Updated Nov 7, 2025 • ~12 min read
Magnus was gone when Briar woke up.
Not just gone from the couch—gone gone, like he’d never been there at all. The blanket she’d given him was folded into a precise square, the pillow placed neatly on top. The only evidence of his presence was a note on the kitchen counter in blocky handwriting: Checked perimeter. All clear. Lock the doors. – M
Briar held the note and tried not to feel disappointed. What had she expected? That he’d still be there, that they’d have coffee together, that one night on her couch would somehow change his determination to keep distance between them?
She crumpled the note and threw it in the trash, then immediately fished it back out and smoothed it flat.
You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. He helped you. That’s all. Stop reading into it.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked last night when she’d said goodnight—standing in her living room, too large for the space, his dark eyes tracking her movements like he was memorizing them. The way his jaw had clenched when she’d turned to go to her bedroom, like he was physically holding himself back from following.
The way she’d kind of wished he would.
Definitely ridiculous.
The morning rush kept her busy enough that she didn’t have time to overthink. By noon, she’d sold out of her cinnamon rolls and was taking orders for tomorrow. The café was thriving despite the sabotage, and that felt like its own kind of victory.
She was closing up at three when she noticed it.
Her sourdough starter—the one she’d been cultivating for two months, the one she’d brought all the way from Seattle, the one she fed religiously every day—was dead.
Briar stared at the jar in horror. The starter that should have been bubbly and active was instead a gray, watery mess that smelled distinctly wrong. Not the pleasant tang of fermentation, but something sour and off.
“No, no, no.” She grabbed the jar, checking the consistency, the smell, desperately hoping she was wrong. But there was no denying it. Something had killed her starter.
Tears pricked her eyes, which was stupid. It was just yeast and flour. But it felt like more than that—it was a piece of her old life, something she’d kept alive through the breakup and the move and all the chaos. A small, living thing that had depended on her.
And now it was gone.
She dumped the dead starter down the sink, rinsed the jar, and tried not to feel like she’d failed at something important. It would take weeks to build a new starter from scratch. Weeks before she could offer sourdough bread in the café like she’d planned.
Just one more thing going wrong, she thought tiredly.
That night, she stress-baked until midnight, trying to work through her frustration. When she finally collapsed into bed, she dreamed of dark eyes and careful hands and a voice saying you’re stronger than you think.
The jar appeared on her doorstep the next morning.
Briar almost stepped on it when she came downstairs to open the café. A mason jar wrapped in a kitchen towel, with another note in that same blocky handwriting.
Heard your starter died. This one’s five years old. Feed it equal parts flour and water, keep it warm. Instructions inside. – M
Briar picked up the jar with shaking hands. Inside, a healthy sourdough starter bubbled contentedly, and tucked beside it was a folded piece of paper covered in detailed instructions in Magnus’s careful script.
He’d given her his starter. His five-year-old starter that he’d clearly been maintaining for years.
“What the hell, Magnus Wolfe?” she whispered to the empty street.
She carried the jar inside like it was precious—which it was—and read through his instructions twice. They were thorough and clear, with little notes in the margins: Don’t worry if it looks weird after feeding, that’s normal and If it smells like acetone, it’s just hungry.
It was possibly the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given her.
And he’d left it on her doorstep instead of bringing it to her in person.
Briar felt something complicated twist in her chest—gratitude mixed with frustration mixed with a longing she didn’t want to examine too closely.
She pulled out her phone and typed: Thank you for the starter. You didn’t have to do that.
No response.
An hour later, she tried again: Seriously, this is incredibly generous. Can I at least make you some bread as thanks?
Nothing.
By noon, Briar was equal parts grateful and annoyed. How could someone be sweet enough to replace her dead starter with his own, thoughtful enough to include detailed instructions, and then completely ghost her?
“Men are confusing,” she announced to Rosie, who’d stopped in for her daily cinnamon roll.
“Amen to that.” Rosie studied her over her coffee. “Let me guess. Magnus?”
“How did you—never mind. Small town.” Briar wiped down the counter more aggressively than necessary. “He keeps helping me and then disappearing. Last night he slept on my couch because he was worried about me, and this morning he was gone before I woke up. Today he left a sourdough starter on my doorstep—his own personal starter that he’s had for five years—but won’t answer my texts.”
“Ah.” Rosie’s smile was knowing. “He’s fighting it.”
“Fighting what?”
“Whatever he feels for you.” Rosie took a bite of her roll. “Magnus doesn’t let people in. Like, ever. The fact that he keeps coming back despite clearly wanting to run means you’ve gotten under his skin.”
“Well, I wish he’d make up his mind.” Briar slumped against the counter. “Either stay away or don’t. This hot-and-cold thing is exhausting.”
“Want my advice?” Rosie leaned forward. “Don’t push. Let him come to you at his own pace. Whatever he’s dealing with, it’s big. And it’s not about you—it’s about him.”
Briar knew Rosie was right. But that didn’t make the radio silence any easier.
Three days passed with no word from Magnus.
Briar fed his starter religiously, following his instructions to the letter. She caught herself checking her phone constantly, jumping every time the bell over the door chimed, hoping he’d walk in.
He never did.
But other things kept happening.
The window in the bathroom cracked overnight—a clean break that looked deliberate. The walk-in cooler stopped working, and when Pete came to fix it, he found the power cable unplugged. Small things. Annoying things. Things that could maybe be explained away as bad luck but felt increasingly like someone was messing with her.
