1. Aria #2
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of preparation. I organize the same display as Jon, our hands brushing against each other “ accidentally ” every few seconds. Each touch sends electricity shooting through me, and I’m hyperaware of every movement he makes.
Ryn places her kintsugi candles in the front window—dark glass with golden cracks running through her creations like lightning strikes. The symbolism isn’t lost on any of us. Broken, but made more beautiful by the breaking.
“One hour,” Mitzy calls out. “And there’s already a line forming.”
I peek outside, and my heart races. The line stretches around the block—a sea of expectant faces pressed against our windows.
“Did you see? There are actual influencers out there. And is that…? Oh my God, that’s the editor of Vogue,” I babble, my socialite background recognizing the faces even as my nerves threaten to overwhelm me.
“Breathe.” Jon appears at my elbow, steady as always. “You’ve got this.”
Our eyes meet, holding for a heartbeat too long. A blush creeps up my neck as his hand brushes my lower back—a touch that could be accidental but isn’t.
For the next fifty minutes, Ember, Ryn, and I flutter around the shop making last-minute adjustments, while Blaze, Jon, and the rest of the Delta team look on with genuine smiles.
“Five minutes,” I announce, fidgeting with the register for what feels like the hundredth time.
Blaze positions himself by the door. The team spreads throughout the store, everyone in their assigned positions. I take one last look around at this makeshift family we’ve built, at the dreams we’ve turned into reality.
“Ready?” Blaze’s hand finds the lock.
“Ready,” Ember’s voice rings clear and strong.
The door opens.
“Welcome to The Little Matchstick Girl,” she says. “Where every light tells a story.”
The first wave of customers floods in, their excitement as thick as cinnamon in the air.
I move through the crowd, guiding people toward the candle stations, answering questions, laughing like I haven’t lived through hell.
My background has trained me for this kind of finesse—charming investors and navigating boardrooms.
Today, it’s just wax, wicks, and wide-eyed wonder. Still, my focus drifts.
To him.
Jon lingers near the back, pretending to restock shelves he’s already triple-checked. His gaze keeps returning to me, and every time our eyes almost meet, he looks away too fast, like I burn.
I duck into the supply nook behind the checkout to grab more gift bags. The curtain barely swings shut when I hear voices—low, casual. They don’t know I’m here.
“Just kiss her already,” Mac mutters as he passes Jon. “Before we all die of old age.”
My hand stills on the bag handles.
Jon’s reply is soft. Embarrassed. “I don’t… She wouldn’t…”
“Dude.” Mac’s grin is audible. “She knocked over an entire display just to get your attention.”
“That was an accident,” Jon protests, scandalized.
“Sure it was,” Mac drawls.
I stand frozen, heart thudding in my throat. Heat crawls up my neck as I replay every clumsy moment—every stolen glance. I squeeze the paper handles tighter, cheeks flushed, lips curved into a secret smile as I step back out into the fray.
The morning passes in a whirlwind of sales and stories, the shop pulsing with warmth and movement. Customers drift from table to table, inhaling the air thick with the scents of cinnamon, lavender, and melted wax. But it’s not just the scents that pull them in—it’s the women behind the counter.
Ryn starts off tentative, her voice barely rising above the music.
But with every sale, every compliment, she straightens a little taller.
She answers questions with growing confidence, her posture relaxing, her eyes lighting up when a woman tells her the “Midnight Ember” scent reminds her of dancing barefoot in the rain.
By the time a teenager insists on buying three of Ryn’s kintsugi candles “for aesthetic vibes,” her smile is a mile wide. She’s cracking jokes and wrapping products like she was born for retail therapy.
At the front of the store, Ember is in her element.
She doesn’t just sell candles—she sells stories.
“This one’s lavender,” she says to an older couple, her fingers grazing the soft purple label. “It’s my bestseller. I like to say it soothes your soul more than your senses.”
The woman clutches the jar to her chest like it’s precious.
“And this one…” Ember lifts another, her voice taking on a soft reverence. “Vanilla. I blended it to smell like my grandmother’s kitchen. It reminds me of home.”
A teenage boy quietly places it in his basket, cheeks flushed.
When a man in a suit picks up a pine-scented candle, Ember grins. “That one’s for new beginnings. You planning one?”
He hesitates. Nods. “Just moved. Divorce was—rough.”
“Then this is your fresh start.” She doesn’t pry. Just presses the candle gently into his palm.
I stand near the center display, folding bags, pretending to organize ribbon, but really, I’m just watching Ember shine.
This girl, who once sold candles off a milk crate on a street corner, now commands a shop filled with laughter, light, and purpose. Customers lean closer when she speaks, drawn not just to the scents but to the strength threaded through her words.
