#tsip

Conrad had always been meticulous. Even as a little boy, he had a patience that seemed unusual for his age, the kind of quiet focus that allowed him to sit for hours with nothing but a screwdriver and a toy in front of him. He’d take objects apart carefully—flashlights, radios, even his brother’s remote-controlled cars—laying out each piece in neat rows as though they were treasures, memorizing where everything belonged. And when he put them back together, they worked every time. It wasn’t just skill; it was precision, a certain reverence for the tiny parts that most people overlooked.

That trait never left him, not even as he grew older and busier, not even when life started moving faster than he could sometimes keep up with. His hands still carried that instinct: slow when they needed to be, gentle when it mattered most.

His mother noticed it early, long before anyone else. She’d call him out into the garden with her, pressing a trowel into his small hand and pointing to her flowerbeds. “They need careful hands,” she’d tell him, and she always meant his. Susannah trusted him with the fragile things: the hydrangeas, the roses, and the tulips that leaned toward the sun as though begging not to be harmed. She swore that Conrad was the only one who understood how delicately they had to be treated, how even the smallest roughness could snap a stem or bruise a petal.

His brother, of course, teased him endlessly. He’d laugh when Conrad knelt in the dirt, brushing soil gently around a sprout as though it were a crown jewel. “You’re too soft for that,” Jeremiah would say, snickering, tossing a ball in the air while Conrad kept his head bowed, unbothered. But their mother never laughed; she only smiled at her oldest son, brushing her hand over his sun-warmed hair, reminding him that there was strength in gentleness.

And Conrad, even then, believed her.

Now, years later, he found himself back in that same garden, the one that still seemed to breathe with her memory. The hydrangeas had grown wild without her, sprawling past their borders, and the roses sagged beneath the weight of neglect. But Conrad knelt among them the way he once had as a boy, trowel in hand, sleeves rolled up, dirt pressed into the creases of his palms.

The house had been quieter since she was gone, but the garden was louder than ever: buzzing bees, overgrown weeds, and blossoms straining for air as if desperate for the careful touch they’d been missing. He moved through them methodically, pulling weeds with a kind of quiet respect, trimming branches with the same steady precision his mother had taught him. It wasn’t just upkeep; it was communion, a way of listening to her voice even now.

Every clipped stem, every watered root felt like an echo of her lessons: gentleness, patience, and care. He could almost hear her laughter carried on the summer air and feel her hand guiding his just like she once had. And though the work left him sweaty and sore, he didn’t complain. This was her garden, her pride, and if the wedding was going to take place here, if Belly was going to walk barefoot across this lawn in her dress, then it had to be perfect.

Conrad wanted it perfect for her. For his brother and his future wife. But most of all, for his mother.

So he stayed out there until the light bled soft and gold through the trees, brushing soil off his hands, standing back to take in the sight of roses standing taller and tulips leaning cleanly toward the sun again. So for a moment, it almost looked like Susannah had never left at all.

It was healing. It was heartbreaking. Both at once.

Inside, the day shifted softly toward evening. Sunlight slanted lazily through the kitchen windows, spilling across the tiled floor in warm, golden rectangles that shimmered at the edges of the worn grout. You perched on a stool at the counter, the pink tulle of the dress puffing around you like a cloud suspended midair, delicate and impossibly soft. You twirled it absentmindedly, the fabric whispering and rustling with every motion, while your other hand balanced a cupcake crowned with pastel frosting that gleamed in the sunlight like spun glass. You smeared a trace of sugar across your thumb and lip without noticing, more entranced by the dreamy swish of your skirt than the sweetness in your hand.

He froze in the doorway, chest tightening as though the sight of you had slowed the rhythm of time itself.

God.

It had been a year. Twelve long months since California. Since the summer that had rewritten everything he thought he knew about you.

For fourteen years, you had existed on the edges of his life. Steven’s best friend, part of the constellation of people who orbited the house and the summers and the chaos of growing up. Close enough to see, but never close enough to touch. Your lives had brushed together like parallel lines, running side by side but never intersecting. He had known your voice, your laugh, and the way you fit into every group picture without quite belonging to him. And for years, that was all you were: familiar, but distant.

