I inhale.
“I’m not here because I think tonight fixes anything,” I say. “And I’m not here because one good date earns me forgiveness. I know it doesn’t.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around her glass. She doesn’t interrupt.
“I’m here because I think you’re an incredible woman. You’re passionate, smart, strong, and funny.” My voice stays steady, but it costs me. “I wanted to see you, not to convince you of anything. Just to… be with you. If you’d let me.”
She takes a slow sip of her drink.
“Are you being nice to me to get your job back?” Tess asks, smiling.
“I’m not being nice. I’m being truthful.”
Her cheeks flush. She doesn’t take compliments well, but they make her look beautiful.
The conversation unfolds gently after that, like something skittish realizing it isn’t about to be chased.
We don’t lunge for the big topics. We don’t circle wounds or words that still feel sharp enough to cut. We start where it’s safest, where neither of us has to defend anything. The work.
“The ovens have been temperamental lately,” Tess says, turning her glass slowly between her fingers. “Not broken. Just… moody.”
I smile despite myself. “They sense fear.”
She snorts. “They absolutely do. If I walk in tired or distracted, they punish me for it.”
“What did they do this time?” I ask.
She exhales, a sound carrying both frustration and affection. “Croissants. Perfect lamination. Perfect butter temperature. The dough felt right in my hands. I proofed them exactly the same way I always do. Same humidity, same timing. I slide the trays in and…” She makes a soft, collapsing motion with her hand. “They just… gave up. Sank right in the middle. Like they lost the will to live.”
I wince in sympathy. “The silent failures are the worst.”
“Right?” She leans back slightly, eyes bright, animated in a way that feels familiar. “If something burns or explodes, at least you know why. But this? This was betrayal.”
I laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s true. “Did you redo them?”
“Of course,” she says. “Because I’m stubborn. And because I needed to prove I wasn’t losing my touch.”
“And?”
“They were fine the second time.” She frowns. “Which almost made it worse.”
“Because now you don’t trust the win,” I say quietly.
She looks at me. Really looks at me. “Exactly.”
The air between us shifts. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just… aware.
“I ruined a loaf last week,” I offer after a moment. “Not because it failed. Because I failed it.”
Her mouth quirks. “How?”
“I got distracted.” I shake my head. “I was watching the oven door like it was going to tell me a secret if I stared long enough. I missed the window. Just enough. The crust set wrong.”
“That’s the worst,” she murmurs. “When you know you were almost there.”
“I scraped it,” I admit.
She grimaces. “Ouch.”
