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Emma watched her go, a profound ache settling in her chest. The bubble had popped. Reality had returned.

The rest of the night passed in an agonizing blur of motion. Emma boxed tarts, handed out berry scones, and wiped sticky crumbs from the display table. Across the lawn, she caught glimpses of Chloe laughing at something Lucy murmured into her ear.

Yet Emma’s focus never stayed in the courtyard. Her thoughts looped back to the garden shed with maddening persistence. Every time she handed over a pastry box, she felt the phantom heat of Victoria’s mouth against hers.

By midnight, the courtyard was empty. The vendors had packed their trucks. Chloe had vanished into the inn, and Lucy had driven away. The fairy lights were turned off, leaving only the porch lamps illuminating the grass.

Emma stood in the kitchen, breaking down the leftover boxes. The back door was propped open to let in the cool night air. She grabbed a damp cloth and began violently wiping down the countertops, trying to scrub the nervous energy out of her system.

Footsteps sounded on the floorboards. Victoria walked into the kitchen.

She had taken off the expensive linen shirt so she wouldn't ruin it during cleanup, leaving only a fitted white tank top that clung to her torso. A sheen of sweat glowed on her collarbone, and the muscles in her bare arms flexed as she grabbed a stack of sticky plastic cups from the island.

Emma’s rag stopped mid-circle on the counter. She stared. Seeing Victoria Sterling out of that heavy wool, skin glistening with sweat and her bare arms exposed in the midnight heat, stopped the air clean in Emma’s throat.

"Let me help you with the heavy crates outside," Victoria said, her voice low in the quiet kitchen.

"I have it," Emma said quickly, tossing the cloth into the sink and heading for the back door.

Victoria followed her out onto the dark patio. Emma grabbed the handles of a heavy wooden crate filled with empty glass bottles. Before she could lift it, Victoria reached out and grabbed the other side of the crate.

"It is heavy. Let go," Victoria ordered.

"I am perfectly capable of lifting a box, Victoria," Emma argued, her grip tightening on the wood.

They stood there, both holding the crate, neither willing to back down. The physical proximity was overwhelming. The courtyard was completely deserted. There was no noise. There was only the sound of their breathing.

Emma looked up. Victoria was already looking at her. The cool reserve she had tried to rebuild after the shed was gone. Victoria looked at Emma with an unvarnished intensity that made Emma’s knees weak.

"You never stop fighting me," Victoria murmured.

"You never let me win," Emma whispered back.

"That is a lie." Victoria’s voice dropped an octave. She stepped closer. The crate bumped against Emma’s stomach. "You win every single time. You have been winning since the day I arrived."

Emma forgot how to breathe, slowly releasing her grip on the wood. Victoria eased the wooden crate down to the grass, barely hearing the clatter of glass.

Victoria stepped in, closing the remaining distance until the front of her tank top brushed Emma’s apron. Emma tilted her head back to hold her gaze, caught in the sudden heat radiating from Victoria's bare skin.

"Victoria," Emma breathed, the word caught between a warning and a surrender.

Victoria lifted her hand, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Emma’s ear. Her thumb trailed along the line of Emma’s jaw, lingering at the corner of her mouth. The contact sent a violent shiver straight down Emma's spine.

Emma’s fingers curled into the fabric of her own apron. "If you do this," she whispered, her voice rough, "do not pretend tomorrow that it was the cider. Or the adrenaline of the festival."

Victoria didn't flinch. Her gaze remained locked on Emma’s mouth before lifting to meet her eyes, steady, deliberate, and fiercely present.

"I have spent weeks pretending. I'm tired of fighting, Emma," Victoria murmured, her thumb pressing lightly against Emma's lower lip. "And I am fully sober."

The honesty hit harder than any argument they had ever had. Emma let out a shaky breath, every remaining defense crumbling. She reached up, resting her palms flat against Victoria’s bare shoulders. The heat of Victoria's skin burned against her fingertips.

Victoria’s hands slid down to Emma's hips, pulling her flush against her body.

"Do you want me to stop?" Victoria asked, her lips skimming Emma's cheekbone.

Emma swallowed, tilting her chin up to meet her halfway. "No."

Victoria closed the distance, pressing her mouth firmly against Emma’s, and this time, neither of them pulled away.