Until California.

Three months in a city where no one knew either of you, where history didn’t weigh down every step you took. For the first time, you weren’t just Steven’s best friend or Susannah’s guest. You were yourself, unguarded and luminous, and you had let him in. Somewhere between long walks beneath jacaranda trees and nights spent on rooftops where the sky opened wide, you became more than background. You became everything.

Those three months had undone fourteen years of distance. He had learned the tilt of your smile when you were amused but trying to hide it, the way you went quiet when something mattered too much, and the softness in your laugh when it belonged only to him. He had peeled back layers no one else had bothered to reach, discovering a depth in you that made him dizzy, made him reckless enough to kiss you under a foreign and to let you take pieces of his heart he hadn’t even realized were his to give.

And now…there you were. In his kitchen. Bathed in the same kind of golden light that had first caught you in California, pink tulle glowing against the warmth of your skin, a curl slipping loose to brush your cheek. Frosting clung to your fingertips, a smudge lingered near the corner of your lips, and Conrad found himself aching—aching—to reach out, to tuck that curl behind your ear, to smooth the sweetness away with his thumb, to break through the fragile distance you had built again.

You looked exactly like the girl who had stolen that impossible summer, like the memory he had tried and failed to bury a hundred times since.

For a suspended, unbearable moment, Conrad couldn’t breathe. His meticulous mind, so precise, so orderly, fractured beneath the weight of seeing you again. Every detail demanded his attention: the curve of your lip, the crease of concentration at your brow, and the way your fingers brushed the hem of the pink dress as if daring it to wrinkle. Even the dusting of sugar on the tip of your nose was enough to undo him.

“Y-you…” His voice cracked, rough with disbelief.

Your head snapped up, eyes widening for half a heartbeat before softening into surprise, then amusement. “Conrad,” you breathed, his name falling from your lips like a secret. His chest seized. “Oh God, you scared me. I didn’t know you were here—I mean, obviously, it’s your house. I’m the intruder, but—”

He stepped further into the kitchen, the floor groaning softly beneath his careful weight. His movements were deliberate, but his nerves betrayed him: the rake of his hand through his hair, the flush creeping into his cheeks. His voice, low and uncertain, carried the burden of every unspoken thing between you.

“It’s okay. I…I didn’t know you were here either.” He swallowed, faltered, and searched for words that didn’t exist. “I wasn’t expecting—” The rest dissolved, trapped behind the raw weight of memory.

You spared him, turning toward the counter where pastel cupcakes gleamed like half-finished thoughts. “I’m helping with the wedding stuff,” you said lightly, licking a bit of frosting from your thumb. “I was with Belly, but she left to look at cakes.”

His jaw tightened, a flicker of a frown tugging at his mouth. You had never been especially close to Belly; your orbit had always been Steven, tethered so tightly to him that Conrad had once assumed, with a mixture of inevitability and resignation, that the two of you would eventually find your way to each other. It had almost been a joke, whispered between family friends. Steven and you, someday.

But then came California. And the truth Conrad carried like a stone in his chest: Steven had never seen you the way Conrad had. Never known how three months could carve out a space so deep, so unforgettable, that no amount of time could bury it.

His gaze dropped to the half-decorated tray between you, his voice breaking the silence with a roughness that almost passed for casual. “The cupcake you’re eating,” he asked, his tone edged with teasing, “that’s for the wedding?”

You straightened, defensive. “Uhm, no! I mean…it’s an idea for the big day.” You gestured toward the counter with a flourish of your hand, where a dozen unevenly frosted cupcakes sat in pastel shades. “I made all of these so Belly could choose.”

“You bake?” His frown deepened, but not in disapproval, more like confusion, surprise, and a spark of something that bordered on admiration.

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut through the air. “You know I bake.”

