We clink, drink, and then fall into that easy silence that only happens when the noise in your head finally shuts off. My cheeks are warm from the cider. My heart’s warmer.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Depends.”
“Serious question.”
He gestures with his glass. “Shoot.”
“What made you come back here? To the farm.”
“It’s always been home. Even when it stopped making sense.” He leans back, resting his head against the couch, eyes distant. “After the Army, I thought I’d go somewhere new. But Quinn called one night, said the bank was threatening to call in the loan. I came home for a few weeks to help get things running for the first fall season.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “A few years later, I’m still here.”
“Because you love it.”
“Because it’s ours,” he says simply. “And because I want my nephew to have a place where the world still feels good. Like there’s room to breathe.”
Something about the way he saysourshits deep. It’s the same reason I bake, really—to build something that feels like belonging.
He glances over. “What about you? Where do you go from here? After you’ve conquered small-town Alaska.”
I trace the rim of my glass. “I’m working on a few show pitches. Online streaming platforms, production companies. I’ve filmed some pilots.”
“That’s huge,” he says. “Why do you sound nervous about it?”
“Because I know what happens when you let someone else decide what you should be. They want a version of you that sells, not the one that tells the truth.” I swallow. “I want to teach people that cooking isn’t about being perfect—it’s about makingsomething with your hands and feeding someone you love. If I give that up for ratings, I’ll lose the part that matters.”
“Then don’t give it up. You don’t need a studio to do that. You just need a kitchen.” He gestures toward his small stove. “Maybe even one like this.”
I laugh softly. “Are you volunteering to be my co-host?”
“Only if I get final say on pastry quality control.”
“Deal.”
The word feels too big, too meaningful for a joke. But we’re both smiling, and the moment holds.
He sets his glass down and turns toward me, knee brushing mine.
“You really could do it, you know, with longer-from videos. You have that thing people want to watch. You make them feel welcome.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not easy. It’s just worth the effort.”
The room tilts slightly. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me. His eyes are warmer now, the usual guarded edge gone. I can feel the heat where his arm rests against mine.
Without thinking, I shift closer. “Are you always this nice after you lose a bet?”
He smiles, low and slow. “Maybe I just needed a reason to stop pretending you annoy me.”
“Oh?” I tease, though my voice comes out huskier than I meant. “And what am I now?”
“Trouble,” he murmurs. “The kind that’s good for you.”
I don’t know who moves first, only that the space between us disappears.
