you said, smirking as you leaned against the counter. “I was half-expecting a three-piece suit.”

Charlotte scoffed, mock offended. “I do know how to relax.”

You arched a brow. “Prove it.”

She walked over to the counter and lifted a bottle of wine. “Well. First of all—vino. And second,” she opened the fridge with a little flourish, “we’re making pizza.”

That made you pause. “Pizza?”

Charlotte beamed. “It’s our thing, right? Cheap slices after work. Rooftop margarita pies when we couldn’t afford anything else back in culinary school. Seemed fitting.”

You laughed, warmth bubbling in your chest. “You remembered that?”

Her voice softened, “I remember a lot of things.”

You didn’t answer that. Just stepped forward, brushing past her with a hand grazing her arm, and grabbed the flour. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

The kitchen filled with the warm scent of yeasty dough and garlic, the distant sound of music playing from Charlotte’s phone tucked into a nearby cup. There was flour everywhere, on the counter, on both of your shirts, dusting Charlotte’s cheek like a constellation.

You kneaded, chopped. “Are you really putting figs on your pizza?” you teased, eyeing her dough.

Charlotte smirked. “It’s sophisticated.”

“It’s pretentious.”

“Oh, please, you’re over there making a buffalo mozzarella masterpiece with fresh basil like you’re filming an episode of Chef’s Table.”

You shrugged innocently. “Can’t help that I have taste.”

She snorted, elbowing you gently. And for a moment, your faces were too close. Your laughter fell into silence. The air between you turned hot and heavy, like the oven behind you. Her eyes dropped to your mouth, just for a second.

But then she stepped back, clearing her throat. And you looked away, pulse thudding in your throat. The moment passed. But it lingered.

By the time the pizzas were finished and the kitchen smelled like heaven, the sun had dipped behind the mountains. You sat across from each other at the island, legs stretched out, bare feet brushing under the counter.

“Okay,” Charlotte said after a long sip of wine. “Yours wins. But only because you bribed me with that garlic oil finish.”

You raised a brow, a wide smile on your lips. “Wasn’t a bribe. Just skill.”

She laughed and leaned back, watching you with a softness she rarely let out. You were already pushing your chair back when she spoke again, quiet. “Do you remember that night in the kitchen? At school. The kiss?”

You stilled. Your heart skipped.

“God,” you breathed, then laughed. “Yeah. I thought about that kiss for weeks.”

Charlotte’s smile turned gentle. “Me too.”

It hung there. Truth, stretched thin between you. The soft light of the cabin played against her cheekbone, and you felt that pull again, like gravity had shifted slightly in her direction. But she didn’t move. Neither did you.

And somehow, that restraint only made it worse. You grabbed a dish towel and stood. “Come on. Let’s clean up before I start kissing you again in this kitchen.”

Charlotte’s laugh followed you as you turned to the sink. “So you’re admitting it might happen?”

You didn’t look at her. But your voice was low, teasing, “I’m admitting it’s getting harder not to.”

Later that night, the dishes were drying on the rack, wine glasses mostly empty, and the smell of roasted garlic and crisped dough still clung to the cabin’s warm air. You leaned against the kitchen counter, lazily sipping the last of your wine, and Charlotte stood across from you, fiddling with her bracelet something she only ever did when she was nervous.

“So,” she said, tone carefully casual, “about this week.”

You raised a brow. “What about it?”

“Well…” Charlotte straightened a bit. “Technically, you’re here to consult on the Aspen flagship’s winter menu. The location’s been underperforming, so we’re assessing what’s working, what isn’t, and how to recalibrate before ski season kicks off.”

“Right,” you nodded slowly, “the restaurant needs saving, and I’m here to play culinary savior.”

Charlotte smirked. “Pretty much.”

You could feel her trying not to smile too hard. “And what’s your role in this?”

Her expression dimmed slightly, more serious now. “There’s some corporate mess I have to untangle— bad vendor contracts, staffing issues, branding confusion. It’s why my dad sent me up here in the first place. He thinks I fix things.”

You caught something flicker behind her eyes and filed it away to ask about later. Charlotte cleared her throat, grabbing her phone from the counter and pulling up a calendar. “But! I did block out time for the two of us to explore some things while we’re here.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Explore… things?”

She didn’t look up right away. “Tasting local cuisine. Meeting suppliers. Visiting that new artisanal bakery up the mountain. Snowmobiling—uh, purely for research purposes of course.”

You laughed. “Snowmobiling is for research now?”

Charlotte flushed, but still managed to keep her voice playful. “Every chef should understand the terrain that grows their ingredients.”

“Oh wow. That’s rich coming from a girl whose family estate could fund a small country.”

Charlotte finally met your gaze, and there was that grin again, a little too pleased with herself. “What can I say? I’m committed to the work.”

You tilted your head. “So I’m just here for…professional bonding?”

Something about your tone made Charlotte falter. Her mouth opened, then closed, and for a split second you saw that familiar nervous wreck behind the cool exterior. She adjusted her bracelet again.

“Well,” she said carefully, “it’s also important to build…rapport. With consultants. Who’ve kissed you in kitchens before.”

You snorted. “God, Lottie—”

She cut in with a mock gasp. “Nickname. That’s cheating. I’m too weak for that.”

You tried not to grin as you sipped your wine. “Fine. Continue with your very serious consultant itinerary.”

Charlotte’s smile softened. “We’ll work in the mornings. Review the Aspen location’s current menu, sit in on service, see how things run. But afternoons are mostly free, I figured we could do some one-on-one tastings, maybe some recipe development.”

“And snowmobiling,” you reminded.

“And snowmobiling,” she said, laughing. “Look, I wanted you to enjoy this trip too. I know things have been… hectic. So if we can sneak in some fun while saving a restaurant, I’m calling that a win.”

You watched her a moment, the way her hair curled just slightly from the heat of the kitchen, how loose and real she looked here—not the heir to an empire, but just Charlotte. Someone who wanted this week to mean something. Maybe more than she was saying.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Let’s save a restaurant. And maybe…have a little fun doing it.”

Charlotte’s gaze lingered on yours, her voice just above a whisper. “I’d like that.”

The hallway was quiet, bathed in amber light from sconces shaped like lanterns. The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath your socks as you walked beside Charlotte, both of you moving slower than necessary, neither ready to say goodnight just yet.

You stopped in front of your door.

Charlotte did too.

Her hands were in her pockets again, like they always were when she was trying to keep from reaching for something. For you. You turned to her, lips parted to say something, but she beat you to it. She stepped a little closer. No words.

Just that look in her eyes, warm, vulnerable, almost pleading. Then, gently, deliberately, she leaned in and kissed your cheek. Not a quick brush. Not a platonic peck.

It lingered.

Warm and slow and a little too close to the corner of your mouth. You felt her breath, the faint scent of pizza dough and wine still clinging to her. Her lips hovered for just a beat longer than they should have. Like she didn’t want to pull away.

Charlotte did finally pull back, but her gaze didn’t leave yours. She looked at you like she was memorizing something. Like if she let herself, she would just close the distance and kiss you properly. No hesitation. No plan. Just want.

God, she wanted to.

She wanted to pin you against the door and kiss you like she did in that kitchen all those years ago—reckless, hungry, young. But she didn’t.

Because this time, she had a plan.

She was going to do it right. Win you back completely. Make you hers. But still, the ache in her chest throbbed like a warning. The distance between you suddenly felt too sharp. You smiled softly, heat blooming in your chest.

“Goodnight, Lottie.”

An open suitcase lay flopped across your bed like a beached whale. Clothes were spilling out of drawers, shoes mismatched in the corner, a half-packed toiletry bag teetering on the edge of your nightstand. You stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, brow furrowed, a single heeled boot in one hand and a pair of snow boots in the other.

Van appeared in the doorway with a dramatic sigh. “God, you’re hopeless.”

You didn’t even look at her. “I’m deciding between ‘business casual’ or ‘please don’t let me die in a snowstorm.’”

