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Knox stayed. He had no reason to stay. The tasting was over, the cake was chosen, the financial summary would take ten minutes to finalize. He stayed anyway, and Lucy didn’t ask him to leave, which was, by their language, an invitation.

She began cleaning. Marco emerged from the walk-in cooler carrying a tray of tomorrow’s croissants and assessed the situation in three seconds.

“Down to the lovebirds,” he said.

“Gabriel and Tessa had a florist appointment.”

“I’m not talking about Gabriel and Tessa.” Marco set the tray down. He glanced between Knox and Lucy with frank appraisal. He’d been watching this slow-motion collision since the first planning meeting, and he was tired of pretending he didn’t see it. “We close at three on Saturdays, and it’s three. I’m gone. You two can lock up.”

“You’re supposed to close with me.”

“I have a thing.”

“What thing?”

“A mysterious, unspecified thing that conveniently requires me to leave you alone in this bakery with a man who’s been watching you pipe roses for an hour like it’s his new religion.” Marco untied his apron. “Goodbye, Knox.”

“Goodbye, Marco.”

“Don’t break anything.”

He was gone before Lucy could respond, which was itself an act of timing. Marco’s exits were as deliberate as his entrances.

Knox stood and carried plates to the sink. He’d developed the habit across a summer of Tuesday meetings, moving through her kitchen like a guest who knew where everything belonged. This space was hers, and his presence in it was conditional.

“You don’t have to help,” she said.

“I know.”

“You’re going to anyway.”

“I am.”

“You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve been told.”

She ran water in the sink. He dried. They worked in the rhythm they’d built across a dozen meetings and two late nights.

“Can I ask you something?” Lucy said, passing him a rinsed plate.

“You’re going to ask regardless of my answer.”

“True. Why did you stay?”

“Define stay.”

“Today. After the tasting. Gabriel and Tessa left. Marco left. You’re still here, drying plates in my kitchen. There’s no financial reason for that.”

“Maybe I like your dishware.”

“Knox.”

He dried the plate, set it on the rack, and picked up the next. “That Saturday in June. When the building went up for sale and everyone showed up. After they left, you let me stay.”

“I remember.”

“I’ve been thinking about a phrase of yours. ‘This isn’t happening.’ You’ve been saying it since the engagement party. After the dance. All summer.” He turned the plate over and dried the back. “At a certain point, the thing you keep saying isn’t happening becomes the thing that most clearly is.”