Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~6 min read
Ivy woke to the smell of coffee and something sweet baking.
She stumbled downstairs, still in her pajamas, to find Bash in her kitchen making croissants.
“You’re baking,” she said, rubbing her eyes.
“I’m attempting to bake,” he corrected. “Your croissants are better. But I wanted to make you breakfast.”
He’d also cleaned. The whole bakery sparkled. Everything was in its place. The floor gleamed.
“You cleaned my bakery,” Ivy said.
“You were stressed yesterday. I thought it might help.”
She started crying. Happy tears. Overwhelmed tears.
“What—did I overstep?” Bash looked panicked. “I can mess it back up—”
Ivy launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re perfect. This is perfect. Thank you.”
“I’m not perfect—”
“You made me croissants and cleaned my kitchen. That’s literally perfect.”
He laughed and kissed her. “The croissants might be terrible.”
They weren’t. They were actually quite good—not as good as hers, but solid. They ate them with butter and jam at her small table, and Ivy felt something settle in her chest.
This. This domesticity. This partnership. This was what she wanted.
“I could get used to this,” she said.
“To what?”
“You in my kitchen. Making me breakfast. Being here when I wake up.”
Bash smiled. “I could get used to it too.”
“What if we made it official?”
“Official how?”
“Move in together. Your place or mine—or we find something new. But actually live together. Not just sleeping over sometimes.”
Bash went very still. “You want to live with me?”
“Is that crazy? We’ve only been dating a few months—”
“Yes.”
Ivy’s heart sank. “Oh. Okay, I understand—”
“Yes, I want to live with you,” he clarified. “Not yes it’s crazy. Yes to moving in together.”
“Really?”
“Really. My place is bigger. But we could look for something. A house maybe. With space for both of us. Room to breathe but close to our businesses.”
Ivy couldn’t stop smiling. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to.”
“I want to.”
They kissed across the table, and Bash tasted like butter and promise.
They told people gradually.
Leo found out first because Bash mentioned it casually during prep.
“I need Sunday off next week. Ivy and I are looking at houses.”
Leo dropped his knife. “HOUSES? Plural? You’re moving in together?!”
“Keep your voice down—”
“CHEF IS MOVING IN WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND!” Leo shouted to the entire kitchen.
The staff erupted. Cheering. Clapping. Someone—Bash suspected it was the new prep cook—started crying.
“This is exactly why I don’t tell you things,” Bash muttered.
“This is amazing! When’s the wedding?”
“We’re not—we’re just moving in together. Slow down.”
“But you’re going to marry her eventually, right?”
“Leo—”
“Because if you don’t, I will. She makes incredible pastries and she’s way too good for you.”
“Get back to your station.”
Leo grinned and obeyed, but he was humming wedding marches for the rest of service.
Margot found out when Ivy came into the wine bar that evening.
“You’re glowing,” Margot said immediately. “What happened?”
“Bash and I are moving in together.”
Margot screamed. Actually screamed. Then pulled Ivy into a hug. “I knew it! I knew you two were endgame!”
“We’re not engaged—”
“Yet. You’re not engaged yet.” Margot poured two glasses of champagne. “This calls for celebration. Tell me everything.”
Ivy told her about the conversation. About the plans to find a house. About how natural it felt.
“You deserve this,” Margot said. “You both do. Grumpy chef and sunshine baker living happily ever after.”
“We’re not at ‘ever after’ yet—”
“You will be. I’m calling it now. Wedding within two years. Babies within four. You’ll have curly-haired kids who are half grumpy, half sunshine, and fully adorable.”
Ivy laughed. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Am I? You’ve got that look. The ‘I’ve found my person’ look. I had it with my ex before they turned out to be terrible. But you actually found a good one.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“You really did.”
Mrs. Fletcher found out because of course she did—the town gossip network was faster than any phone call.
She cornered them outside Moreau’s the next day.
“A house,” she said. “You’re getting a house.”
“Word travels fast,” Bash said.
“I’m old. I have spies everywhere.” She looked between them with shining eyes. “This is wonderful. You’ll need a proper house. Not some tiny apartment. Room for a family.”
“We’re not—” Ivy started.
“Yet,” Mrs. Fletcher interrupted. “But you will be. I see these things. Sixty years of marriage taught me to recognize true love. You two have it.”
“Thank you,” Bash said quietly.
“Your mother would be proud,” Mrs. Fletcher told him. “She’d love Ivy. She’d love that you found someone who makes you smile.”
Bash’s eyes went suspiciously bright. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
Mrs. Fletcher patted his arm. “Now go find a house with a good kitchen. You’ll need two ovens, at least. Maybe three. And a big dining room for when the babies come.”
“We’re not—” Ivy tried again.
But Mrs. Fletcher was already walking away, humming to herself.
That Sunday, they looked at houses.
The realtor showed them five places. Each had something wrong—too small, too far from downtown, terrible kitchen, no yard.
Then they saw the sixth house.
It was perfect.
A renovated Victorian three blocks from Main Street. Big kitchen with professional-grade appliances. Separate home office space. Guest rooms. A yard with fruit trees. Walking distance to both their businesses.
“This is it,” Ivy breathed.
“It’s expensive,” Bash said, but he was smiling.
“We can afford it. Together.”
They walked through again. Ivy imagined cooking in that kitchen. Bash pictured a garden—maybe growing his own herbs and vegetables. They both saw the same thing: a future. A home.
“We should put in an offer,” Bash said.
“Really?”
“Really.”
They did. And two days later, the offer was accepted.
They were buying a house. Together.
“This is insane,” Ivy said, staring at the paperwork.
“Completely,” Bash agreed.
“We’re really doing this.”
“We really are.”
They signed the papers, and Ivy felt like she was signing up for everything. Not just a house. Not just cohabitation. But a life. A future. A commitment that felt bigger than any contract.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too.”
And when they told their friends, the celebration was immediate. Margot opened champagne. Leo baked them a cake (that was slightly lopsided but made with love). Mrs. Fletcher knitted them a blanket for their new living room.
The whole town, it seemed, was invested in their happiness.
And Ivy thought: This is what home feels like. Not just a place. But people. Community. Love.
She’d found it all here. In Willowbrook. In a grumpy chef who’d become her everything.
They’d move into the house in three weeks.
She couldn’t wait to start their life together.
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