Van kicked the door shut behind her, tossed her bag on your armchair, and walked over like a woman on a mission. “You’re packing like you’re going to be on Survivor: Aspen Edition.”

You gave her a look. “Okay, don’t knock Survivor Van. It’s a great show. Charlotte said it might snow. And then there’s the summit. And drinks. And the hotel dinners. And her.”

Van raised her brows. “Ah. Her.” She yanked the heeled boot out of your hand and flung it onto the floor. “Okay, we’re starting over.”

“I like those shoes.”

“Yeah, and I like you not crying in a hotel bathtub because you kissed your boss in the mountains.”

You groaned and flopped down onto the bed. “You’re worse than my mom.”

“Your mom doesn’t know Charlotte once called you ‘the best fuck in all of Hyde Park’ while literally drunk on rosemary gimlets.”

You buried your face in a sweater. “God, please stop quoting her like we’re in a rom-com. It was college—and besides, she’s sweeter now. Who fucking gives forehead kisses like it’s chivalry anymore?”

Van sat beside you and patted your back like you were a cat she didn’t fully trust. “Which you’ve mentioned six times in the last hour.”

You peeked up at her through your hair. “That’s because it’s worth mentioning more than once—I don’t know what this trip is. Like, is it professional? Friendly? ‘Hey, let’s resolve all this tension and maybe sleep together in a luxury resort before pretending it never happened’?”

Van made a face. “Okay, wow, gross. I literally just had lunch.”

You smacked her with the sweater. “Be serious!”

“I am serious.” She reached for your suitcase and began expertly folding your sweaters. “You’re going to pack your grown-woman outfits. You’re going to pretend this is strictly business. And you’re going to keep your feelings in check.”

You squinted at her. “And if I can’t?”

Van shoved a pair of leggings in the suitcase. “Then at least wear cute pajamas so you can cry in style.”

You laughed despite yourself. “Thanks, Van.”

“Always,” she said, softer now. “Just don’t let her pull you back in unless she means it this time. I like my best friend with some self-esteem.”

You gave her a salute. “Yes, Captain.”

Van pointed a sock at you. “And pack moisturizer. That altitude is rude.”

It felt too fast when travel day was finally here. The Uber slowed at the edge of the private terminal, snowflakes melting against the windshield. Your driver glanced back, eyebrow raised.

“You sure this is it?”

You stared through the window at the small, sleek jet parked on the tarmac like it belonged in a Bond film. At the bottom of the steps stood Charlotte Matthews, coat draped over her shoulders, scarf billowing slightly in the breeze, hair pulled back in a low, perfect bun, her whole body glowing like some kind of high-altitude goddess.

She was smiling. Actually, she was beaming.

You swallowed, hard. “Yeah,” you murmured, grabbing your duffel. “I’m sure.” Before you even had a chance to fully step out of the car, Charlotte was already halfway to you, practically bouncing on her heels.

“Hey,” she said, breath visible in the cold, hands fluttering like she couldn’t figure out what to do with them. “You made it.”

You chuckled at her. “It’s a private plane. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

She laughed, cheeks pink from the wind—or maybe from you. “You look…”

“Cold?” you teased, tugging your coat tighter.

“No,” Charlotte said, stepping closer, eyes warm. “Beautiful.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Jesus, Matthews, we haven’t even taken off yet. Take me to dinner first.”

From the top of the stairs, Lena cleared her throat, loud enough to interrupt, not loud enough to be impolite. She stood with an iPad clutched to her chest and a look that could only be described as: These two are ridiculous, but I’m still rooting for them.

“Charlotte, I told you to stay inside. You’ll get windburn.”

“She’s fine,” you called up. “Besides, it’s not like she listens to you anyway.”

Charlotte grinned and offered you her hand, like some kind of gallant knight. “Come on. We’ve got champagne and—Lena made a seating chart, but I’m ignoring it.”

You laughed despite the nerves fluttering through your stomach as you took her hand. Her fingers curled around yours, too warm, too familiar.

As you climbed the stairs together, Charlotte leaned in and whispered, “I packed an extra sweater. For you. In case you forgot.”

You turned to her, a smirk tugging at your lips. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

Charlotte tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “The kind I’d like to sit next to for the next three hours.”

Behind you, Lena muttered under her breath. “God, help me,” but you didn’t miss the ghost of a smile playing on her lips as she stepped aside to let you both in.

Inside, the jet was as luxe as you expected, plush leather seats, soft lighting, a tray of mimosas already chilling. But none of that really registered. You were too aware of the way Charlotte sat beside you instead of across, the way her knee brushed yours when she shifted, the way her smile lingered like she didn’t want to let it go.

This was going to be a long flight. A dangerous one. And you were already in trouble. The jet lifted with a low rumble, smooth as silk, and within minutes, you were gliding above the clouds. Charlotte had insisted you sit beside her— “for turbulence,” she said, which was cute, since the skies looked clearer than your conscience.

You were thankful regardless, you hated flights. Always had. The moment the seatbelt sign dinged off, she relaxed into her seat, legs crossed, fingers tapping absentmindedly against her thigh. You’d never seen her this… soft. Not in the kitchen. Not at work. Not even in the quiet moments when she thought no one was watching. It was unnerving, kind of charming, and if you were honest, a little hot.

“You really brought a duffel bag?” she teased, nodding toward your feet.

You raised an eyebrow. “What, you thought I was gonna show up with matching monogrammed luggage and a pressed travel itinerary?”

Charlotte pretended to consider it. “Maybe a backpack with your initials stitched in. Something… tasteful.”

You smirked. “Sorry to disappoint, princess.”

Her ears turned red instantly. “I’m not—” she cleared her throat, “—not a princess.”

“Oh no?” You leaned back into the buttery leather. “You own a Michelin-starred restaurant, take private jets, and make people cry over garnish placement. But yeah, sure. Totally grounded.”

She narrowed her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips ruined the effect. “You’re infuriating.”

“And yet,” you said, reaching for the mimosa she’d poured you, “you invited me on this little Aspen getaway.”

“That was… professional courtesy.”

“Right,” you drawled. “And the way you’re blushing right now? Also professional?”

“I’m not blushing,” she insisted, face fully pink. She tugged her coat tighter around herself, looking anywhere but at you. “I’m just… warm.”

You let it go. Barely.

The banter slowed eventually. Charlotte leaned her head back, staring out the window at the clouds stretching endless and glowing. The sunlight caught the soft edge of her jaw, the slope of her nose. She looked tired, not the kind of tired you sleep off, but the kind that builds in layers.

You stood and stretched, making your way toward the galley where Lena was reviewing something on her tablet. “Hey,” you said, keeping your voice low. “Can I ask you something?”

Lena gave you a sidelong glance, cautious. “Depends.”

“What exactly is this trip? Charlotte mentioned a summit, but she’s been avoiding the subject like it’s contagious.”

Lena sighed. Not annoyed, more like she’d been waiting for the question. She closed the tablet with a soft snap.

“Charlotte’s father is the kind of man who believes legacy is built in boardrooms and polished over cocktails,” she said flatly. “When something in the Matthews empire goes south, bad press, investor tension, misaligned projections—he sends Charlotte in to ‘clean up the mess.’”

You frowned. “Because she’s good at it?”

“Because she’s the best at it. And because it’s easier for him to play puppeteer from a distance.”

Your mouth tightened. “Sounds like he doesn’t give her much of a choice.”

“He doesn’t,” Lena said, her tone even. “He gives her a spotlight. With strings.”

You glanced back toward Charlotte, who was now pretending to read a magazine, one leg bouncing restlessly.

“So this trip,” you said. “Isn’t just a summit.”

“No,” Lena said. “It’s damage control. PR spin. Polite warfare in ski lodges and five-star restaurants. He’s testing her. Again.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why does she keep saying yes?”

Lena didn’t answer right away. Like she was finding the right words to say next. “Because she still thinks proving herself might one day be enough for him to let go.”

