Passage 6

THE RISE

Nathan's apartment was in a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and tall windows. I'd gotten his address from the magazine's website, and now I stood in the hallway feeling like a lunatic.

I knocked before I could lose my nerve.

He opened the door in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair disheveled, looking more human than I'd ever seen him.

"Sloane?"

I held up the bakery box. "You said my cinnamon rolls were perfect. Thought you might need a reminder."

He stared at me. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to tell you that I'm terrified too." The words rushed out. "Of this. Of us. Of getting hurt again. But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."

Something cracked in his expression. "Come in."

His apartment smelled like coffee and paper. His laptop sat open on the dining table, a document pulled up. I caught the words letter of resignation before he closed it.

"You're quitting?"

"I'm opening a place." He ran a hand through his hair. "Small, intimate. Somewhere I can actually create. I've been thinking about it for years, but this week, you, you made me remember why I loved this. Not criticizing. Making. Sharing."

My heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. "You're serious?"

"I don't want to be the person who walks away from something good because I'm scared." He crossed to me, took the box from my hands, and set it on the counter. "Not anymore."

"Nathan, "

"I was writing that letter when you knocked. Telling Angela I'm done. That I need to try something real."

"What if it fails?"

"Then I'll fail doing something I love instead of something safe." He cupped my face. "You taught me that."

I kissed him. Finally, completely, without fear.

He tasted like coffee and possibility. His hands slid into my hair, and I pressed closer, five days of wanting to spill over into this moment.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine.

"I have a question."

"Okay."

"A restaurant needs a pastry chef. Are you interested?"

I laughed, tears sliding down my cheeks. "Are you offering me a job or asking me out?"

"Both. Definitely both."

"I have a bakery to run."

"Tessa  can handle it. You said it yourself, she's ready."

"You've thought about this."

"I've thought about nothing else for three days." He pulled back to look at me. "I want to build something with you, Sloane. Not just a restaurant. Something real."

I kissed him again, softer this time. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

We sat on his couch eating cinnamon rolls, making plans that felt impossible and perfect. A small place with a rotating menu. Dinner five nights a week. Me on pastry, him on savory. Tessa  taking over Flour & Tide full-time.

"What should we call it?" I asked, licking sugar off my thumb.

He watched me do it, eyes darkening. "Ember & Flour?"

"I love it."

"Good." He pulled me closer. "Because I love you."

I'd known, of course. I had felt it building all week. But hearing it still stole my breath.

"I love you too," I whispered. "Even though you gave me a mediocre review."

"I gave you my highest rating!"

"After insulting my flour."

He kissed me to shut me up, and I let him.

THREE MONTHS LATER

Opening night at Ember & Flour was everything I'd dreamed and nothing I'd expected.

The space was tiny, twenty seats, open kitchen, Edison bulbs casting warm light over reclaimed wood tables. Nathan had designed the menu. I'd created desserts that made people go quiet when they tasted them.

We were fully booked for the next two months.

I watched him work the line, calm and confident, and felt that same flutter I'd felt on the beach. Tessa had taken over Flour & Tide beautifully, and I split my time between both places, exhausted and happier than I'd ever been.

A couple at the bar was on a first date. I overheard the guy tell the woman: "The owners used to hate each other. Now look at them."

Nathan must have heard too, because he glanced up, caught my eye across the kitchen, and grinned.

I crossed to him during a lull. He pulled me close, kissed me despite the customers watching.

"Hi," he murmured against my lips.

"Hi yourself."

"How's the starting situation?"

"Six orders. We're out of lavender."

"Good problem to have."

I rested my head on his shoulder for just a second, breathing him in, olive oil and thyme and home.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"For what?"

"This. Us. Being brave enough to try."

He tilted my chin up. "We're just getting started."

The kitchen timer dinged. Orders came in. We moved apart, back to our stations, working in the rhythm we'd found.

Turns out the sweetest recipe is the one you write together.

And ours was just beginning.