Oh God. Yes, he knew. He remembered the mornings in California, the smell of sugar and butter clinging to your hands, the way you’d moved easily around his apartment like you belonged there: barefoot, hair messy, wearing one of his T-shirts as if it had always been yours. You had baked muffins once, humming under your breath to a song he couldn’t place, the sound so soft it had settled into the walls. He’d pretended to read, but really, he had just watched you. Memorized you. Every curve of your mouth, every careless brush of flour against your cheek. He had never let himself forget.

He blinked, recovering. “Yes, of course I know. But not in that…that kind of dress.”

For the first time since he walked in, you looked down at yourself: the ridiculous pink satin and tulle, the tight bodice that left you sitting too straight, and the skirt ballooning around you like a fairytale costume. You let out a short laugh, dripping in sarcasm. “Surprise. I’m a maid of honor.”

Something softened in him. The sharpness of memory gave way to something warmer, something he couldn’t cage. The corners of his mouth twitched as though he was trying to suppress it, but the smile still crept through, unwilling to be buried. And for just a heartbeat, the kitchen dissolved. It wasn’t tiles and sunlight anymore; it was rooftops in California, afternoons where the hours had slipped away unnoticed, and stolen moments when your laughter had curled into his chest and stayed there. It was you again, impossibly close.

“Steven asked me to,” you went on, twirling a piece of tulle between your fingers as though it burned to touch. “Since Laurel isn’t here, Belly feels alone. So…whatever.” You tried to sound nonchalant, but the shrug in your voice wasn’t enough to hide the way you cared.

“That’s nice of you,” he said quietly, sincerity tugging at the edges of each word. His gaze lingered, unashamed now, caught on the way the fabric glowed against your skin, on the restless fidget of your hands as though you were embarrassed to be seen this way. The small smile curved deeper, gentler, until it was unshakable.

You noticed. Of course you did. Narrowing your eyes, you leveled a warning finger at him. “Don’t say anything, Fisher. Not one word.”

Conrad raised his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him, lighting his eyes in that way that made your pulse spike.

“I mean it,” you added, spinning once on the stool, letting the tulle flare around your legs like a pink cloud caught midair. “Taylor and her mom picked this. And not just this one, there are more upstairs in Belly’s room.”

That did it. His shoulders shook with silent laughter, though he tried to hide it behind a cough. But his eyes…his eyes didn’t lie. They softened, warm and molten, tracing your face like he wanted to memorize every curve, every subtle movement: the curl of hair brushing your cheek, the way your fingers hovered over the cupcake as though afraid to smudge it, the tiny line of concentration between your brows.

Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, he watched you with that half-smile that had haunted his California afternoons. The sunlight caught the tulle just right, making it glow around you, painting your skin in soft pink and gold. And for a heartbeat, you weren’t in his kitchen. You were with him again, far away.

“You know,” he said, low and teasing, his voice brushing against you like a warm caress, “you kind of look like…a moody princess. Sitting there in pink tulle, guarding her sweets like crown jewels.”

You scoffed, shoving another bite of cupcake into your mouth to avoid answering. “Don’t push it. I’m already humiliated enough.”

But he didn’t relent. The grin on his face deepened, mischievous and entirely boyish, and your heart betrayed you with a jolt. “I’m serious. A cupcake princess.”

You narrowed your eyes, pointing your half-eaten cupcake at him like a weapon. “If you call me that again, I will throw this at your face.”

And maybe you would have, if he hadn’t stepped closer just then, the distance shrinking until he was standing right in front of you, so close you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He tilted his head, studying you with infuriating calm.

“You’ve got…” He gestured vaguely to his own lips, “…frosting. Right here.”

You swiped at your lips with the back of your hand. “Where?”

“Missed it.” His eyes glinted, a quiet dare lingering there.

You tried again, huffing, but before you could wipe it away, his hand lifted. Slow. Deliberate. Almost reverent. His thumb brushed the corner of your lips with a tenderness that shouldn’t have undone you, but it did—God, it did. The touch was barely there, but your body reacted like he had set you on fire.