That… hurt more than it should. You turned back toward your seat, and just before you slid back in beside Charlotte, Lena added under her breath, “She’s different around you. Just don’t let her burn herself trying to stay warm.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded.

Charlotte turned to you, already smiling, voice laced with something lighter. “What, miss me already?”

And because you couldn’t help it, you smirked. “Depends. You still warm?”

She rolled her eyes. But her hand brushed yours under the armrest, and neither of you moved away. The Matthews “cabin” rose like something out of a film—all timber and glass, perfectly nestled into the snowy hills of Aspen. If the private jet hadn’t already set the tone, this sealed it: Charlotte Matthews didn’t just vacation, she curated experiences.

She led you up the front steps with practiced ease, punching in a code at the door and pushing it open with a small, proud smile. Warm light spilled into the foyer. There was a stone fireplace already crackling in the sitting room, a lofted ceiling strung with golden bulbs, and the faint scent of cedar and something sweet wafting through the air.

“I know it’s a little much,” she said, glancing at you as you stepped inside, “but my father insists on keeping up appearances even in the woods.”

You laughed under your breath. “Yeah. Just a humble little log shack.”

Charlotte grinned. “C’mon. I’ll show you your room.”

She led you down a wide hallway lined with black-and-white photos and abstract art that probably cost more than your rent. The cabin may have been all wood and warmth, but it had been decorated with sleek, minimal touches that screamed money with restraint.

Your room was at the far end of the hall, spacious, high-ceilinged, with a window that overlooked the snowy trees and mountains beyond. There was a king-sized bed dressed in navy linen, a soft throw blanket folded at the foot, and a set of your bags already placed neatly by the closet.

Charlotte stepped aside and gestured. “Here we are. Yours is just down the hall from mine. For convenience.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Convenience, huh?”

Her lips twitched. “Well, yeah. I mean. In case you need anything. Or… whatever.”

You gave her a look, then wandered in, fingertips brushing over the plush comforter as you turned. “So what’s the protocol here? Do I unpack now or wait until someone offers to do it for me?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes, but her smile was fond. “Dinner’s in two hours. You’ve got time. Do whatever makes you feel less nervous.”

You tilted your head. “I’m not nervous.”

She looked at you. Really looked. “You’re always a little nervous when you travel.”

You held her gaze, refusing to smile, even though you wanted to. How she remembered that tiny detail all these years later was…impressive. “Charlotte Matthews got me all figured out, huh?”

“Trying to.” She mumbles.

Charlotte stood there a moment longer, fingers curling lightly around the edge of the doorframe. She wasn’t moving. Not really. Just lingering—like there was something unsaid on her tongue.

You watched her, the quiet beat stretching. “Charlotte,” you said, voice low, “if you’re wanting a kiss, you’re gonna have to ask for it.”

Her eyes went wide. Color climbed from her neck to the tips of her ears. “I—thought it was our thing,” she stammered, “I walk you to your door, you give me a kiss.”

That got a laugh out of you, soft and surprised. “Wow. And here I thought you just wanted to be chivalrous.”

Her mouth opened, probably to protest, but you closed the space between you first, one hand reaching up to cradle her cheek. You kissed her softly, deliberately, just a breath too close to her mouth. Her skin was warm beneath your touch. Her breath caught, and then her eyes fluttered open.

You didn’t move your hand. “Thanks for walking me to my door.”

Charlotte smiled, dazed and red. “Kay. I’ll… uh… let you unpack.”

She backed out of the room a little too fast, nearly missing the doorknob as she reached for it. You smirked as it clicked shut behind her, your heart thudding just enough to make you sit down and breathe.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

You exhaled hard, crossed the room, and flopped backward onto the bed with a soft whuff. The mattress cradled you immediately, the plush comforter rising around your arms as you stared at the wooden beams overhead, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run a race.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You groaned and fished it out. You opened it to find Van’s text.

U alive or did your private plane crash in the Rockies 🤨

You huffed a laugh, thumbs moving quickly.

Alive. Landed. Not kidnapped. Plane had snacks and leather seats. Will send proof of life later.

Almost immediately Van responds back;

Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do

…which basically means don’t sleep with your boss 🫩

You snorted, typing back;

U r worse than my mom

Another buzz, but it wasn’t Van this time. You saw the name before the message and paused. Natalie. Your stomach twisted. You shouldn’t open it.

You really shouldn’t. But your finger tapped anyway. Your eyes lingered on Natalie’s text.

Did you land safe?

So simple. So normal. Like she hadn’t reminded you about your first kiss only hours earlier. Like she hadn’t showed up in your life…again all breathy apologies and mixed signals. Like she still had some quiet claim on your heart she didn’t deserve. And despite all that still—you typed back before you could stop yourself.

Yeah. Safe.

There was a beat. Then Natalie was responding back;

Okay bby don’t have too much fun without me 💔

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. A smile lingering on your lips despite the eye roll. God you hated how she did that to you.

“Jesus,” you muttered, chucking your phone onto the far end of the bed like it had personally offended you.

You lay there, body still and buzzing. The silence of the cabin was soft, padded, the kind that made you aware of your own heartbeat. Your hands came up to your face, covering your eyes, fingertips pressed into your temples.

You were here. In a luxury cabin in Aspen. With Charlotte. And it had been maybe two hours, and already she was lingering in your doorframe, letting you touch her face like it was a normal thing to do.

And all you could think was how badly you wanted to kiss her. Properly. Not a cheek-kiss. Not a teasing moment that ended with a flustered retreat. You wanted to close the space and stay there.

The kind of flutter you couldn’t pin down. Soft and slow and somehow safe.

Your keys jangled as you stepped inside your apartment. The quiet was immediate, the kind of stillness that felt unfamiliar after the buzz of champagne and music, after standing so close to her all night.

You toed off your shoes, letting the black Converse fall with a soft thunk. The black tshirt, and faded jeans, felt like too much suddenly, too delicate for your little apartment, so you peeled it off and pulled on the nearest oversized tee from your laundry chair.

There were still remnants of the night clinging to you, the scent of Charlotte’s perfume lingering faintly on your coat, the ghost of her hand on your back, the warmth in her eyes when she’d looked at you like she meant it.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror smiled at nothing as you washed off your makeup. By the time you were settled into bed, the glow of your bedside lamp was dim and soft. You curled beneath the sheets, phone in hand, thumb hovering over your texts. There were unread messages from Van. One from Travis. A meme from Akilah.

And one from Natalie.

Just a single “You up?” sent seven minutes ago. You stared at it for a beat. Your finger hovered, moved away, then hovered again. Before you could decide whether to text back, the screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime call.

Natalie.

You didn’t even know how, but the conversation grew legs of its own. Natalie seemed to have only time and almost too much to talk about. The screen flickers, catching on Natalie’s tired but amused face, her hair pulled back messily, smudged eyeliner from earlier still faintly hanging on. She’s propped up on the couch in her darkened apartment, phone angled slightly askew.

“So then what happened?” you ask, sipping from a mug and leaning closer to the camera.

Natalie blinks slowly. “Hm?”

“You just spaced the fuck out on me. I said—wait. What were you thinking about?”

There’s a long pause. Natalie’s mouth opens, closes, then quirks into a half-smile. “Our first kiss.”

You nearly spit your water. “I—what?!”

But Natalie doesn’t even flinch. Her voice is casual, low. “Yeah,” she says. “I was thinking about that stupid humid summer and your uncle’s god-awful playlist.”

You could still see the sun and how it was folding into the sky, bruised orange and pink, the kind of light that made everything look a little more romantic than it had any right to be. The air was thick, buzzing with humidity and the low whir of traffic in the distance. Natalie sat on the back steps of the auto shop, jaw tight, boot scraping lines into the dirt like she could carve her frustration into the earth.

“They said it was that or expulsion,” she muttered, not looking at you. “So, congratulations. You get me ‘til fall.”

You glanced over at her, halfway through a melted popsicle, bare knees pulled to your chest. “Remind me what crime you committed again?”

Natalie rolled her eyes. “Told Ms. Klein to choke on her clipboard.”

