The kitchen smells like basil and garlic and the faint char of bread crusts. Rogan has set out two bowls on the prep table, each filled with the bright red sauce the kids made. A loaf of bread sits between them, torn into rough chunks.
I dip a piece and taste.
The tomatoes sing. Bright and sweet with an edge of acid that the heirloom strain carries. Nothing like the bland uniformity of grocery store varieties.
"This is good."
"This is legacy." He tears his own piece of bread, dragging it through the sauce. "Farmer Hank brought me the first harvest yesterday. Said the plants are thriving. Asked if we wanted to do a preservation workshop in the fall."
"Hank asked for a workshop?"
"I know. I nearly dropped the crate." Rogan's grin is wide and a little smug. "Turns out risking your neck for someone's seed lot builds goodwill."
"Turns out showing up consistently builds trust."
He concedes the point with a tilt of his head.
We eat in comfortable silence, passing the bread back and forth. The kitchen light slants through the window, catching dust motes and the gleam of recently scrubbed stainless steel.
"I've been thinking," Rogan says eventually. His voice has gone quiet. Careful. "About what we're building here."
I wait.
"It's not just the cooperative. Or the bistro. Or even the food." He sets down his bread. "It's bigger than that."
"I know."
"Do you?" He reaches across the table, lacing his fingers through mine. "Because I need to say this out loud. Make it real."
My heart kicks against my ribs.
"I'm not going anywhere, Ivy. Not when things get hard. Not when the next crisis hits. Not when some flashy opportunity shows up offering me an escape route." His thumb traces the calluses on my palm. "I'm staying. Building this with you. For as long as you'll have me."
The words lodge in my throat. I've spent years protecting myself from promises that might break. From hope that might shatter.
But this doesn't feel fragile.
"I'm not good at this," I manage. "At trusting that things will last."
"I know."
"But I want to be. With you. I want to build something that lasts because we both show up. Every day. Even when it's hard."
"Especially when it's hard."
I lean across the table. Kiss him soft and sure.
"I'm staying too. No escape routes. No fallback plans. Just this. Us. Whatever we make together."
His hand cups my face. "That's all I need."
We stay like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. The bistro hums around us. The refrigerator's gentle whir. The tick of the old clock on the wall. The settling sounds of a building at rest.
Home sounds.
"We should write this down," I say.
"What, our vows?"
