She didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. Her throat burned, vision blurring, and for a second—just one—she thought maybe he’d look back.

He didn’t.

And something in her cracked like ice under too much weight.

Her voice came sharp, laced with fury and heartbreak, slicing through the night like lightning.

“Asher Cole, don’t you dare walk away from me.”

He slowed—but didn’t turn. Not yet.

So she kept going, storm rising behind her ribs.

“You don’t get to play the martyr and then leave. You don’t get to drop that on me like some kind of tragic gift and act like it’s noble.”

Her heels scraped against the pavement as she caught up to him, breath unsteady, eyes glassed but burning.

“Because I was waiting for the part where you’d fight. Where you’d say it wasn’t over. That this was just another one of our messes we’d set fire to before we found our way back.”

He finally turned. And the look on his face—soft, sad, already mourning—nearly undid her.

She hated it.

Hated how it made her want to forgive him for bleeding her dry.

“You talked like it was already over,” she said, voice cracking. “Like you’d made up your mind before I even opened my mouth.”

A tear slipped down, traitorous and hot. She swiped at it, angry now, because no—she wasn’t going to be the one left behind with all the words caught in her chest.

Not this time.

“You think you're the only one drowning?” she whispered, stepping closer, a bitter laugh escaping. “I’ve been holding my breath for months, Asher. Pretending we still fit. Pretending this doesn’t hurt every time you look at me like you’re already gone.”

He opened his mouth, but she shook her head. No. Not this time.

“I loved you so much I stopped recognizing myself.”

Another breath. Another wave.

“And the worst part?” she said, eyes sharp even through the shimmer of unshed tears. “I would’ve kept doing it. I would’ve kept pretending, just to keep you.”

She stepped back, letting the silence settle between them like ash.

“But now… now I get it. You’ve already left.”

She straightened then, chin lifted, voice low and sure.

“So I’ll say it for you.”

Her words landed like stone.

“It’s over.”

And this time, it was her who turned.

Her heels clicked against the pavement, fast and final. And she didn’t look back.

Let him know how it felt. Let him taste the goodbye he’d already whispered with his silence.

Let him be the one who watched her walk away.

Asher didn’t move at first.

The echo of her footsteps—the sharp, final staccato of her departure—rattled in his ears like gunfire. Each step reminded him that he had pushed too far, waited too long, and said too little. And now, she was gone.

He hadn’t expected her to call him out like that. Not at all.

But she had. And she was right.

He had spoken as if it was over because, in some twisted way, it felt easier than admitting how terrified he was of holding something so fragile and real. He feared failing her. He feared failing them. So, instead, he allowed the silence to do the breaking for him.

Yet, a part of him believed she would keep choosing him. She always had.

But this time, she didn’t.

This time, she walked away.

And damn, it felt like the air had been ripped from his lungs.

Under the glow of a streetlight, he stood there, her words replaying repeatedly in his mind.

“I loved you so much I stopped recognizing myself.”

He swallowed hard. She hadn’t yelled those words. She delivered each one, a truth he hadn’t had the courage to voice himself. She had pleaded with fire in her voice, and he gave her ashes in return.

And now?

Now, he was the one watching her disappear.

He blinked against the sting in his eyes, his jaw tightening, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. There was so much he could say. So much he should have said.

But it was too late.

She was already gone.

For the first time in a long time, Asher Cole wasn’t the one leaving.

He was the one left behind.

Spring in Evergreen Mountain Village arrives like a deep breath after a long-held silence—and nowhere does it bloom brighter than along Main Street during the annual Spring Carnival.

For one perfect weekend, the quiet, nostalgic town pulses with color and life. Bunting in soft pastels zigzags from rooftop to rooftop, fluttering like stitched-together laughter in the breeze. The usual hum of daily routine is replaced by the melody of a string quartet near the post office, the creak of a vintage carousel spinning slow by the bakery, and the warm buzz of conversation rising between booths.

Children dart past with cotton candy in hand, cheeks sticky, shoes scuffed from sack races in the town square. Local artists display watercolor postcards and handmade soap under striped tents, their tables layered with linen cloth and wildflower jars. At the far end of the street, a “Hello Spring” banner hangs from the white gazebo, flanked by flower pinwheels that spin lazily in the sun.