“That’s not a crime,” you said around a bite of red slush. “That’s... public service.”

Natalie cracked a smile despite herself. It was tired. Worn thin. “Yeah, well, the principal didn’t think so. So now I’m on probation and the varsity soccer team. Community service hours are getting logged right here, with your uncle and his grumpy-ass record collection.”

You laughed. “The man thinks Journey is the peak of human achievement.”

“Could be worse,” she muttered.

“You are greasy,” you offered, eyeing the smudge across her cheek. “Kinda looks good on you, though. All bad-girl meets carburetor chic.”

Natalie gave you a flat look. “You’re such a dork.”

“And yet you keep showing up,” you said, nudging her shoulder with yours.

She didn’t answer. Just let her boot still, staring ahead at the skyline blurring into dusk. There was something quieter about her tonight. Something heavy behind her silence.

You watched her. The girl everyone whispered about. The girl with the addict mom and the drunk father and the fists that knew how to break lockers but not how to hold anything gently. The girl who walked into the shop that first day like the world owed her a fight. But here she was, sitting next to you, letting her shoulder lean just slightly into yours. Breathing.

“Soccer players are hot,” you offered, trying to lighten the mood. “You’ll probably look great in shin guards.”

Natalie blinked, lips twitching. “Did you just say shin guards are hot?”

“I said soccer players are hot. The shin guards are just bonus.”

She burst out laughing, that rare, unguarded kind that scraped the bottom of her stomach and came out loud and bright. “You’re so weird.”

You grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

And then she looked at you. Really looked at you.

Eyes shining. That soft glow of the streetlights catching on the curve of your cheek. You weren’t judging her. You never had. Not when you found out about her record. Not when you saw the bruises she never explained. Not when she showed up sullen and exhausted and reeking of cheap beer her dad had left spilled in the kitchen.

You just… saw her.

And that scared the hell out of her. But it also made her brave. So she kissed you. It was sudden. Quick. Her hand landing clumsily on your jaw. Her lips unsure. Breath short. You froze, just for a second, eyes wide, pulse loud in your ears.

And then you kissed her back.

It was messy, awkward, and a little desperate. A silent admission of everything you’d both been trying not to say. The summer haze wrapped around you, the shop lights flickering on behind your heads like a stage cue.

When you pulled away, your forehead was still touching hers.

“Sorry,” she whispered, voice thick. “I just… I wanted to do that before this all ends.”

You looked at her, something soft blooming in your chest. “Don’t be sorry.”

And you kissed her again, slower this time. The cars passed by on the street. The soda can rolled off the stairs. And the world, for one impossibly beautiful second, was quiet.

Your eyes focused back onto the screen, with an amused Natalie watching you. Like she could tell you were remembering now, too.

“I can’t believe you just said that out loud,” you mutter, half hiding your face behind your mug.

Natalie shrugs. “What? You asked.”

You groan. “Well, when I asked, I meant like…‘what you were thinking about for dinner?’ not—you can’t just drop that on me.”

Her voice lowers, softer now. “It was a good kiss.”

You’re quiet. A small smile flickers at the corner of your mouth. “It was,” you say.

Natalie watches you for a moment, then exhales slowly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me the way you did. Like I wasn’t a fuck-up. You always saw me for me.”

You blink at the screen. “That’s ‘cause you weren’t a fuck-up. You were just… figuring your shit out.”

Natalie gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Still am.”

Another pause. Then you whisper, “Yeah. Me too.”

You're still curled up on your couch, the mug now lukewarm in your hands, as Natalie lounges on the other end of the video call. She’s in her hoodie again, the same one from high school, collar stretched and faded from too many late nights and bad decisions. Her hair’s longer now, tied messily back, a few strands loose and curling near her cheekbone. She looks relaxed. Grounded, even.

That’s the weird part.

She’s still Natalie, but… not the hurricane. Not the wild, reckless fire you spent your teens dancing too close to. There’s a steadiness in her now. And worse—kindness.

It’s messing with your head.

“You okay?” she asks, breaking the silence.

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah, just tired.”

But it’s not just that. You can feel something shifting. Reopening. A quiet warmth curling where you don’t want it. And that’s terrifying, because Natalie was supposed to be in the past. She was supposed to be a lesson, not a question mark.

And then she grins, slow and easy. “You’re still doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you touch your mouth when you’re trying not to smile.”

You scoff and pull your hand away. “You’re imagining things.”

“Mm, no. I remember it.” Her eyes narrow, teasing. “I remember a lot of things.”

There’s a flicker in your chest. You try to smother it. “Nat.”

“What?”

“That was so flirty.”

Natalie has the nerve to look smug. “Was it?”

You raise a brow. “Friends don’t flirt with friends.”

She tilts her head, pretending to consider it. “They do. A little. I think friends kiss sometimes too.” A beat. “I don’t know.”

You groan into your hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m kidding,” she says quickly, holding her hands up. “Okay? I’m sorry.”

You peek through your fingers at the screen. She looks genuine. Apologetic. Still wearing that goddamn hoodie.

You shake your head. “You can’t do that. I’m not—I can’t go back there.”

Natalie nods. “I get it. I really do.”

You believe her. But that doesn’t mean it makes this any easier. Because now you’re thinking about how gentle she was last night. How she didn’t try anything, didn’t push, didn’t ask for more. She was just… present. Steady. Sweet.

And then there’s Charlotte.

Charlotte, who makes your pulse stutter when she looks at you too long. Who walked you home in heels and bought you midnight pizza. Who kissed your forehead like it meant something.

Charlotte, who terrifies you in a completely different way, because if you were honest, you didn’t want to run from that. You wanted more.

You inhale slowly, grounding yourself. “I should go,” you say, soft but firm. “Long day tomorrow.”

Natalie nods, smile dimming but not disappearing. “I’ll talk to you soon?”

“Yeah. Soon.”

You hang up before she can say anything else. And then you sit there for a long moment, your heart a mess of nostalgia, tension, and something you don’t quite have the words for yet.

Whatever it is, it’s getting harder to ignore.

It’s nearly midnight when you slip out onto your apartment’s tiny balcony, barefoot, wrapped in a hoodie that still smells faintly like garlic and burnt sugar. The night air is cool, the city quieter than usual. You unlock your phone, thumb hovering over Van’s contact for a full ten seconds before you grimace and scroll past it.

Nope. She’d yell. She’d yell a lot.

You keep scrolling, and land on a name that brings relief like a balm. Akilah. You call before you can talk yourself out of it.

She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, chef. You alive?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Barely.”

“Rough day at the restaurant?”

“Not even. I mean—yes. But not because of the kitchen.”

There’s a pause. “Okay. Do I need tea or tequila for this?”

You smile, the knot in your chest easing just a little. “Both? But I’ll settle for just… you. Being chill. No yelling.”

Akilah hums. “So Van doesn’t know whatever this is?”

“God, no. I like my ears unshattered.”

Another beat of silence, and then, gently, “So. What happened?”

You lean back against the wall, eyes on the skyline. “Natalie called.”

Akilah doesn’t react. Just waits, steady and soft, like she always is.

“I picked up,” you add, quieter now. “And it wasn’t—it wasn’t anything bad. It was sweet. She was sweet.”

You hear her shifting on the other end. “And that’s… bad?”

You groan, dragging your hand over your face. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. She said she remembers our first kiss. And she meant it, not in some flirty way—okay, maybe it started flirty. But then she got all earnest and—ugh.”

“Earnest Natalie?” Akilah sounds impressed. “Wow. Times really have changed.”

“I know. And that’s the problem. Because she’s… different. But I don’t know if I am. Not when she looks at me like that and it still makes me feel like I’m sixteen again.”

Akilah doesn’t say anything right away. You can hear the soft clink of her tea mug in the background, the creak of a chair.

“And then there’s Charlotte,” you admit.

Now that gets a knowing exhale from the other end.

You add quickly, “Nothing happened.”

Akilah snorts. “Yet.”

“Akilah.”

“I’m just saying.”

