“Then maybe,”Tashasaid gently, “the only thing you can do is stop worrying about who’s watching and figure out what makes you breathe easier when the dust settles.Whomakes you feel like you.”
Rose blinked at her, throat tight.
The delivery truck finally rumbled ontoMainStreet, breaking the moment.Asthe driver hopped down to start unloading crates of milk and sugar,TashapattedRoseon the shoulder.
“Think on it,” she said.“Acenmay be the chapter you never finished, butDeclan’sthe one standing right here in the margins.Just… don’t letBrianabe the one holding the pen.”
And with that, she headed back into the coffee shop, leavingRosewith a knot in her chest and more questions than answers.
That evening,Roseclosed the coffee shop late, exhaustion tugging at her spine as she flipped the sign and locked the door.MainStreethad gone quiet, the daytime bustle traded for the hush of crickets and the occasional distant bark of a dog.Streetlampscast soft golden halos on the pavement, and the scent of honeysuckle drifted from someone’s trellis down the block.
She didn’t expect to seeAcen’struck parked by the curb.
Her heart gave an unsteady lurch, and before she could figure out what to do, he climbed out, holding a brown paper bag.
“You cooked?”she asked, one brow raised, suspicion mingling with surprise.
“Sort of,” he said, sheepish grin tugging at his mouth.“Ibribed the new diner guy into letting me take his peach cobbler.Apparently, it’s won awards.”
“That’s not dinner.”
“It’s therapy,” he said, holding it out like a peace offering.“Ithought you might need something sweet after wrangling caffeine-hungry locals and retirees all day.”
She considered, then took it.“You’reluckyIdidn’t already eat half a chocolate cake.”
“You’re luckyIdidn’t bring a spoon and eat this in the truck alone.”
Rose chuckled despite herself, and they walked to the bench outsideSouthernSips.Thebench was one she’d brought from the porch at home, still the forest green color her father had painted it when she was a child and kept freshly painted by her over the years.Shefound herself oddly grateful to share it withAcennow.
They sat down, the paper bag crackling between them.Heproduced two plastic forks, and together they dug into the warm cobbler, passing it back and forth.Thefilling oozed with sticky sweetness, the peaches perfectly softened, the crust flaky.Roselet the sugar coat her tongue and sighed.
The sky had darkened to velvet, stars blinking faintly above as a few moths danced lazily near the lampposts.
“Your brother texted me,”Acensaid casually, breaking the comfortable silence.
Rose paused mid-bite.“Rileydid?”
“He said, andIquote, ‘Don’tscrew it up this time orI’llmake you run sorry.’”
Rose burst out laughing, nearly choking.“That’sthe most brotherly blessing you’re going to get.”
“I’ll take it.”
They sat in silence a while longer, comfortable now, the kind that didn’t require constant talking.Acenleaned back, stretching his long legs out, andRosemirrored him, both of them staring at the sky as if the stars might whisper answers.
ThenRosesaid softly, “Doyou remember that night we snuck out to watch the fireworks over the river?”
Acen smiled slowly, a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes.“Youwore that red tank top.”
She glanced at him, half embarrassed, half amused.“Youkissed me that night.”
“I wanted to kiss you again every day after that,” he said without hesitation.
Her heart tripped over itself, beating faster than she wanted to admit.
She didn’t say anything.Justpassed him the cobbler.
But she didn’t pull her hand away when his brushed hers.
