Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~6 min read
One week before the festival, and Ivy’s anxiety was reaching new heights.
She stress-baked seventeen dozen cookies. Made bread she didn’t need. Reorganized the bakery twice. Called Bash at midnight in a panic about portable oven temperatures.
“Ivy,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “It’s going to be fine.”
“What if the oven doesn’t heat properly? What if we undercook the puddings? What if people hate it?”
“They won’t hate it. We’ve made this dessert a hundred times.”
“In a controlled environment! This is outside! With variables! Weather and power sources and—”
“Breathe,” Bash interrupted. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
She breathed. Once. Twice. The panic eased slightly.
“Better?” he asked.
“A little.”
“Want me to come over?”
Yes. God, yes. She wanted him there, solid and calming. But it was 12:30 AM and he had early prep.
“No. I’m okay. I just needed to hear your voice.”
“My voice that’s telling you to sleep,” Bash said. “We have a final walkthrough tomorrow at 9 AM. You need rest.”
“You need rest too.”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”
“Bash.”
“Fine. I’ll try. If you try.”
“Deal.”
“I love you,” he said, soft and sure.
Ivy’s heart squeezed. “I love you too.”
They hung up, and Ivy climbed into bed. But sleep didn’t come easily. Her mind spun through worst-case scenarios until her phone buzzed again.
Bash: Still awake?
Ivy: How did you know?
Bash: Your light is on. I can see it from my window.
She looked out to see his light on too, his silhouette moving around his kitchen.
Ivy: We’re both terrible at this.
Bash: At sleeping? Yes.
Ivy: At not worrying.
Bash: Also yes. Want to come over? We can worry together.
Ivy grabbed her jacket and was in his kitchen three minutes later.
They made hot chocolate—Bash’s recipe, dark and rich with a hint of chili. Sat at his small table in comfortable silence.
“Tell me what you’re really afraid of,” Bash said finally.
Ivy wrapped her hands around the warm mug. “That I’ll mess this up. The festival. The dessert. Us. Everything I’ve built here. That I’ll prove all those head chefs right—that I’m too soft for this industry. Too emotional. Too much.”
“You’re not too much,” Bash said firmly. “You’re exactly right. And those head chefs were idiots who couldn’t see talent when it was standing in front of them.”
“What are you afraid of?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “Same things. Failing. Letting you down. Letting the town down. Proving that I’m just an angry chef who got lucky once and can’t sustain it.”
“You’re not just an angry chef.”
“I was. Before you.” He reached across the table. “You changed me. Made me softer. Better. And I’m terrified that if I screw this up, I’ll lose that. Lose you.”
“You won’t lose me,” Ivy said. “Bash, even if the festival is a complete disaster—which it won’t be—you won’t lose me. We’re more than one event. More than one dessert.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
They finished their hot chocolate, and Bash walked her to the door. But before she left, he pulled her close.
“Thank you,” he said. “For this. For being my calm in the chaos.”
“You’re my calm too,” Ivy said.
They kissed, slow and sweet, and Ivy felt some of the anxiety melt away.
Tomorrow they’d finalize the plans. In a week, they’d face the festival.
But tonight, they had each other. And that was enough.
The festival walkthrough was organized chaos.
Mayor Whitmore had a clipboard and a megaphone and zero patience for nonsense. She marched vendors through the setup process with military precision.
“Moreau, Sinclair—you’re here,” she said, pointing to a prime spot in the center of the festival grounds. “You’ll have access to power, water, and a prep tent. Your demonstration starts at 2 PM. Capacity is 200 people. You’ll do two seatings. Questions?”
Ivy had approximately eight hundred questions. Bash appeared to have zero.
“We’re good,” he said calmly.
“We are?” Ivy hissed when the mayor moved on.
“We will be. Come on—let’s set up the space.”
They spent the next three hours arranging their station. Portable ovens, prep surfaces, ingredient storage. Everything needed to be perfect. Accessible. Photogenic, because people would absolutely be filming.
Leo and Margot showed up to help. Soon it became a group effort—arranging, rearranging, testing angles, making sure everything flowed.
“This is actually coming together,” Ivy said, stepping back to survey their work.
“Told you,” Bash said, bumping her shoulder.
“You two are going to kill it,” Margot said. “The whole town is excited. We sold out of festival tickets in three days.”
“No pressure,” Ivy muttered.
“Think of it this way,” Leo said. “Even if you completely bomb—which you won’t—you’ll still have each other. And that’s adorable. The town will forgive anything if you’re cute about it.”
“We’re not cute,” Bash said.
Everyone stared at him.
“Okay, fine. We’re cute,” he admitted.
Ivy laughed and kissed his cheek, leaving a flour mark. He didn’t wipe it off.
They were definitely cute.
That evening, Ivy and Bash did a final test run of the dessert. Everything worked perfectly. The flavors were balanced. The technique was flawless. The presentation was beautiful.
“We’re ready,” Ivy said.
“We’re ready,” Bash agreed.
They looked at each other across the kitchen—the kitchen where they’d first created this dessert, where they’d fallen in love, where they’d built something bigger than themselves.
“Whatever happens,” Ivy said, “I’m glad we did this. All of it.”
“Even the parking wars?”
“Especially the parking wars. They led to this.”
Bash crossed to her side, pulled her close. “One week from now, this will all be over. We’ll have pulled off the festival. Impressed the town. Proven ourselves.”
“And then what?”
“Then we keep going. Keep building. Keep creating. Together.”
“Together,” Ivy echoed.
It sounded like a promise. Like a future.
Like everything she’d ever wanted.
One week. They could do this.
They could do anything.
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