The air smells like everything at once—sweet kettle corn, fresh lemonade, lilacs in bloom, and the faint crispness of mountain pine that never quite disappears. The old green pickup that usually haunts the quiet hours is now part of a photo op, decked out in daisy chains and flanked by smiling locals.

Neighbors linger longer here, waving over paper cups of cider and laughing at nothing in particular. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But it’s the kind of joy you feel in your chest for days after. The kind that lingers like sun-warmed wood and the memory of a slower, sweeter world.

When she asked earlier in the week—half teasing, half hoping—Tyler had shrugged with his usual brand of casual dismissal.

“Dunno. I’m not really a flower crown and pie contest kind of guy.”

So she hadn’t expected him to come. Not really.

Ellie focused on the booth instead—two folding tables dressed in gingham cloth, trays of strawberry scones and frosted sugar cookies, a crooked sign that read Baked in Evergreen. Her apron was already dusted in flour and powdered sugar. Her hair was pinned back in soft curls, and she’d even let Faye talk her into a pink ribbon.

Then she looked up—and there he was.

Walking through the crowd like he wasn’t the most infuriatingly handsome boy to ever fake-indifference his way through emotional intimacy. Lemonade in one hand. Funnel cake in the other. Smirking like he didn’t just show up to a flower crown and pie contest on purpose.

Ellie blinked. Then blinked again.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He just raised an eyebrow.

She stepped out from behind the booth, lips twitching.

“You’re actually here. With snacks.”

She reached for the lemonade first, fingers brushing his as she took it. Cool, tart, the exact kind she liked.

“Okay, Harrison,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “This might actually qualify as romantic.”

Then—before she could overthink it—she kissed him. Quick, soft, like punctuation. Her cheeks were pink when she pulled back, but her smile didn’t falter.

“You’re lucky this counts as a peace offering.”

She glanced back toward the booth, then turned over her shoulder with a grin.

“And for the record—you’re still helping me pack up.”

Tyler didn’t answer right away.

He just stood there, the taste of powdered sugar lingering on his tongue and the echo of her lips still warm on his. She’d kissed him like it meant something. Like maybe him being here—really here—was worth more than all the times he hadn’t been.

And God, wasn’t that terrifying?

He let his eyes drift over the crowd, the ribbons and hay bales and aggressively wholesome joy that came with small-town festivals. Kids ran by with sticky hands and flower crowns tilted sideways. Someone was playing a banjo near the church steps. A dog in a denim vest barked at a goat.

It was hell.

And somehow, she made it bearable.

Ellie. With her dusted apron and that goddamn pink ribbon in her hair. She looked like spring, like safety, like the kind of girl who deserved a man who never had to try to stay.

But here he was. Trying.

He shifted the funnel cake to his other hand and smirked down at her. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, voice low and teasing. “I’m only here for the snacks and the apron.”

But the joke landed softer than usual.

Because he knew she was clocking it all—the lemonade, the look, the effort. And yeah, maybe he was struggling to wrap his head around the whole one person forever thing. Maybe the idea still made his skin itch some nights, made his mind wander when she asked too many serious questions about the future.

But she was the only one who made him want to figure it out.

That had to count for something, right?

He leaned in a little, voice dipping just for her. “I’ll help you pack up, Tate. Might even carry a tray or two without complaining.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—

“You keep kissing me like that, and I might even start looking forward to pie contests.”

He didn’t mean it as a promise. Not really.

But it was close enough to one.
For now.

Ellie didn’t answer right away.

She just stood there in the dappled spring light, her apron dusted with flour and a smudge of strawberry glaze on her cheek that she hadn’t noticed. The pink ribbon in her hair caught the breeze—barely—and Tyler, for all his swagger and one-liners, suddenly felt like he was standing at the edge of something that mattered.

She reached out slowly, not looking at him just yet, and tore off a piece of the funnel cake with fingers that still smelled like sugar and lemon zest. The powdered sugar clung to her skin like snowfall, soft and fleeting. For a second, she held the piece between her fingers, eyes focused on it like maybe the right words were hiding in the folds of fried dough.

Then she looked up—steady, unflinching, quiet.

“I’ll keep kissing you like that if you keep showing up like this,” she said.

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even a challenge.

It was a promise wrapped in a warning. A blueprint of what she needed.

