Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~5 min read
Mrs. Fletcher cornered Bash on Friday afternoon.
He was carrying supplies to his car when she appeared seemingly from nowhere—a skill she’d perfected over eighty years of gathering gossip in Willowbrook.
“Sebastian,” she said. “A word.”
“Mrs. Fletcher. I’m kind of in a rush—”
“That girl is in love with you.”
Bash stopped. “I know. We’ve discussed it. We’re together.”
“No, you stubborn fool. I mean she’s IN LOVE with you. The kind of love that doesn’t come around twice in a lifetime. The kind my Harold and I had for sixty years before he passed.”
Bash set down the box he was carrying. “Okay.”
“And you love her.”
“Yes.”
“The way you look at her—it’s like she hung the moon and stars just for you.” Mrs. Fletcher stepped closer. “So why do you look so miserable?”
“I’m not miserable.”
“You are. I see you through that window at 2 AM, pacing your kitchen. I see the way you watch her when she’s not looking, like you’re afraid she’ll disappear.”
Bash’s jaw tightened. “She’s too good for me.”
“Nonsense.”
“She’s sunshine and joy and everything bright. I’m—I’m angry and damaged and I work too much and I don’t know how to—” He stopped, frustrated. “She deserves someone who’s whole. Someone who won’t drag her down.”
Mrs. Fletcher whacked him with her purse. Actually whacked him.
“Ow!”
“You’re an idiot,” she said. “That girl doesn’t want someone perfect. She wants YOU. Grumpy, workaholic, slightly damaged you. Because you see her. You value her. You make her feel safe.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she told Margot, who told me. And also because I have eyes. I’ve watched you two dance around each other for months. Watched you fall in love in the middle of a ridiculous parking war. Watched you build something real.”
Bash slumped against his car. “What if I screw it up? What if I’m too much—too intense, too broken—and she realizes she made a mistake?”
“Then you apologize and try again. That’s what love is. Trying. Failing. Trying again.” Mrs. Fletcher softened. “My Harold was difficult. Stubborn. Set in his ways. But he loved me fiercely. Showed up every day. Chose me every day. That’s all she needs. Your commitment. Your heart. Even the grumpy parts.”
“The grumpy parts are most of me.”
“And she loves them anyway. So stop overthinking and just BE with her. Tomorrow’s the festival. Show the town what you two can do. Then take that girl somewhere nice and tell her everything you’re feeling. All the fears, all the hopes. She can handle it.”
“You’re very bossy for someone I barely know,” Bash said.
“I’m old. I’ve earned bossiness.” She patted his arm. “Your mother would be proud, you know. Of who you’ve become. Of the man who’s brave enough to love despite being scared.”
Bash’s throat went tight. “Thank you.”
“Now go prepare for tomorrow. And Sebastian? Try to smile occasionally. It won’t kill you.”
“It might.”
“Dramatic chef,” Mrs. Fletcher muttered, walking away.
Bash stood there for a long moment, thinking about Ivy. About love. About fear. About tomorrow and the day after and all the days that could follow if he was brave enough.
He pulled out his phone.
Bash: After the festival. Dinner. Somewhere special. I need to tell you things.
Ivy: Mysterious. I like it. Everything okay?
Bash: Yes. Better than okay. I just… I have things to say. Properly. Not during crisis or deadlines. Just us.
Ivy: I’d like that. I have things to say too.
Bash: Yeah?
Ivy: Yeah. Important things. Scary things. Good things.
Bash: We’re a mess.
Ivy: The best kind. See you tomorrow morning? Festival prep?
Bash: Wouldn’t miss it. Love you.
Ivy: Love you too. Even the grumpy parts.
Bash laughed. Had Mrs. Fletcher told her to say that? Or was Ivy just psychic?
Either way, he felt lighter. Ready.
Tomorrow, the festival. Tomorrow, they’d show everyone what collaboration looked like.
And then—finally—he’d be brave enough to ask her what came next.
Not just for the businesses. Not just for the partnership.
For them. For the future. For everything he was too scared to hope for but wanted desperately anyway.
That night, Ivy couldn’t sleep.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Bash. About the way he’d said “I need to tell you things.” About the vulnerability in his voice.
She had things to tell him too. Scary things. Like how she could see a future with him. Like how she wanted to combine their businesses eventually, create something bigger together. Like how she’d started imagining what their kids might look like—curly red hair and gray eyes and terrible music taste.
It was too soon for that. Way too soon.
But she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help imagining forever with the grumpy chef who’d stolen her heart.
Her phone buzzed.
Bash: Your light is on.
Ivy: Yours too.
Bash: Can’t sleep.
Ivy: Me neither. Nervous about tomorrow?
Bash: Nervous about everything. Tomorrow. The conversation after. The future.
Ivy: What about the future?
A long pause. Then: I want one. With you. If you want that too.
Ivy’s heart nearly burst out of her chest.
Ivy: I want that too. So much.
Bash: Good. Now sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.
Ivy: Only if you sleep too.
Bash: Deal.
She watched his light go off. Turned off her own.
And smiled in the darkness, thinking about futures and forever and the grumpy chef who wanted both with her.
Tomorrow, the festival.
After that, everything else.
She couldn’t wait.
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