Chapter 28
twenty-eight
. . .
Joy Gets a Chaos Budget
WARREN
At midnight, Bitter Bloom is quiet.
Not clean, not finished. Not restored. Just quiet.
The floor is dusted in sugar, edible glitter, and flour.
The pastry case is empty except for crumbs and two flakes of dough. The chalkboard is blurred from too many people leaning against it, their shoulders dragging through the chalk.
Everything sold. Bitter Bloom looks wrecked, but it’s alive.
Halston stands in the middle of it, her flats on because she made me take her boots off twenty minutes ago after saying, “My toes have resigned from capitalism.” Her hair is coming loose from the ribbon, and she has icing in too many places to count.
She looks exhausted. And beautiful. And exactly like herself.
I’m trying not to stare, but I’m failing horribly.
Across the room, Marley is asleep in her chair with her phone still in her hand, thumb resting near the screen like she may wake up and post again out of instinct. Oliver has gone back to his bar a million times. Dev and Lisa have left.
“Warren,” Halston says quietly.
I look up and find her watching me.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
I look down. “I think so.”
She walks toward me, stopping right in front.
Oliver pops his head in. “Oh god. I need to drink some bleach.”
Halston rolls her eyes. “Can you get Marley home?”
He peeks into the front. “Yeah. I can do that. I’m taking out the trash first. No one make a baby while I’m gone.”
“Oliver,” Halston gasps.
“I’m setting a boundary.”
She smiles, and then looks back up at me.
I feel the room spin.
It’s not dramatic. There’s no music or cinematic lighting beyond the glow of the pastry case. No audience, mainly because Marley is asleep.
The night is over.
There’s nothing left to hide behind, and she’s looking at me like she’s tired of being careful.
Her gaze travels up my forearms.
I take a deep breath. “I like plans.”
She snorts. “I’ve noticed.”
“Structure. Time to evaluate the consequences of something. I like knowing what comes next. The schedule. The exit route.”
Her mouth trembles. “That’s the sexiest and least sexy thing anyone has said to me.” I can hear the joke in her voice.
“I don’t know how to be spontaneous,” I say. “Not the way you are. Not the way you can walk into a room, change the menu name, make everyone feel invited, and be loved.” I look at my hands. “I don’t think I know how to say things beautifully.”
She goes still.
“I can talk about temperature and why a dough failed. I can talk about process. But I don’t always know how to say the thing that matters.”
My heart beats faster.
“I know,” she says softly.
“No.”
She blinks.
I step closer, and then stop.
“I know you know some of it,” I say. “But I need to say it anyway. Before I make another plan. Before I try to be useful.”
She swallows. “Okay.”
I look at her.
“I love you,” I say.
Her face crumples.
“I love you,” I say again. “I love you when you’re loud. I love you when you’re angry and when you change a pastry name ten minutes before opening because the old one wasn’t good enough.”
A laugh breaks through her tears.
“I love you when you make too many specials and when you cry in the walk-in and when you pretend a road trip is healing even though the damn car has betrayed you how many times?”
“Only twice was it a real problem,” she says, her mouth wobbling.
“I love your maps and the way you think of everything under the sun. I love the way you build things, whether it’s relationships, kingdoms, or your bakery.”
Her tears continue to spill.
“I love Bitter Bloom because it’s yours,” I say. “Not because I can organize it. Or because I can improve it. Not because it gives me a place to feel useful.”
I worry my bottom lip.
“I don’t want to fix you. I need you to believe that.”
“I want to,” she says as she wraps her arms around herself.
“I don’t want a smaller version of you. I don’t need an easier version. I don’t need fewer feelings or colors or ideas. I want to build a life where all of that has room.”
She covers her mouth with one hand.
“I don’t know how to do everything,” I say. “I’m going to get some of it wrong. I’ll probably get it wrong in really specific and irritating ways.”
A wet laugh escapes her. “Probably.”