Every nerve in you screamed awake, every thought dissolved into the sound of your own pulse hammering in your ears. His skin against yours was warm, and the memory of it lingered even after he pulled away, like a ghost you ached to chase.

“There,” he murmured, his voice low, almost private. Then his eyes flicked down to the smear of frosting on his thumb. He licked it off without thinking, and the sight punched the air out of your lungs. His mouth. His tongue. The curve of his smile as he tasted something that had touched you first.

You wanted him. Badly. Fiercely. In a way that made your palms sweat and your throat tighten. You wanted the weight of him pressing you back against the counter, wanted his mouth replacing his thumb, stealing the sugar from your lips, and wanted the kind of kiss you hadn’t let yourself imagine in a year but had never truly forgotten.

But you stood frozen, pretending to be annoyed. “You’re…thank you,” you whispered, softer than you meant to. Your voice betrayed you.

He glanced down at himself then, at the streaks of dirt across his shirt and the grass smudges on his jeans. “I should probably take a shower.”

Take me with you. The words burned in your throat, wild and reckless, but you swallowed them down and forced a safer smile instead. “I saved you one of these.” You nudged the tray of cupcakes like it meant something, like it could distract you from the thrum of heat running through your veins.

“Thank you.” His eyes lingered a moment too long, like he’d heard the words you didn’t say, and then he turned and left.

You sank a little lower on the stool, trying to steady your racing heart, when the faint scrape of the bathroom door closing signaled Conrad’s temporary retreat. The kitchen suddenly felt impossibly quiet, sunlight slicing through the windows in sharp, golden beams that reflected off the polished tiles and highlighted every pink fold of your tulle dress. Your fingers itched, half from the cupcake in your hand, half from the memory of his touch, light and deliberate, ghosting over your lips like it belonged there.

Then he returned. Toweling his damp hair, bare-armed and slightly glistening, he carried a single hydrangea in his hands. Its clustered blooms were pale, almost ethereal: soft blue tinged with lavender, each delicate petal like a whisper pressed against the next. He held it so carefully, as if he feared the weight of the flower might shatter its fragile beauty, and the sight made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with cupcakes.

“For you,” he said softly, his voice low and deliberate, carrying a warmth that made the sunlight in the room feel almost gentle by comparison. The hydrangea was small, yet it carried a weight, a quiet, unexpected gravity that made your stomach flutter.

You reached for it, your fingers brushing against his, and the slightest touch sent heat flooding through your veins. His thumb lingered near the edge of the petals, grazing them with the kind of care that made your breath catch, a featherlight contact that somehow ignited a storm of awareness and longing.

“It’s from the garden,” he continued, almost like he was sharing a secret. “My mom…she always said the flowers needed careful hands. I thought you’d understand.”

Your fingers closed around the stem, brushing his knuckles ever so slightly, and warmth pooled in your chest, a soft, desperate ache that made the room feel smaller, more intimate. For a moment, the kitchen faded into the background. There was only him, the faint scent of earth and petals clinging to him, the soft rustle of his towel, and the quiet way his gaze lingered on you, steady and unflinching.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick, heavy with everything you couldn’t say: the yearning, the memory of last summer, and the ache of wanting him so close it hurt. You wanted to tell him how much you’d thought about him all year, how much you’d missed the brush of his hands and the warmth of his presence, but the words stayed lodged in your throat.

He smiled then, faint, almost shy, stepping closer, the heat of his body brushing against your side. “I wanted you to have something from the garden,” he murmured. “Since…well, since you like things that need care.”

You felt the pulse in your veins spike, the longing twisting tight in your chest. You wanted more than the hydrangea. You wanted the touch of his fingers against your skin, the faint press of his lips, the quiet, unwavering focus he always gave you, and the way he made you feel like the only person in the world. But for now, the flower was enough to anchor the ache, a symbol of everything you had wanted and still wanted.

Your eyes met his, and in that gaze, the unspoken words hovered between you. Because you were completely, irreparably, and desperately fucked.

After all, it was summer again.