Then—like punctuation—she popped the piece of funnel cake into her mouth and turned away again, back to her booth like nothing monumental had just been spoken. Like her heart hadn’t just cracked open, wide and vulnerable, right there between lemonade cups and hand-lettered pie contest signs.

She didn’t wait for him to respond.

Because deep down, she already knew he heard her.

Ellie didn’t look back.

Not because she wasn’t tempted—but because she knew better. Knew that if she gave him even a sliver more attention, he’d smirk, or wink, or say something just cocky enough to unravel her resolve.

And she couldn’t afford to unravel. Not here. Not when the sun was warm, and the smell of cinnamon sugar hung thick in the air, and a line was forming at the booth for her strawberry scones.

So she tied her apron a little tighter.

She reached for the tray of lemon tarts and adjusted them like they needed her focus, even though they were already perfect. Just something to do. Something to keep her hands from shaking.

Because he’d come.

After all the half-hearted maybe’s and deflections and “I’m not really a fairground kind of guy,” he’d actually shown up. Lemonade in one hand, funnel cake in the other, hair a little damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower and decided last-minute to give a damn.

And it undid something in her.

She didn’t know what she expected. Probably nothing. Probably another Tyler Harrison-shaped letdown, if she was being honest with herself. But there he was—looking like trouble, smelling like sugar, and handing her her favorite drink like it wasn’t the most vulnerable thing he’d done in weeks.

And the kiss?

God.

She hadn’t meant to kiss him like that. Not in public. Not with the women from church eyeing her booth and Faye two stalls over probably counting down the seconds until she could text I told you so.

But she had.

Because he’d looked at her like she was worth the trip. Worth the effort. Worth showing up for.

And Ellie—stubborn, cautious, wounded Ellie—wanted so badly to believe that maybe he finally meant it.

So she kissed him.

Not because she was ready to fall again.

But because, for once, he was the one standing still. And that had to count for something.

She glanced over her shoulder then, just once, and caught the tail end of his smirk as he bit into the funnel cake and leaned casually against the booth like he’d always belonged there.

And for one fragile, hopeful second—she let herself think maybe he did.

Tyler didn’t move right away.

He stood exactly where she’d left him—half-stunned, half-struck, powdered sugar still on his lips, her kiss lingering like static under his skin.

The crowd bustled behind him. Laughter, clinking lemonade cups, the hum of fairground chatter. But it all felt distant. Muted. Like someone had turned the world down just low enough for him to hear his own heartbeat stammer in his chest.

She said it like it was simple.

Keep showing up.

But Tyler knew it wasn’t. Not for him.

He wasn’t wired for constancy. He’d spent most of his life flaking at the first sign of pressure, convincing himself people were easier to forget than to figure out. He knew how to coast, how to charm, how to leave before the room got too quiet and someone asked him to stay.

And yet—

Here he was.

In a crowd full of sweetness and sincerity, wearing a flannel he didn’t iron and boots too worn for a fairground date. Standing in front of a girl with a pink ribbon in her hair and powdered sugar on her cheek, who just told him with terrifying clarity that she would give him everything—if he learned how to hold it.

No pressure.

Tyler took a bite of funnel cake, chewing slow, mostly to buy himself time. She didn’t look back again, didn’t play coy or bat her lashes or wait to see if he’d come after her. Because she wasn’t trying to win him.

She was waiting to be matched.

And God, didn’t that just mess with him.

Because somewhere between the lemonade and the kiss and that quietly loaded sentence, Tyler realized she wasn’t going to drag him toward something better. Not anymore.

She was already better.

And if he wanted her—really wanted her—he had to figure out how to show up on purpose. Not just for the fair. Not just when it was easy.

But for the boring days. The hard talks. The moments when love wasn’t a kiss—it was a choice.

Tyler took one more bite, slower this time, and glanced toward the booth. She was talking to someone now, smiling politely, her hand brushing hair out of her eyes in that way that made him ache.

And just like that, the smirk slid off his face.

Replaced with something quieter.

More careful.

He reached up, rubbed the powdered sugar off his mouth with the back of his wrist, then stepped forward and joined her behind the booth like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like maybe he really was in.

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—he meant it.

Ellie didn’t look at him right away.

She just reached for the funnel cake again, tore off a bite-sized corner, and popped it into her mouth like it wasn’t a big deal—like her heart wasn’t still tripping over itself from the way he’d just looked at her.