You sigh, eyes fluttering closed. “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Natalie is… old feelings in a new box. And Charlotte is—”

“Terrifying?”

You laugh. “Yeah. A little.”

Akilah goes quiet for a moment. Then, with the soft certainty that makes you trust her, she says, “You don’t owe anyone anything right now. Not Natalie. Not Charlotte. The only thing you owe yourself is honesty. About what you feel. What you want.”

You press your forehead to the cool glass of the balcony door. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Well.” Akilah’s voice is warm. “Then I guess you’re just gonna have to figure it out. Slowly. Like a soup. Not a microwave dinner.”

You snort. “God, you’ve been dating Travis too long.”

“Maybe.” She pauses. “But I’m also not wrong.”

“No,” you murmur. “You’re not.”

You don’t hang up for another ten minutes. Akilah just keeps talking softly about her garden and Travis’s new menu research from hell and how she saw a pigeon try to fight a rat today. Normal things. Gentle things. Just enough calm to hold you over while your heart tries to sort itself out.

And for now, that’s enough tonight, maybe. You were still half-asleep the next morning when your phone buzzed. The light of early morning slipped through the slats of your blinds, painting golden stripes across your bedroom wall. You buried your face deeper into the pillow, groaning as you blindly reached for your phone on the nightstand.

6:47 AM.

A text from Lena.

Good morning. Just a heads up — Charlotte will be out of office starting Thursday. Aspen for a work trip.

Try to get all final reviews in before then if you want her eyes on anything.

You blinked at the screen.

Aspen?

You sat up slowly, your comforter pooling around your waist. The message shouldn’t have surprised you, Charlotte ran an empire, after all, but still, something about it made your chest tighten.

Gone. For how long?

You reread the message. Then again. You weren’t sure why it bothered you. Maybe it was the fact that the last few days with Charlotte had been… different. Softer. Closer. And now, with the quiet weight of the almost kiss between you, the thought of her vanishing to another state felt too sudden. Too soon.

You rubbed at your eyes, then typed out a quick response.

Thanks for the heads up. I’ll tighten up the draft menus and get them in by tonight.

You hovered a second longer, thumb tapping at the corner of your phone. You considered texting Charlotte too. Something casual. Something… not about work.

Charlotte’s voice was calm. Too calm. That clipped, even tone she used whenever she was trying very hard not to scream.

“I am running the entire flagship,” she said evenly, hands pressed flat on the glass table in her father’s downtown office. “I don’t understand how you expect me to split my time between New York and Aspen when the board is breathing down my neck to deliver this launch.”

Malcolm Matthews barely glanced up from the folder he was thumbing through. “Then figure it out. I’ve already told them you’d be in Aspen by Friday. You’ll meet with the hospitality lead and consult with logistics while you’re there.”

“But why me? Why not Jensen or Claudia? Or literally anyone who isn’t already juggling the Matthews Group’s most high-profile opening in over a decade?”

Malcolm’s eyes flicked to her, sharp. “Because they’re not you.”

That should’ve felt like a compliment. It didn’t. It felt like a leash. The room was silent for a beat too long. Then Lena cleared her throat quietly, the only witness to the battle of wills. Charlotte didn't look at her. She was too busy imagining herself flipping the glass table over and screaming into the void.

“I’ll go,” Charlotte said finally. “But I’m not going alone.”

That made Malcolm pause.

“I want to bring someone with me,” she added, tone shifting fast, like it had already been planned, already been decided. “The chef we’ve brought on to lead R&D. I need her insight on the Aspen menu. It'll be a working trip.”

Malcolm gave her a hard look. “Fine. Send details to Jasmine.”

Charlotte nodded once, clipped and precise, and then it was over.

The moment they were back in the elevator, Lena turned to her with a slow, pointed look. “So. Chef Y/N?”

Charlotte crossed her arms. “It’s professional.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I need someone who can speak to the culinary side of Aspen. I can’t do both.”

Lena’s brow rose. “And this has nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been humming in your office all day like a schoolgirl with a crush?”

Charlotte said nothing.

“You do remember you told me you kissed her on the forehead like a Jane Austen character, last night on the phone, right?”

Charlotte groaned and leaned her head back against the elevator wall. “Lena.”

“I’m just saying.” Lena tucked her tablet under her arm. “There’s professionalism. And then there’s whatever the hell this is.”

“I know.” Charlotte’s voice dropped. “I know. It’s too much. You were right.”

Because it was too much. Charlotte hadn’t stopped thinking about you. Not since that almost kiss. Not since her hand lingered too long on your waist. Not since the soft kiss to the cheek that Charlotte replayed every night like some ridiculous rom-com. It was pathetic.

She didn’t want to be away from her.

Not even for a few days. She’d tried to rationalize it, she needed your expertise, your palette, your eye for flavor. But the truth was, she just wanted you near. The thought of going to Aspen without you made her stomach twist. Like she’d be leaving something… unfinished.

And then, as if summoned by the universe and Charlotte’s unraveling self-control, her phone buzzed.

Before your trip to wherever we should get go back to that pizza spot…for research purposes of course. 👀

Maybe also because you’re leaving me alone for a whole week. 😪

Charlotte stared at the two texts. Then smiled. And just like that, all reason scattered. She turned to Lena, who was already rolling her eyes. “I don’t care,” Charlotte said. “I really don’t.”

Lena sighed. “I figured.”

Charlotte tucked her phone away, heart already racing again. “But thank you for pretending you believed me for a whole four floors.”

Lena smirked. “It was exhausting.”

“Chef Matthews, the cod delivery’s here.”

“Mm? Oh. Great. Put it near station three.” She said it with a hum. Actually, she was humming.

You, on the other hand, were only pretending to be focused. You had an aromatic blend of garlic, shallots, and fresh thyme sizzling in a pan, a duck leg crisping in rendered fat, and a small bowl of reduced pomegranate glaze cooling on the side. Your knife worked swiftly, finely chopping parsley and tarragon, but your thoughts?

Still parked outside your apartment last night. Still on the way Charlotte’s cheek felt under your lips. Still reeling from Natalie’s sudden reappearance..

You tossed the herbs into the pan, gave it a quick swirl, and lifted the duck confit with tongs, watching the crisped skin glisten under the lights. It smelled like winter and bittersweet memories. Your phone buzzed again in your pocket. You ignored it.

“Hey.”

You looked up. Charlotte was suddenly beside you, hands stuffed in her coat pockets, smile too bright for a Monday morning.

“I’ve been thinking about your duck confit variation,” she said. “The pomegranate glaze? That citrus-herb crunch on top? It’s kind of brilliant.”

You arched a brow with a teasing smile. “Only kind of?”

Her grin widened. “Fine. It’s stupidly brilliant. I was wondering if you’d be open to building a small plate version for the tasting menu.”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. “A small plate? Not just a seasonal special?”

“It deserves a permanent spot.”

You were about to say something, deflect, maybe joke but then Lena swept in with her tablet and a look that said the fun was over.

“Charlotte, your father just called. He’s expecting you in Aspen by the end of the week. Business summit. Top floor boardroom. Legacy talks. He wants your schedule cleared.”

Charlotte’s smile dimmed. Just for a second, but you caught it, the drop in her shoulders, the breath she didn’t take. “Thanks, Lena,” she said.

Lena left with a quiet glance at you that said, Be kind.

You slid the duck confit onto a warm plate, drizzled it with glaze, and garnished it with a pinch of microgreens. Then, wiping your hands, you turned to her. “You okay?”

Charlotte let out a breath. She gave you a smile, small and too practiced. “Yeah. It’s just—he always does this. Calls it an opportunity and then dumps a list of crises like I’m the only one who can fix it.”

You tilted your head, plating quietly as you listened. “Isn’t that what being in charge means?”

“I don’t mind being in charge.” Her voice was tight. “I mind being made to feel like it’s penance.”

You reached for another dish, this one already cooled, a cauliflower purée you’d been testing. As you plated beside her, you offered gently, “Then make this place yours.”