“But I can be steady,” I say. “I know how to be steady. I know how to show up. I know how to learn a process and repeat it. I know how to ask and how to stay.”
Her tears fall harder.
“I know how you like your coffee and what you need to eat when you’re in pain.”
Her eyes look up at me.
“I know how to love you awkwardly.”
Another laugh.
“But I won’t make you guess at the truth anymore.”
Halston looks at me for a long moment. “That was a lot of words for you.”
“It was.”
“Are you dizzy?”
“A little.”
She laughs fully.
“I love you too,” she says.
Everything stops. The words aren’t new. She’s said them before. Multiple times, actually.
But this time feels different.
“I love you too. And I hate that I do sometimes because you are so emotionally inconvenient.”
“That’s fair.”
“And I love how steady you are. But you can’t manage me the way you did.”
I nod sadly.
“I don’t want a relationship where I have to fight for the right to know what’s happening in my own life,” she says.
“No.”
“I don’t want to be protected from the truth. I also don’t want to lose myself to be loved.”
The words are so quiet I almost don’t hear them.
I step closer. “You won’t.”
Her brows pull together.
“If we are going to do this, there are rules.”
I nod.
“First rule: no secret fixing. If something affects my business, my body, my apartment, my family, my friendships, or my life, I want to know before you act, unless there is immediate danger.”
“Yes.”
“Second rule: ask before helping.”
I nod.
“Third rule: if I say no, don’t punish me by getting cold or weird. I know this isn’t something you did, but I need to say it.”
“Understood.”
“Fourth rule: you are allowed to be scared, but you have to say it like a person, not convert it into logistics to make everyone live inside a spreadsheet.”
I nod.
“Fifth rule: I also have to be honest when I feel like running.”
My heart sinks. “You don’t have to—”
“No, I do.” Her chin lifts. “If I expect the truth from you, I owe you the truth too. I can take up space, but I have to say when I feel like everything is too much and I need to get out.”
I want to tell her she doesn’t have to make rules for herself right now. I want to say I was the one who hurt her. I want to reject any rule that puts the weight on her.
But she’s not asking permission.
She’s building with me.
“Okay.”
“Sixth rule,” she says.
“Yes?”
She points at the chalkboard. “Joy gets a chaos budget.”
I stare at her. “A what?”
“A chaos budget.”
“That’s not a standard category.”
“It is now.”
I consider. “Elaborate.”
“For the bakery. For life. For us.” Her eyes stay on mine. “There has to be room for last-minute joy. A weird latte. A road trip that’s planned and includes gas. A D&D night.”
I nod slowly.
“Seventh rule.” She takes a breath. “If we are fighting, you still have to kiss me goodbye.”
Every part of me stills.
She lifts her chin. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“Of course. You’re beautiful.”
Her cheeks redden. “Say something, King.”
“I like that rule.” I pause. “Do I get one?”
“Sure.”
“Eighth rule: you don’t have to become easier to love when you’re scared I may leave.”
Her breath catches.
“If you are too loud, be loud. If you need reassurance, ask. If you’re angry, be angry. If you think you’re being too much, tell me. Do not make yourself smaller to see whether I’ll stay.”
She covers her mouth.
“I will stay, Halston.”
I step forward, lifting my hand. She nods, and I cup her cheek. Her skin is warm, damp with tears. Soft.
She leans into me and closes her eyes.
“I missed you,” she whispers.
“I missed you too.”
She sighs. “Warren?”
“Yes?”
“Can you kiss me goodbye?”
I still. “Goodbye?”
“For tonight.” Her thumb moves over my wrist. “I’m going upstairs after this. Alone.”
I nod. “Okay.”
She steps closer until her toes touch my shoes.
“Ask,” she says, a small smile on her lips.
“May I kiss you?” I ask, her fingers circling my wrists.
“Yes.”
My mouth lowers to hers.
The kiss is soft. Slow. She rises onto her toes to deepen it, but only for a second before she pulls back.
“I love you,” she whispers.
“I love you too.”