“This place…” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
He exhales, fingers trailing down the edge of the glass before curling into his palm. “It still smells the same.”
My throat tightens.
I know what he means. Not just the scent of coffee and fresh flowers. But something deeper. The same feeling that wrapped around me every time I stepped inside as a child. The comfort, the warmth, the history.
The pieces of a life we once thought we’d share.
I should say something. Crack a joke. Deflect.
But the words stick, and for a split second, I let him have this.
Let myself have it, too.
Then he shifts, straightening, his hand falling away from the door. When he finally looks at me, there’s something in his eyes, something raw.
Ben exhales slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides. Before I can name it, before I can let myself get pulled into it.
He steps back.
Not far. Just enough. Just enough to break whatever this isbefore it can become something else.
His jaw tightens, his gaze flicking over me once, unreadable, before he looks away.
“See you tonight,” he says, voice smooth but distant. Then he turns on his heel and walks off, leaving me standing there, breathless, with nothing but the sound of his retreating footsteps.
The strangest, most infuriating feeling twists in my chest.
Because for the second time in fifteen years, Ben Ashcroft has walked away.
15
Lila
I hate how much effort I’ve put into this.
The kitchen is spotless; the ingredients laid out in neat little bowls, everything prepped like I’m hosting some cooking show instead of enduring the longest, most infuriating two hours of my life.
The worst part? I actually spent time picking what we were going to bake.
At first I was going to keep it simple, something foolproof, like scones. Quick, easy, impossible to mess up. Something that wouldn’t require too much focus, because God knows I don’t want to spend the evening actually enjoying this.
But as I stood there, flipping through the recipes, something inside me resisted.
Because baking has never been just a task for me. It’s creation. Precision. The quiet magic of turning the simplest ingredients into something extraordinary. Even when I want to treat this night like a transaction, get in, get out, endure but I can’t bring myself to choose something dull.
No. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.
Choux pastry.
It’s demanding. A test of patience and skill. The kind of thing that needs care, that demands attention and maybe, just maybe, it’ll keep us too busy to think about anything else.
I can already see it. Ben with his sleeves rolled up, completely out of his depth, brow furrowed in concentration as he actually tries.
For some infuriating reason, that makes my chest go tight. At least this way, I get to distract myself. At least this way, I get to work. I should feel better. But then I catch my reflection in the cafe’s window, and the self-satisfaction disappears immediately.