She looked at you then, really looked. And something in her chest cracked open.

“I’ve been doing everything I can to make this flagship restaurant mine. Not his. Not the board’s. Mine. And when I’m here... with you in this kitchen...” she paused, “it feels like it could be.”

Your hands stilled over the plate. There it was again, that impossible, dizzying thread between you. The one that always felt one breath from snapping.

Your hand brushed hers, slow and deliberate. “Then let’s make it yours.”

Charlotte’s fingers closed around yours, hesitant and warm. Her eyes flicked to your mouth. You didn’t even pretend you weren’t leaning closer. The scent of citrus and rendered fat clung to your clothes. Her breath mingled with yours.

And then she froze. A blink. A step back. “We’re at work,” she whispered, almost regretful.

You nodded, throat tight. “Right.”

Still, neither of you moved far. Her hand lingered a second longer.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of movement, and not looking at each other. Orders were fired, dishes plated, and cooks barked like orchestra conductors. The duck confit small plate was tested on the staff. It was a hit.

And hours later, when the kitchen had long since emptied, chairs stacked and counters wiped down, the kitchen was quiet again. Just the hum of the walk-in fridge and the scent of citrus still clinging to your clothes.

You reset the pans. Labeled a few containers. Wiped the steel prep table where her hand had touched yours. You tucked a towel over your shoulder, carefully organizing the garnish trays, half-lost in your own thoughts. And then your phone buzzed.

Natalie Scatorccio.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering. She’d already texted earlier—a simple “Landed.” No emojis. No drama. Now she was calling? You sighed, leaning on the prep counter. The last thing you wanted was more mixed signals. More half-sincere apologies laced with innuendo.

But instead of answering, your mind drifted backward to last night. Natalie was waiting at your door, still in her black suit from the gala, minus the tie, her sleeves rolled and hair messily tucked behind her ears.

“You said you were flying out at five,” you had said, slowly, the surprise making you sound flat.

“I am,” she replied. “I just... wanted to spend a little time. Even if it’s not what it used to be.”

You stared at her for a long moment before stepping aside. She didn’t push. Didn’t touch.

Instead, she sat on your couch with her legs curled under her, talking about her consulting gig in Austin, the weird airport sandwich she regretted. It was weird how normal it felt. It was weird how casual she was being in your home.

Last time they had been this casual with one another in an apartment, you were convinced they’d be buying one of their own in a year. Her hands seemed to drum on her thigh as she spoke cooly, of things that were dwelling in her mind.

You listened. You listened because surely this appearance was important enough to drop in on her ex. You tilted your head and watched as her blue eyes seemed to study you. Like she was a hunter trying to find the best angle to catch you.

Still then she sighed, and leaned back into your couch, and then finally she got to the point. “I hated seeing Charlotte all over you tonight,” she admitted, her voice low, eyes not meeting yours. “Not because I still want you. Not like that. But because you were always mine, even when we were a disaster.”

You let out a dry laugh. “That's not a great pitch for friendship.”

Natalie shrugged, looking... older, somehow. “I’ll admit I miss you in more than a friend way.”

“Nat—”

Natalie puts a hand up to stop you. “No. I know. I know we’re past that. I just…I just realized I still want in on your life. I just can’t lose you. I don’t want to. I want to make the friend thing work.” She says, finally meeting your eyes.

You waited for the twist. The touch. The late-night pull. The unsolicited kiss. But it never came.

She asked to sleep on your couch till the morning. And she stayed on the couch. Fell asleep curled in a blanket, her back to you, like a dog left out in the rain who didn’t expect to be let in.

In the morning, she left quietly. A note on the counter: Thank you for the couch. Don’t forget your jacket at the restaurant. And tell Charlotte to keep her hands to herself. Kidding. Sort of. Hopefully, see you soon. -Nat <3

You were…surprised. No, you were more than surprised. You were impressed. When the fuck did Natalie Scatorccio grow up? It was almost attractive how respectful and honoring she was all night. It left your stomach in a pit.

It made your brain drift to her all day, which might’ve been the end goal for her. She wanted to be top of mind. And you hated that she was successful.

The phone buzzed again in your palm. You sighed. And this time, you answered.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey,” Natalie replied, and there was warmth in her voice. “I landed. My driver’s late, and I’ve already forgotten how humid it is here.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Glad you made it safe.”

“Yeah,” she said, quieter now. “Thanks for... last night. I know it was probably weird. But I meant it. I’m glad we talked. And I’ll try not to make it harder for you.”

There was a pause. “You were always the best person I knew,” she added softly. “I just didn’t know how to treat you like it.”

You closed your eyes, leaning against the cool steel of the fridge.

“Thanks for not being a mess last night,” you said. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’m working on being less of one,” Natalie said. “Anyway. Just wanted to say that. I’ll let you go. Love you.”

She didn’t wait for you to say it back before she hung up first. But even after the line went dead, you stood there in the stillness, caught somewhere between the past and whatever strange, quiet thing the present was becoming. You’re scrubbing out the last of the sauté pans when you hear the soft click of heels against tile. You don’t have to look up.

“You’re late,” you call, glancing over your shoulder.

Charlotte leans against the doorway, hair slightly tousled from the wind, blazer unbuttoned, hands in her pockets like she owns every square inch of the night. “Traffic was abysmal. Wall Street rats everywhere.”

“Must’ve been a real nightmare. All that money clogging the roads.”

She smiles at that, stepping further into the kitchen. “I told you I’d walk you home.”

You arch a brow. “Didn’t realize you were serious.”

Charlotte shrugs, a little awkward. “Well… I was. Thought it might be nice.” A pause. “Plus, Lena said you’ve been in your own head since this morning.”

You pretend to scoff. “Lena needs a hobby.”

“She has one. It’s called watching you roll your eyes when you think no one’s looking.”

You laugh, flipping off the last light in the kitchen as you grab your bag. “Fine. You’re walking me home. But if I trip on the sidewalk, you’re legally responsible.”

“Wouldn’t dream of letting you fall,” Charlotte says, softly, so soft you almost don’t hear it.

New York is quieter in that golden lull between 11:30 and midnight. Still alive, still buzzing—but slowed down. You and Charlotte walk side by side, your shoulders brushing now and then. The silence between you is comfortable until she glances down at your stomach and grins.

“You hungry?”

You hesitate. “Maybe.”

“There’s this pizza spot. Ridiculously good. Horrible hours. We’d have to eat on the curb like rats.”

“Tempting.”

“My treat,” she adds, eyes gleaming. “Consider it hazard pay for working under my tyrannical rule.”

You snort. “Fine. But if it’s a trap and I end up in a Yelp review about someone proposing in public, I’m walking out.”

Twenty minutes later, you're convinced the night has become kind of perfect. A white paper plate, a greasy slice folded in half, city lights bouncing off windows around you. Charlotte sits beside you, chewing with the grace of a raccoon. Both your backs turned to the Pizza shop Charlotte swears by.

“You have marinara on your chin,” you say.

She frowns down. “Battle wounds.”

You laugh, brushing it off with your thumb before you even think about it. Your hand lingers a second longer than it should.

“Thanks,” she says, voice suddenly quiet.

You both sit for a beat. A cab honks in the distance. A guy in a suit walks by arguing into his airpods. The moment should break, but it doesn’t.

“You’re good at this,” Charlotte says suddenly. “The restaurant. Leading. Even when I’m... a lot.”

You smirk. “You’re always a lot.”

Charlotte mock gasps. “Rude.”

“True.”

She’s smiling at you. That open, unguarded kind of smile she rarely gives anyone. You realize, absently, that her knee is touching yours. You should probably shift away. You don’t.

“I like this,” she says.

“What? Pizza?”

“This. You. Out here with me. Feels like I won something.”

Your breath catches. “That’s dangerously cheesy, even for pizza.”

“I meant it,” she says, and she’s still smiling, but there’s a flicker of something honest behind it.

“I know,” you say, voice soft.

She stands suddenly. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom before we start walking again. Try not to fall in love with me while I’m gone.”