She wiped her fingers on a napkin, eyes scanning the carnival crowd before landing back on him, slow and steady.

“You pick a good time to show up,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve been running this booth since ten. Haven’t sat down once. Didn’t even get to sneak off for kettle corn.”

She glanced down at the lemonade in his hand. Then up at his face. A small smile tugged at her mouth.

“You gonna walk with me a while?”

The question wasn’t pushy. It wasn’t loaded.

Just… open.

Like she wasn’t asking for a grand gesture. Just this. A small break. A few quiet minutes. Maybe a funnel cake bite or two passed between them like a secret.

She leaned her hip against the table and folded her arms loosely.

“I hear the band by the church is finally playing something decent. Figured I’d go give ‘em my approval.”

A beat.

Then, lightly—tilted toward teasing, but still sincere—

“You coming or are you just here to stare at me like I’m your favorite booth?”

He grinned at that—of course he did—but Ellie didn’t let it derail her.

Not this time.

She turned before he could answer, apron strings swaying behind her as she ducked into the back of the booth and passed the tray of lemon tarts off to Amanda, who barely blinked before catching on. Ellie didn’t even have to say anything. Her co-worker just nodded, subtly shifting to cover the counter while Ellie slipped out the side.

Her shoes clicked gently against the pavement, that familiar ache starting in her arches from too many hours standing. But it didn’t matter. Not right now. Not when the air was thick with the smell of fried dough and cut grass and the kind of early evening light that made everything feel like nostalgia in real time.

She didn’t look to see if he followed.

She knew he would.

Instead, she walked a few paces ahead—past the face painting tent, past the “Guess How Many Jellybeans” table Faye had once won at ten years old and never stopped bragging about. Her hands tucked into the pockets of her cardigan, and for a second, she let herself breathe.

Not work.
Not worry.
Just… now.

When he finally caught up, she slowed her pace, letting the quiet stretch between them like ribbon.

“Y’know,” she said after a beat, not looking at him, “you were the last person I expected to see today. The way you talked earlier in the week, I figured I’d have a better shot spotting Bigfoot by the lemonade stand.”

She risked a glance his way, eyes soft but alert. Watching. Measuring.

“I didn’t mind,” she added. “Didn’t need you to come running in with a balloon and some heroic speech.”

Her voice lowered, less teasing now. Honest.

“But it’s nice to have you here.”

She wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t mean something. That wouldn’t be fair—to him or to herself. He was here, powdered sugar and all, walking beside her like maybe the space between them didn’t have to be so complicated.

They rounded the corner toward the bandstand, the music swelling into something bright and twangy.

Ellie smiled to herself, just barely, then held out her hand.

Not to pull.
Not to demand.

Just to offer.

A quiet gesture that said:
I’m here.
If you are.

Tyler took the offer like it was a dare.

Not a dramatic one—not some chest-thumping, hearts-on-sleeves, “let’s make a scene” kind of thing. Just her hand, steady and open in the spring light, soft fingers dusted with powdered sugar and pie crust. And somehow, that was worse.

Worse, because it wasn’t dramatic.

It was real.

And he didn’t do real well.

But still—he reached out.

Slipped his fingers through hers like he knew how. Like he’d done it a hundred times and hadn’t spent the last year forgetting what steady felt like.

Her hand was warm.

Grounding.

Like the kind of feeling that makes you rethink every version of yourself you’ve ever faked just to avoid this exact moment.

They walked slow, boots scuffing gravel, her hair catching gold where the light snuck through trees. He hadn’t meant to show up. Not really. Not until he was already halfway there, caught between a bad haircut memory and the sound of her voice still looping in his head from that phone call three nights ago.

You coming or not?

He was already in the truck before he realized he didn’t have an answer.

And now here he was.

Next to her.

Like he belonged.

He looked at their hands—how she didn’t squeeze or pull, just held. Like she wasn’t waiting for him to be anything other than what he was in that moment. No grand declarations. No speeches. Just presence.

That almost made him laugh.

Because if she only knew how much of him wasn’t present half the damn time. How much of him lived in exit strategies and backup plans. How close he’d come to ghosting that morning when he saw the reminder ping on his phone: Evergreen Spring Fest - Booth 17.

He could’ve stayed home.

