His brows drew together. “Really?”
“Not in a real way,” I said, voice a little softer now. “People ask me about the lodge. Or what’s next for the harvest festival? Or what new cookie recipe I’m testing. But not... this.”
“Whatyouwant,” he said, his words landing like a breath in the middle of my chest.
I nodded, and he stepped closer, leaning his hip against the counter beside me. He didn’t touch me, didn’t interrupt. Just let the silence settle around us like a warm blanket waiting to be filled with words.
So I tried.
“I want kids,” I said. “I know that’s not revolutionary, and I know there’s probably some obnoxious think piece somewhere about how cliché that is, but it’s true.”
His eyes never left mine.
“I want kids who grow up knowing what it means to work with their hands,” I continued. “Who run around the lodge barefoot, sneak cookies out of the kitchen, and name chickens things like Captain Feathertail and Susan the Supreme.”
Ben’s lips twitched.
“I want to run the Honey Leaf the way my parents did. With joy. With family. I want to enjoy holiday festivals and themed brunches, and teach my daughter how to make my sister’s cinnamon rolls with my special additions. I want to watch my son help me scoop feed into the buckets for the alpacas and then laugh when one of them spits on him.”
I laughed then, a small thing, surprised it cracked through the tightness in my throat.
“I want muddy boots and messy hair and laughter echoing down the halls,” I said, pressing my hand flat against my chest, as if to keep my voice steady. “I want to fall asleep next to someone who doesn’t mind that I snore sometimes or talk in my sleep. Someone who remembers the way I like my tea anddoesn’t think it’s weird that I name all my vehicles, kitchen appliances, and trees.”
Ben let out a soft breath, something almost like reverence in the air between us.
“I want a life that’s full,” I finished. “Not perfect. Not shiny. Just...mine.Something I built from the things I love.”
He still didn’t speak.
Just looked at me like I was a lightning strike he hadn’t seen coming and wasn’t sure how to survive.
I ducked my head, suddenly overwhelmed. “Sorry, that’s probably a lot.”
“It’s not.”
When I looked up, he was closer, still not touching, but his presence felt like gravity, gentle yet undeniable.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever said it out loud like that to me,” he murmured. “What it looks like, the picture of a life you want. It’s beautiful, Fifi. It was like a painting.”
I blinked fast, trying not to let my throat close up.
“And it’s not too much?” I asked, needing to hear it.
“No,” he said, voice steady. “It’sreal.”
I leaned back slightly, heart pounding. “You say that like it doesn’t scare you.”
Ben’s eyes softened. “It scares the hell out of me.”
That made me laugh. “Well, good. At least we’re on the same page.”
And somehow, that moment, standing there in my tiny kitchen, flowers on the table and emotional honesty hanging in the air, felt like the most intimate one we’d ever had.
No kisses.
No hands under clothes.
Just truth.