You give her a half-laugh, half-snort, shoving her lightly as she heads into the bodega next door. You take a bite of pizza, you barely taste, staring at the spot where she’d been sitting. And just like that, the thought slams into you.

You like her.

Not just the “ha-ha we flirt sometimes” kind of like. Not just “I admire her talent” or “she’s hot and terrifying”.

You like her. The way she laughs. The way she looks at you like you’re the only person that matters in a room. The way she makes everything feel a little less heavy, even when she’s under pressure herself.

It makes your stomach twist, not with dread, but with something just as terrifying. You’re not sure what happens next. But for the first time in a long time, you want to find out. You also realize…just because you like her doesnt mean she likes you.

Wasn’t it always Charlotte who ran away? After every kiss, hook-up, and tender moment. Wasn’t it always her who walked away, or left you hanging? You frowned because, yeah, she did.

Yet, the thought of her now swept those thoughts out of your mind. And the undeniable rush of butterflies exploded into your chest. Even the idea of a kiss from her, or her hands on yours. It had you dry swallowing, to feel level.

Oh no.

You try your best to walk normally. Casually. Like Charlotte didn’t just make you laugh harder than you have all week. Like you hadn’t just spent the past half hour feeling like your world tilted slightly on its axis over a paper plate of pizza grease.

Charlotte walks beside you with that maddening ease, hands in her pockets, posture just shy of smug. You sneak a glance at her and immediately regret it. She’s doing that smile again, the one that’s both soft and knowing, and it makes your stomach twist.

“So,” she says, voice low, almost teasing. “You gonna tell me why you went all silent the minute I came back from the bathroom?”

You shrug a little too hard. “Did I?”

“Mm.” She hums, a hint of a laugh on her face. “Very convincing.”

You stumble slightly on an uneven patch of sidewalk, and Charlotte instinctively reaches out to steady you, her hand grazing your elbow. “Careful,” she murmurs. “I like my culinary geniuses upright and fully mobile.”

You scoff, flustered. “Don’t flatter yourself. That was a structural failure. Sidewalk sabotage.”

“Oh, I’m the one flattering myself?” she teases. “Interesting, considering you were about five seconds from serenading me with a pizza sonnet before I walked away.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, and she just laughs a full, delighted sound that makes your chest ache.

You reach your door with a reluctant sigh. Neither of you makes a move to end the moment. Charlotte shuffles slightly, glancing up at your building like she’s memorizing it.

“Well,” she says, all soft charm again, “guess this is goodnight.”

You hesitate only a beat before stepping in and leaning up to kiss her cheek. It’s slow, deliberate, and warm, and you feel her skin go hot under your lips. When you pull back, Charlotte’s grinning, wide, stunned, and ridiculous.

“Is this going to be our thing every time I drop you off at home?” she asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Depends. Are you going to make this a habit?”

Her eyes drop to your lips for a half-second, and then right back to your eyes. “If it means you’re kissing me, then absolutely.”

Your heart stutters. Your reply gets caught in your throat, but before you can say anything, Charlotte steps forward, hands on your waist to steady you, and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft. Gentle. Oh, so tender. You close your eyes at the warmth of it.

“Goodnight,” she says softly, still close.

And then she’s gone, walking back down the steps like she didn’t just completely knock the air out of you. You lean back against your door, fingers brushing the spot on your forehead where she kissed you, heart pounding wildly.

Someone tall. Cool. Beautiful. Leaning a little too close.

Natalie Scatorccio, a name and face she remembered well. All those late-night conversations of how she broke your heart, and Lottie being the one to hold you. She wanted to have a face to the name. She never forgot how… beautiful she looked. How exactly opposite she was to Lottie.

Or the parties where Charlotte had to pretend not to stare as you would straddle her lap, and kiss her like she was the only person on earth you wanted to kiss. Her stomach was in knots remembering it all. Even now seeing the way Natalie’s voice seemed to draw a laugh out of you, the way you feel into an automatic rhythm with her.

The room felt hot. Charlotte’s stride slowed for only a second before she composed herself and approached. She slipped in beside you, her voice light but lined with steel. “Sorry I took so long. Everything okay over here?”

Your smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but your tone stayed easy. “All good. Charlotte, this is Natalie.”

Charlotte’s eyes never left her. “Right. Natalie Scatorccio. We’ve met.”

Natalie turned, extending her hand with a faint smirk and a confused glint in her eye. “Not officially, I don’t think.”

Charlotte shook it, firm and brief, her other hand already resting low at your waist. The touch made you resist the urge to shiver. “Well, here we are.”

“Here we are,” Natalie echoed.

“Still consulting?” Charlotte asked coolly, sipping her champagne.

Natalie grinned. “You keep tabs, huh?”

“Made sure to know everyone on the guest list. Especially anyone talking to my staff.”

You coughed and gave Charlotte a sharp look, but Natalie just laughed like she was impressed.

“Automotive, still. Helping restructure the logistics arm of a company in Dallas. Boring corporate stuff. Nothing nearly as sexy as launching a flagship in Manhattan.”

Charlotte’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Mm, well. It’s not about sexy. It’s about precision.”

Natalie lifted her flute. “And you Matthew’s always love being precise.”

Charlotte's fingers tensed on your waist, but she recovered quickly. “Precision keeps the business standing. And people in line.”

Natalie tilted her head, eyes flicking to you. “I’m sure your team’s very disciplined.”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, to steer them off the inevitable collision course—but Natalie was already leaning in, lips brushing your cheek far too closely to your mouth with the kind of precision that was entirely intentional.

“Text me before I fly out?” Natalie murmured, the whisper sliding right past Charlotte’s defenses.

You froze, with a wide-eyed nod. “Sure.”

Charlotte didn’t wait. Her hand slipped lower, fingers tightening just enough to send a message.

“We should go dance,” Charlotte said, voice clipped.

You feel yourself take a sharp breath, and then you swallow hard. “Now?”

“Yes.”

Charlotte was already leading you away, her grip steady, the crowd parting as they moved toward the dance floor. She didn’t look back. Natalie didn’t follow. And you? Well, you were trying very hard not to combust.

The music was elegant and low, the kind that floated around you like silk and made everything feel a little closer, a little quieter. Charlotte's hand rested at the small of your back, guiding you into the sway of the room like it was second nature. It probably was, for Charlotte, anyway. She moved with a kind of practiced grace, but her shoulders were tight.

You could feel it, even in the careful way their hands met.

"I'm sorry about that," you said softly, not looking at her. "Natalie… she’s kind of unpredictable."

Charlotte’s eyes flicked down. “It’s fine.”

You looked up at her. “That sounded a lot like it’s not fine.”

Charlotte sighed, her voice gentle, but too honest to be convincing. “She’s your past. I don’t have a say in who talks to you. Or who kisses… too close to your mouth.”

You winced. “Yeah, that was… unexpected.”

Charlotte gave a tight smile, one that didn’t quite hide the flush rising up her throat. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

You searched her face. “I just didn’t want tonight to be weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Charlotte said quickly, then, realizing how stiff she sounded, added more softly, “Okay, it’s a little weird. But not… bad weird.”

You exhaled, letting your forehead nearly rest against Charlotte’s collarbone as they turned with the music. “Want me to pivot the conversation to something incredibly safe and stupid?”

Charlotte huffed a soft laugh, the tension cracking just slightly. “Please.”

You lifted your head, eyes gleaming. “Okay. You know those people who claim tomatoes are fruits? And then think they’re clever because they call ketchup a smoothie?”

Charlotte blinked. “That’s not real.”

“Oh, it’s very real,” you said solemnly. “And those people should be monitored.”

Charlotte laughed then, and the sound of it did something warm to your chest. Her laugh was quieter now, closer, and her grip around you had softened without either of them noticing. They were still dancing, barely, just enough to not draw attention. But mostly, they were just… there. Holding each other.

“I think you might be dangerous,” Charlotte murmured.

You smirked. “Only in kitchens and casual debates about condiments.”

