Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~6 min read
The festival was perfect.
Too perfect.
Bash and Ivy’s demonstration had gone flawlessly. The crowd loved them. The desserts sold out in minutes. Mayor Whitmore was thrilled. News crews interviewed them. Social media exploded.
Standing ovation. Requests for autographs. Someone asking if they’d consider opening a restaurant together.
It was everything Bash had worked toward.
And it terrified him.
Because that night, lying awake at 3 AM, all he could think was: This is when it falls apart.
He’d seen it before. In kitchens across the country. Partners who succeeded together, then imploded. Relationships that couldn’t handle the pressure. Love that withered under scrutiny and stress and the weight of expectation.
His mother had worked herself to death chasing success.
What if he did the same? What if he dragged Ivy down with him?
The thoughts spiraled. Dark and insidious. By 5 AM, he’d convinced himself of the inevitable: He was going to ruin this. Ruin her. Better to end it now, before she got hurt worse.
It was the stupidest plan he’d ever had.
He went through with it anyway.
Ivy knew something was wrong the moment Bash walked into Sweet Haven on Sunday morning.
He was distant. Formal. Kept physical space between them.
“Everything okay?” she asked carefully.
“Fine. We need to talk about the festival follow-up. The mayor wants to meet about expanding the collaboration.”
“Okay. When?”
“Tuesday. I’ll send you the details.”
He left without kissing her. Without the usual touch on her shoulder or smile that was just for her.
Ivy stood in her empty bakery and felt dread creep in.
By Monday, Bash had gone full ice mode.
Curt texts. No phone calls. When she tried to visit Moreau’s, he was “too busy” to see her.
Ivy cornered Leo. “What’s going on with Bash?”
Leo looked uncomfortable. “He’s… in a mood.”
“What kind of mood?”
“The self-destructive kind. He’s convinced he’s going to screw everything up. Classic Chef spiraling.”
“He told you that?”
“He doesn’t have to. I’ve seen him do this before. When things get too good, too real, he panics and pushes people away.”
Ivy’s chest tightened. “He’s pushing me away.”
“He’s trying to. Question is—are you going to let him?”
No. Absolutely not. She didn’t survive foster care and brutal kitchens and building her own business just to let some emotionally constipated chef push her away because he was scared.
She marched to Moreau’s that evening, right in the middle of dinner service, and told the host: “I need to see the chef. Now.”
Bash came out, scowling. “Ivy, I’m in the middle of—”
“We need to talk. Either here or in private. Your choice.”
His jaw clenched. “Fine. My office. Five minutes.”
She waited in the tiny office while he finished plating. When he finally came in, he looked exhausted. Guarded.
“What’s going on?” Ivy asked. “And don’t say nothing. You’ve been avoiding me for two days.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Bash.”
He ran his hands through his hair. “This is moving too fast. Us. The business expansion. All of it.”
Ivy’s stomach dropped. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe we should slow down. Take a step back. Focus on our individual businesses instead of—”
“Instead of us?”
“Instead of getting so tangled up we can’t separate business from personal. It’s messy. Complicated.”
“Love IS messy,” Ivy said, voice rising. “It’s complicated and tangled and yes, it’s scary. But that doesn’t mean we run from it!”
“I’m not running—”
“You absolutely are! Things got real, got successful, and now you’re terrified so you’re pushing me away!”
“I’m protecting you!”
“From WHAT?”
“From ME!” Bash shouted. “From my work addiction and my emotional constipation and my tendency to ruin everything good in my life! From the inevitable moment when I screw this up and hurt you worse than if we just end it now!”
Silence crashed between them.
Ivy stared at him, tears burning. “You don’t get to make that choice for me.”
“Ivy—”
“No. Listen. I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. This is terrifying and real and yes, we could fail. But we could also have something amazing. Something that lasts. And you’re throwing it away because you’re too afraid to try.”
“I’m trying to spare you—”
“I don’t want to be spared! I want to be WITH you! Through the scary parts and the hard parts and the parts where we screw up and have to fix it!”
Bash’s face was anguished. “What if I can’t be what you need?”
“What if you already are?” Ivy’s voice broke. “What if you’re exactly what I need, and you’re too busy being afraid to see it?”
“Ivy—”
“Tell me something. Do you love me?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
“Do you want to be with me?”
“More than anything.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
Bash looked at her—really looked—and she saw the war in his eyes. Fear versus hope. Self-preservation versus vulnerability.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said finally. “Be in love. Be in a partnership that matters. Not screw it up.”
“Nobody knows how,” Ivy said. “We figure it out together. That’s the point.”
“And if I hurt you?”
“Then you apologize and we try again. That’s what Mrs. Fletcher said, right? Trying. Failing. Trying again.”
Despite everything, Bash almost smiled. “You talked to Mrs. Fletcher?”
“She told me about your conversation. About how you think I’m too good for you.” Ivy moved closer. “Bash, I’m not too good for you. I’m just right for you. Messy and broken and scared, just like you are. But together? We’re better.”
He cupped her face. “I’m sorry. I panicked. I do that.”
“I know.”
“It won’t be the last time.”
“I know that too.” She leaned into his touch. “But next time, instead of pushing me away, maybe just tell me you’re scared? And we’ll figure it out together?”
“I can try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
He kissed her then, desperate and apologetic, and Ivy kissed him back just as fiercely.
“I love you,” he said against her lips. “I’m terrified and convinced I’ll screw this up, but I love you.”
“I love you too. All of you. Even the self-sabotaging parts.”
“Especially those?”
“Especially those.”
They stood there, holding each other, and Bash thought: This. This is worth the fear.
She was worth everything.
And maybe—just maybe—he could be brave enough to keep choosing her.
Every single day.
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