The knock came right on time. Ivy smiled before she even reached the door. She had been smiling like that since she woke up. Which had been a problem because she hadn’t slept so much as drifted in and out of sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back at her door, back in his arms, back in that quiet space where nothing existed but the two of them. She’d woken more than once with her fingers pressed to her lips, as if she could hold the memory there, keep it from fading.
At some point she had stopped fighting it and let herself sink into it fully, into the dream. Into the feeling of him holding her. Into the steady warmth of his body, the way he had felt so solid, so certain, like something she could lean into without checking her balance.
In her dreams, his mouth was softer, slower. That set of full lips resting against hers, not taking, not asking. Just there. Like a place she could stay. She had woken up with that same feeling still lingering, low and bright in her chest, and for a moment she hadn’t moved, hadn’t opened her eyes, because she wanted to stay there a second longer.
Then her phone buzzed. His name was on the caller ID. She had opened it too fast, as if she might miss something if she didn’t to find a text of a picture; his hands holding a tomato.
She had stared at the shape of his fingers, the familiarity of them now, the memory of where they had been. Then she had gone to her kitchen, pulled out a bowl, poured in flour, and taken a picture of that.
He’d answered with the compote in progress. The reduction. The color deepening.
She sent butter browning in the pan.
He sent the thyme going in.
Back and forth.
It was the best foreplay of her life. And now he was here.
Ivy didn’t check her reflection. He had seen her flour-dusted and tomato-stained and breathless, and still looked at her like she was something worth stopping for.
She opened the door, already stepping into that expectation?—
"Devon?"
Devon Park stood on her doorstep, his hand raised as though he were going to knock again. Even though it hadn't even been five seconds since his first knock. But Devon didn't like to be kept waiting. His jacket was too polished for Valor; his shoes too clean for gravel; his presence cutting through the morning like something imported.
"There's my girl." He smiled and stepped forward, folding her into a hug before she could decide if she wanted one. He smelled expensive, curated, and too clean. Not a hint of coffee or donut or eggs. Not a single ingredient.
“You look good,” he said, stepping back to look at her.
Ivy saw the assessment happening in real time, the calibration. She was not camera ready. She didn't have on a lick of makeup. Her clothes were loose fitting, not showing herfigure, which meant the camera would add pounds. And she wasn't smiling her pageant performance smile.
"I’ve been calling." The way he said it sounded like a kindergarten teacher scolding the kid who ate the crayon.
Devon glanced past her, taking in the space the way he took in everything: cataloging, evaluating, assigning value.
"What are you doing here, Devon?" As soon as she said it, Ivy realized it was a question she really didn't care to know the answer to. There was no reason for Devon to be here with her. She wasn't going back to food competitions. She'd had enough coming in second. Going all in on her social media channels was really paying off. And she didn't have to share the spotlight with anyone. Well, anyone she didn't want to.
"This is working," he said, gesturing to the ring light and vlog camera setup she had at the stove. "I’ve seen the engagement. The rally clips, the—" a slight shift of his mouth, something amused, "—Tomato Couple. It’s cute."
That last word landed wrong. Cute was small. Contained. Something you watched and moved on from. That wasn’t what this was between her and Finn. She didn’t want Devon—didn’t want anyone from that world—looking at it long enough to decide which light filters to put on it to turncuteinto something shiny they could capitalize off.
She wanted to make him unsee it. Make him look somewhere else. Anywhere else. Because the longer Devon looked, the more he would start connecting pieces. Audience. Chemistry. Narrative. Scale. He would take something real and map it into something usable.
She had seen him do it before. Had let him do it to her more than once. It hadn't made her shine. She'd lost her spark for food.
Not again. And definitely not involving Finn.
She didn’t want Finn pulled into that orbit of deadlines and competition and constant evaluation that had, over time, taken something she loved and turned it into something she performed. She had gotten that back here. At her truck. In this kitchen. In the way Finn tasted food like it mattered and not like it was content.
If Devon was here to suggest turning them into something bigger—some kind of paired brand, a competition, a show—No. Absolutely not. She was already taking a step towards the door when another knock came from the other side.
Finn.
Ivy opened the door. Finn was there, waiting patiently instead of knocking a second time. One hand in his pocket, the other lifting, reaching for her.
He stepped forward. Close enough that her breath caught in anticipation of the kiss that felt inevitable. She leaned into it, wanting it more than her first cup of coffee. She parted her lips to receive her first taste of him when his gaze shifted.
