I follow her through the quiet streets. Pine Hollow settles into evening. Porch lights flicker on. The smell of woodsmoke drifts from chimneys.
The barn is dark except for a single lantern.
Ivy produces a bottle of red wine and two mason jars.
"To surviving the day," she says.
We drink.
The wine is terrible and perfect.
I sink onto a hay bale. My whole body feels like a bruise.
Ivy sits beside me. Close enough that I feel her warmth.
"We need a counter-strategy," she says. "Something that addresses people's financial fears without selling out."
"A cooperative model," I suggest. "Farm shares. CSA expansion. Maybe a processing facility that adds value to raw goods."
"That takes capital."
"So does giving up."
She looks at me. In the lantern light, her eyes are dark and serious.
"Why are you fighting this hard? You could sell the bistro. Take your profit. Go back to the city."
"I don't want the city."
"What do you want?"
You.
This.
A life that isn't just cooking but building. Rooting. Belonging.
I don't say it.
Instead I reach for her hand. Thread my fingers through hers.
"I want to prove that doing things right is possible. That flavor and integrity aren't mutually exclusive. That caring about where food comes from isn't naive, it's essential."
Ivy's breath catches.
"Rogan."
I lean in. Slow. Giving her time to pull back.
She doesn't.
Our mouths meet.
The kiss is soft at first. Questioning. Then deeper. Her hand comes up to cup my jaw. I taste wine and exhaustion and something fierce and unguarded.
We break apart. Foreheads touching.
"We should plan," Ivy whispers.