Charlotte’s eyes met yours, slow and soft and open in a way that made the music feel far away. Her voice dropped to something fragile. “You look beautiful tonight.”

Your breath caught, and for the first time since Natalie reappeared, it was your turn to be flustered. “You clean up pretty nice yourself, Matthews.”

“Lottie,” Charlotte corrected, almost under her breath. “You called me Lottie earlier.”

You smiled, bashful now. “Yeah. I remember.”

Charlotte’s hand tightened just a little, just enough. Neither of them said anything else for a moment. Just the music.

And the distance between them kept shifting, drawing closer.

Charlotte introduced you to a dozen people over the course of the night, but none made her as visibly nervous as the moment she approached a tall, elegant blonde woman near the back bar, nursing a glass of something amber and neat.

“Laura Lee,” Charlotte said, her voice oddly formal. “This is Y/n. Y/n, this is Laura Lee—my best friend since forever.”

Laura Lee turned, her sharp eyes landing on you, and immediately a bright smile bloomed on her face. “So you’re the famous Y/n.”

Charlotte groaned under her breath.

You paused and looked between her and Lottie. “Famous?”

“Oh, please,” Laura Lee said, reaching out for a warm handshake. “She talks about you all the time. It's borderline annoying.”

Charlotte choked on her champagne.

Laura Lee grinned wickedly. “Though I must say—she undersold you. You’re even more beautiful than she said.”

Charlotte flushed a full shade of crimson. You nearly dropped your glass at the admission from Laura Lee.

“That’s—that’s not—” Charlotte tried to cut in, but Laura Lee was already sipping her drink, delighting in both your stunned silence.

“I’m going to get a refill,” Laura Lee said with a wink. “Try not to combust.”

Charlotte muttered something that sounded like betrayal as they parted ways. But her hand settled on the small of your back again, gently guiding you through the crowd. It lingered a little longer this time.

They found a quieter table near the terrace, sitting close enough that their knees brushed beneath the linen-draped table. The night had cooled, but inside the warmth lingered, chatter, clinking glasses, soft jazz weaving through everything.

Your phone buzzed against your clutch. You glanced at it, just enough to see the name: Natalie Scatorccio.

Charlotte’s voice was low. “Is that… Natalie?”

You let out a nervous laugh, trying to downplay the shift in air. “Why? Jealous?”

Charlotte didn’t smile. She didn’t deflect. She looked at you, eyes unreadable, but her voice steady. “Yeah.”

It hit like a stone tossed gently into water, unexpected but rippling deep.

You froze, the blush from Laura Lee’s compliment returning in full force. Your mouth parted, searching for something clever or lighthearted to say, but it all dissolved into the heat in your chest.

It might’ve been the champagne. Or Charlotte in that impossibly tailored black suit. Or the way the candlelight flickered across her face like it had been waiting for this moment too.

You leaned in, barely—just enough to feel the pull between them catch fire. And Charlotte was leaning in, too. Her eyes dipped to your lips.

The air hummed as you both inched closer and closer. — RING.

Charlotte blinked and fumbled for her phone. She stared at the screen, her expression crumpling just slightly.

“My dad,” she said, apologetic but already rising. “I have to take this.”

You nodded, swallowing the feeling clawing up your throat. “Of course.”

Charlotte hesitated before walking away, like she wanted to say something else. But instead, she pressed a soft hand to your shoulder and mouthed I’m sorry before disappearing toward the back hall.

You stared down at your still-glowing phone. One text from Natalie. One almost-kiss from Lottie. And a heart that wouldn’t stop pounding.

Charlotte slipped out the side door of the ballroom, ducking into a quieter service corridor lined with coat racks and catering trays. The phone was still pressed to her ear when she leaned against the wall, posture rigid.

“—I know, I know, I’m sorry,” came her father’s voice, barely apologetic, more distracted than anything else. “Something came up with the Tokyo team. I couldn’t make it tonight. But I trust the event’s going well?”

Charlotte’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. It’s fine. Great, actually. Y/n, my new development lead she’s—”

“I don’t care about the menu right now, Charlotte,” he cut in. “Look, I need you to pivot. There’s an issue with the third quarter reports from the Aspen location. It’s not adding up, and the regional manager’s on vacation.”

Charlotte blinked. “Wait—Aspen? I don’t have capacity to pick that up. I’m already full-throttle with the flagship—”

“You’ll make capacity,” he said coolly. “Because you’re the only one I trust not to completely screw it up.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the phone.

“You always say you want more responsibility. This is it. Figure it out.”

And then—click. The line went dead. Charlotte lowered the phone slowly. Her reflection glared back at her in the silver pan resting on a nearby serving cart. For a second, she just stood there, eyes wet and unfocused, jaw tight.

She swallowed hard, pressed her hands to her face, then took a long, grounding breath. When she returned to the ballroom, her smile was almost convincing.

Almost.

You noticed the second she sat down again. “You okay?” you asked gently, brows pinched with concern.

Charlotte tried to wave it off with a vague shrug. “Family call. You know how that goes.”

But her shoulders were stiff, and the light behind her eyes wasn’t quite the same. Her glass was empty, but she reached for it anyway, pretending to sip.

You leaned in slightly, not pushing but making your presence known. “You sure you don’t wanna talk about it?”

Charlotte met her gaze, and for the briefest moment, the mask faltered—just enough for you to see it: the weight of expectation, of always being the one who held the entire world together.

“I’m fine,” Charlotte murmured, quieter this time.

You didn’t believe her. But you didn’t say that. Instead, you reached forward and gently placed your hand over Charlotte’s, thumb brushing the edge of her knuckles. The small touch felt like a silent I see you. Even if you don’t want me to.

Charlotte’s eyes dropped to their hands, and her breath hitched. She didn’t pull away.

The ride back was warm in the kind of way that made you not want to speak too loud. Charlotte had her personal car brought around to take you home. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in her lap, where your fingers had brushed earlier in the night and never quite made it back again.

You talked about everything and nothing. Where to find the best croissants in the city. The couple who got engaged during the event. Some new seafood vendor Charlotte swore by. But beneath the conversation was a current of something unspoken, something soft, blooming, and real.

At red lights, her eyes would flick over to you. Not in a way that asked for anything. Just in a way that said, God, I like sitting next to you.

By the time you pulled up to your building, the city was quiet. The party noise had faded into the kind of still that only New York could manage, buzzing faintly under the surface.

Charlotte parked and turned toward you. “I had fun tonight.”

You smiled. “Me too.”

There was a pause. The kind where a lot could happen. The kind where, a year ago, you both might’ve done something reckless. But now? You leaned in slowly and kissed her cheek. Soft, lingering. One hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

“Thanks for tonight, Lottie,” you whispered. “For everything.”

Charlotte blinked. Her whole body seemed to warm beneath your touch. When you pulled away, she was smiling wide, goofy, stunned.

She laughed under her breath and reached for you again, pulling you into a hug that was all arms and warmth and lingering scent of her perfume. You held her back, just as tightly.

When she let go, her hands hovered near yours like she didn’t quite want to stop touching you. But eventually, she let go and you stepped out into the night.

You walked slowly, as if the moment might last longer if you didn’t hurry. Your heels clicked against the sidewalk, heartbeat still a little high. Your fingers still tingled from the brush of her cheek.

But when you turned the corner to your building’s front steps—your heart dropped. There she was.

Natalie Scatorccio.

Still in that black suit. Still wearing that same champagne-glass smirk. Leaning casually against your apartment door like she hadn’t kissed you too close hours ago. Like she hadn’t disappeared for months. She was standing there like she had every right to be there.

She straightened up as you approached, her voice low, dry, unmistakably hers.

“Told you I’d text. But, you know me. Always been more of a show-up-at-your-door kind of girl.”

Your breath caught. Because of course she was. Of course tonight couldn’t just end softly. Charlotte’s cheek still warmed your lips. And now Natalie was here—burning through your carefully stitched calm with one look.

“Can we talk?” she asked, softer this time.