Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~5 min read
Bash had been planning the proposal for three months.
He’d bought the ring two weeks after the Laurent encounter—a simple solitaire with a vintage setting that reminded him of Ivy’s grandmother aesthetic. It had been burning a hole in his sock drawer ever since.
He’d considered elaborate plans. Hot air balloon rides. Beach sunsets. Hiring a flash mob (Leo’s terrible suggestion).
But nothing felt right.
Ivy wasn’t elaborate. She was warm bread and morning light and terrible pop music. She deserved something real. Something them.
So he planned something simple.
The morning started normally. Ivy woke at 4 AM for bakery prep. Bash woke with her because he always did now. They had coffee together in their kitchen, comfortable and domestic.
“I’ll bring you lunch,” Bash said.
“You always bring me lunch.”
“I like bringing you lunch.”
She kissed him and headed to Sweet Haven.
Bash watched her go, ring box heavy in his pocket, and thought: Today. Today is the day.
He spent the morning preparing.
First, he went to Sweet Haven while Ivy was at a supplier meeting. Set up in her kitchen with Leo and Margot as accomplices.
“You’re sure about this?” Leo asked.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
“Good. Because if you screw this up, I’m stealing her.”
“Get to work.”
They worked for two hours. When they were done, Bash texted Ivy.
Bash: Come back to the bakery. Now. It’s important.
Ivy: Is everything okay??
Bash: Just come. Trust me.
Ivy rushed back to Sweet Haven, heart pounding. Important could mean anything. A broken oven. A health inspection. An emergency.
She pushed through the door and stopped.
The bakery was transformed.
Fairy lights strung everywhere. Candles on every surface. Rose petals scattered across the floor. And in the center of it all: a table set for two, with their signature dessert—the croissant bread pudding that started everything.
Bash stood beside the table in his chef’s whites, looking nervous and beautiful and perfect.
“What is this?” Ivy breathed.
“Lunch,” Bash said. “Like I promised.”
“This is not lunch. This is—” She looked around, tears already forming. “What did you do?”
“Can you just—come here? Please?”
She crossed to him on shaking legs.
Bash took her hands. “Two years ago, you moved in next door and ruined my life.”
Ivy laughed through her tears. “Romantic start.”
“You played terrible music too loud. Parked in my spot. Smiled at me like I wasn’t a complete disaster. And somehow, impossibly, you saw something in me worth loving.”
“Bash—”
“Let me finish. Please.” He squeezed her hands. “You taught me that success without joy is hollow. That perfection without love is pointless. You made me want to be softer. Kinder. Better. You made me want a life outside my kitchen. A home. A future. Everything I didn’t think I deserved.”
He let go of her hands and dropped to one knee.
Ivy stopped breathing.
“Ivy Sinclair,” Bash said, pulling out the ring box. “You’re my balance. My partner. My best friend. The person I want to annoy with my grumpiness for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?”
The box opened. The ring sparkled in the candlelight.
Ivy was full-on crying now. “You planned this whole thing? The lights? The dessert? The—”
“Will you marry me?” he asked again, smiling.
“Yes! Yes, of course yes!”
He slid the ring on her finger—a perfect fit—and stood to kiss her. She threw her arms around his neck, and he lifted her off her feet, spinning her in the middle of their magical bakery.
“I love you,” she said between kisses.
“I love you too.”
“When did you plan all this?”
“Three months ago. I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”
“This is perfect. It’s so us.”
“That was the goal.”
They pulled apart enough to look at each other. Ivy’s mascara was running. Bash had flour on his chef’s whites from holding her. They were both crying and laughing.
“We’re engaged,” Ivy said, testing the words.
“We’re engaged,” Bash confirmed.
“We’re going to get married.”
“If you don’t change your mind in the next five minutes.”
“Never.” She kissed him again. “I’m never changing my mind.”
The door burst open.
Leo, Margot, and Mrs. Fletcher tumbled in, clearly having been watching through the window.
“SHE SAID YES!” Leo shouted.
“Of course she said yes!” Mrs. Fletcher was crying harder than Ivy. “I told you she would!”
Margot pulled out champagne. “I’ve been keeping this cold for an hour. My hands are freezing. Congratulations!”
The celebration spilled into the street. More people appeared—somehow the whole town knew this was happening. Mayor Whitmore showed up with an official proclamation declaring it “Sebastian and Ivy Day.”
“This town is ridiculous,” Bash muttered.
“This town is perfect,” Ivy corrected.
They ate the bread pudding. Drank champagne. Accepted hugs and congratulations from what felt like every resident of Willowbrook.
And through it all, Ivy kept looking at her ring. At Bash. At their life.
“You know what the best part is?” she said later, when they finally escaped to their house.
“What?”
“We get to do this forever. Wake up together. Work together. Build this life together. Forever.”
“Forever,” Bash agreed. “I like the sound of that.”
They stood in their kitchen—the kitchen where they’d cooked countless meals, had countless conversations, built countless memories—and Ivy thought: This is it. This is the happy ending.
Except it wasn’t an ending at all.
It was just the beginning.
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