My throat tightens. Pride swells in my chest until it’s almost too much. She built this. From ashes. From trauma. From nothing.
And it smells like hope.
By lunch, I’m back on my tiptoes, reaching for something on the top shelf—this time, genuinely needing it. My fingers graze the edge of the box, but it wobbles, teasing, just out of reach. I don’t hear Jon approach.
I feel him.
The heat of his body brushes against my back as he steps in behind me, calm and unhurried. His arm lifts beside mine, steady as he grabs the box like it weighs nothing. Our bodies align with startling ease—his presence fitting into mine like some long-missing piece.
He lowers the box, but doesn’t move away. I turn—and he’s already watching me.
Close.
Too close.
Not close enough.
“Thanks,” I murmur, but it comes out breathless.
My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to hold on to something. To him.
Jon’s hand lifts to my cheek, his touch reverent, his gaze tracing every line of my face like he’s memorizing it.
“I’ve waited far too long for this,” he says, voice rough with meaning.
My heart stutters. My breath tangles.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate.
He just leans in—and I let him.
The kiss starts softly. A brush. A promise.
His lips barely ghost over mine at first, like he’s asking permission without words. Like he’s giving me the chance to change my mind.
I don’t.
I tilt my chin, lean in, answer with my mouth, and the ragged inhale I can’t hold back.
Then he deepens it—slow and sure. No rush. No force. Just heat blooming between us like a match struck in the dark. His hand slides to my waist, grounding me, anchoring me in place. When he pulls me closer, our bodies slot together like we were always meant to find each other.
My fingers fist in the front of his shirt. I need the feel of him—solid, warm, real—to believe this is actually happening.
His mouth moves over mine, every tilt of his head, every flick of his tongue purposeful, like he’s memorized the kiss before he ever dared steal it.
There’s restraint in him, in the tight line of his shoulders, in how he’s holding back from devouring me.
But underneath? Tension hums like a wire stretched to its limit.
I taste cinnamon on his tongue, feel the low rumble in his chest when I kiss him back harder, deeper.
And then—stillness.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, our foreheads brushing, breath mingling.
“You okay?” he asks, voice like gravel and velvet all at once.
My lips are tingling, swollen, stunned. I nod, breathless.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m more than okay.” A beat of silence. My heart hammers in my throat, but I push past it, voice smaller now. “Can we—do that again?”
“Yeah, we can.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a crooked smile. He chuckles, low and warm, like I’ve just handed him the one thing he’s wanted most. “Should’ve done this a hell of a lot sooner.”
Then he leans in, this time with no hesitation.
One arm slides around my waist, pulling me tight to his chest. My hands loop over his shoulders instinctively, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck.
His body is all heat and hard lines, anchoring me to something I didn’t know I needed until this moment.
His mouth finds mine again—deeper this time. Hungrier. Like now that he’s tasted me, he’s done pretending he can stay away. The rest of the world falls away. All that exists is this—his breath, his warmth, the delicious ache blooming low in my belly as his kiss claims me completely.
“Oh, thank God,” Charlie mutters from somewhere behind us. “Finally.”
A cheer goes up from the team, and we spring apart, both blushing furiously.
“About time,” Jenny calls from across the store. “Now, maybe we can all focus on actual work?”
But she’s smiling too, and even Charlie and Brett look genuinely happy for us.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of happiness and nonstop sales. By closing time, the shelves are nearly bare, and Ryn’s entire collection has sold out.
“We did it,” I breathe, collapsing onto the counter as I kick off my shoes. Jon’s arm slides naturally around my waist, like it was always meant to be there.
Ember leans against the door, hair slipping loose from her braid, cheeks flushed with triumph. “I think I’m actually high on lavender and adrenaline.”
“Same,” I laugh, rubbing at the tight knot between my shoulders.
We sweep the last of the receipts into the drawer, turn off the display lights, and do one final walkthrough—checking locks, counting cash, restocking the back room with what little remains. Ember flips the CLOSED sign with a flourish.
“Ready?” I grab the keys, glancing around the space that now smells like memories and magic.
“I’ve got a few last-minute things. I’ll meet you there.” Ember tucks a box under her arm, her eyes still bright from the rush.
“You sure? Want me to wait for you?”
“No, you go ahead. I won’t be long.”
“I’ll see you there.” I head out with the others.
Jon finds my hand without a word, his fingers lacing through mine like he’s been doing it forever. It feels natural. I don’t even question it.
We’re all heading to Blaze and Ember’s place—one last toast to mark the end of something hard-fought and the beginning of whatever comes next.