Briar reported each incident to Magnus via text. His responses were terse—I’ll look into it or Keep everything locked—but he never showed up in person.
“He’s avoiding you,” Calla said when she stopped by for lunch on Friday. “Don’t take it personally.”
“How else am I supposed to take it?” Briar arranged sandwiches on plates with more force than necessary. “He acts like he cares, then disappears. What am I supposed to think?”
Calla was quiet for a moment. “Can I tell you something? And you have to promise not to repeat it.”
“Of course.”
“Magnus’s parents had a really toxic relationship. His father was… abusive. Controlling. Used to tell Magnus that he couldn’t help it, that the intensity between him and Magnus’s mother made him crazy.” Calla’s expression was sad. “Magnus watched his mother suffer for years. I think he’s terrified of becoming his father.”
Briar’s chest tightened. “But he’s nothing like that.”
“He doesn’t believe that though.” Calla reached across the counter and squeezed her hand. “Give him time. He’s fighting demons you can’t see.”
That night, Briar made her first loaf with Magnus’s starter. She followed his instructions exactly, shaping the dough with hands that trembled slightly, imagining his hands doing the same thing in his cabin on the mountain.
The bread came out perfect—crispy crust, open crumb, the complex flavor that only came from a mature starter. She took a picture and sent it to Magnus with the caption: First loaf success! Thank you for this.
This time, he responded: Looks good.
Two words. But they felt like progress.
I’m keeping some aside for you, she typed back. You can pick it up whenever.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally: I’ll stop by.
But he didn’t say when.
Sunday morning dawned gray and cold, threatening snow. Briar opened the café at six and was surprised to find a cord of firewood stacked neatly beside the back door, along with another note.
Winters get cold. You’ll need this. Already paid for. – M
Briar stood in the alley, staring at the firewood and blinking back tears. The café had a fireplace she’d been meaning to use but hadn’t gotten around to buying wood. She’d mentioned it once, in passing, while Magnus was fixing the espresso machine.
He’d remembered.
And instead of just telling her where to buy firewood, he’d bought it himself and stacked it for her.
She pulled out her phone with shaking hands: The firewood is too much. Please let me pay you back.
No.
Magnus, this is a lot of wood. It had to be expensive.
You needed it.
That’s not the point. You can’t keep giving me things and refusing payment.
A long pause. Then: Why not?
Briar stared at her phone, trying to figure out how to articulate the confusion and frustration swirling inside her. Because it’s not fair to you. And because I don’t understand what you want from me. You help me and then disappear. You give me things and won’t let me thank you properly. I don’t know how to interpret any of this.
The three dots appeared and disappeared several times. She could almost feel his struggle through the phone. Finally, a single word: Nothing.
What?
I don’t want anything from you. I’m just making sure you’re okay.
Why?
Another long pause. Because someone should.
The words hit her square in the chest. Not because I want to or because I care about you—though she suspected both might be true. But because someone should. Like he was fulfilling an obligation. Like she was a responsibility rather than a person he chose to help.
Briar didn’t know whether to be touched or hurt.
She settled on confused.
That’s not a real answer, she typed.
No response.
An hour later, she tried again: Can we please just talk? Face to face? I feel like we keep missing each other.
Nothing.
At noon, frustrated beyond measure, she sent: Fine. I get it. You want distance. But for the record, the hot-and-cold thing is really confusing. Either help me because you want to, or don’t help at all. I can’t handle the mixed signals.
She regretted it immediately, but the message was sent.
Three minutes later, her phone rang. Magnus.
Briar’s heart jumped into her throat as she answered. “Hello?”
“I’m not trying to confuse you.” His voice was rough, like he’d been debating whether to call. “And I’m not doing this because I have to.”
“Then why—”
“Because I can’t seem to stay away.” The admission sounded like it cost him. “I keep telling myself to leave you alone, that you’re better off without me around. And then something happens and I can’t…” He trailed off, frustrated. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Care about someone.” The words were barely above a whisper. “Without it becoming something toxic. Without it turning into the thing I watched destroy my parents.”
Briar’s throat tightened. “Magnus, you’re not your father.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” She said it with absolute certainty. “Your father wouldn’t have spent three hours installing locks to keep me safe. He wouldn’t have given me his sourdough starter or bought me firewood. He wouldn’t be this terrified of hurting me. Bad men don’t worry about becoming bad men.”
Silence on the other end. Then, so quiet she almost missed it, “I don’t know how to be close to someone without losing control.”
“So don’t.” Briar leaned against the counter, her eyes burning. “Keep your distance if that’s what you need. But don’t disappear completely. Don’t leave me wondering if I did something wrong. Can we at least be friends?”
“Friends.” He said the word like he was testing it.
“Yeah. Friends. I’ll stop asking questions you don’t want to answer. You’ll stop ghosting me after doing incredibly nice things. We’ll just… exist around each other without all this weirdness.”
A long exhale. “I can try.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” Briar smiled even though he couldn’t see it. “And Magnus? Thank you. For everything. The starter, the firewood, the locks, all of it. You’ve made me feel safer than I have in years.”
Another pause. Then, “You’re welcome.”
After they hung up, Briar stood in her café and felt like maybe—just maybe—they’d turned a corner.
It wasn’t the confession she’d been secretly hoping for. It wasn’t even clarity about what they were to each other.
But it was honest. Raw. Real.
And for now, that was enough.
She pulled out Magnus’s sourdough starter and began mixing dough for tomorrow’s bread, humming softly to herself.
Friends, she could work with.
Even if her heart wanted to be something more.
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