Could’ve let the silence between them stretch until it snapped and spared them both the trouble.

But she kissed him.

Right there in front of the whole town. Powdered sugar and all.

And he knew—deep in his idiot heart—that he’d let her.

Every time.

So he squeezed her hand just slightly, like a promise he hadn’t learned how to make yet, and let the band’s bright guitar swell fill the space between their footfalls.

“You’re wrong, by the way,” he said, glancing down at her with that infuriating smirk that was just sincere enough to matter.

She looked up, eyebrows raised.

“You are my favorite booth.”

She rolled her eyes. He expected her to let go.

She didn’t.

And for now, that was enough.

Ellie didn’t smile.

Not right away.

Her fingers stayed where they were—curled around his like it was easy, like it was instinct—but inside, she was chaos. Not the loud, dramatic kind. No. The quiet kind. The kind that settled behind your ribs and made your chest feel too full and too hollow at the same time.

He’d taken her hand.

God help her, he’d taken her hand.

Like it wasn’t a test. Like he hadn’t spent months being all static and backpedal and half-hearted apologies dressed up in sarcasm. Like maybe this time, he was serious.

Her heart tripped. Not because he’d said something sweet—he always said sweet things, just sharp enough to make you bleed if you weren’t careful—but because he meant it.

Or he wanted her to think he did.

She couldn’t tell which was worse.

Ellie exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of his palm seep into hers, grounding her against the noise and color and sugar-spun magic of the fair. Kids darted past them with sticky fingers and cotton candy grins. The band hit a wrong chord and laughed their way through it. The air smelled like kettle corn and grass and the last week of spring.

She should’ve pulled away.

Should’ve let him walk with his funnel cake and his stupid grin and left him exactly where she’d found him—in the space between old wounds and familiar charm.

But she didn’t.

Because his hand was warm.

Because he showed up.

Because she didn’t have the energy to pretend she didn’t want this, even if it scared the hell out of her.

So when he said it—“You are my favorite booth”—with that ridiculous, infuriating smirk?

She didn’t roll her eyes.

She didn’t shove him or snap back with something sharp and clever.

She just looked at him.

Quiet. Steady.

And then—finally—let the edge of her mouth curl into something real.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I know.”

She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to.

Because for once, he was here.

And for right now?

That was enough.

Ellie felt it in her chest first—a strange tightness, like her heart was trying to stretch past the boundaries of her ribs, trying to find more room for all the things she wasn’t saying.

His fingers brushed hers again, the pressure light but steady, and it almost undid her. Not because of what it meant. But because of how simple it was. Like he didn’t even realize what it cost her to let him in like this. To let them be like this.

She glanced sideways, catching the way his curls fell in his eyes, the way the corner of his mouth kept twitching like he was trying not to grin too wide. Like he knew he was getting away with something.

And maybe he was.

Because Ellie wasn’t made for second chances. Not really. Not after everything. Not after the late nights spent waiting for his name to pop up on her screen, or the way he could go quiet just long enough to make her doubt everything. She wasn’t the kind of girl who forgave easily. Who forgot pain quickly. She held on. Sometimes too long.

But damn it if she didn’t want to believe this time could be different.

That he could be different.

“You’re lucky I like funnel cake,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear over the chatter and music and the clang of the bell from the high striker game across the path.

He laughed—quiet, surprised. That real kind that started in his chest and softened all his edges.

She let herself look at him again.

Not in the way she used to—like she was bracing for impact. But like she was seeing him. Now. Here. Not the memory of him or the hope of who he could be. Just… him. Walking beside her. Carrying her lemonade. Thumb tracing little circles over the back of her hand.

And when they passed the row of vendors—when a little girl in a sunhat pointed at her and whispered something excited about “the pretty girl from the pie booth”—Ellie felt something strange settle in her bones.

Peace.

She didn’t know how long it would last. Didn’t know if he’d disappear again, or mess up, or make her regret this walk.

But she knew this moment.

And she wasn’t going to miss it by holding back.

So she tugged his hand gently and nodded off toward the right, toward the edge of the fairgrounds where the crowd thinned and the carousel lights flickered gold through the trees.

“C’mon,” she said, her voice soft and certain. “I want to see the carousel.”

And without waiting for his answer, she led him there. Hand in hand.

Just this once, she wasn’t afraid of what it might mean.