Chapter 16 Ezra
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ezra
The morning feels quieter without them.
Roman’s laughter, Creed’s constant motion… both have gone to the city for meetings, leaving behind a silence that feels almost sacred.
It’s just me, the lingering echo of their absence, and the faint scent of coffee that still hangs in the kitchen.
But it isn’t the quiet that gets me. It’s her.
Sloane.
She’s been threading herself through the seams of this place without even realizing it, softening its edges, filling the hollowness with warmth that doesn’t ask for anything in return. And yesterday, when she told me about her past, I could feel every unspoken word sitting between us like smoke.
Her parents. The crash. The aunt that doesn’t call. The loneliness she wears as a second skin.
It’s strange how someone can say so little and still hand you their heart. I can’t shake the way her voice broke, and she tried to hide it behind a laugh. The way she said she didn’t mind being on her own, but her eyes betrayed her.
I’ve seen that look before in the mirror.
So, I decided to do something about it.
Not because I have to. Because I want to.
The roads are slick with morning dew when I drive into town. The world is still waking up, fog coiling low around the fields, the horizon painted in soft gold.
I find the little flower shop tucked between the bakery and the post office. The bell above the door chimes, and the scent of earth and lavender wraps around me as a memory.
The woman behind the counter smiles when she sees me, the kind of smile people reserve for lost souls who accidentally wander into places meant for softer hearts.
I tell her I need something simple. Not elegant. Not loud. Just… honest.
She hands me a small bouquet. Pale peach roses, white asters, and sprigs of eucalyptus. It’s imperfect and untamed—exactly right. I pay in silence, drive back in silence, and think too much in silence.
When I step back into the cabin, Sloane’s at the kitchen table, hair still damp from a shower, mug in hand. She looks up, startled at first, then curious.
“You went out?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, setting the bouquet down on the counter. “Had a thought.”
Her eyes catch the flowers. She blinks. “Are those—?”
“For you.”
She doesn’t move at first. Just stares at them as if they might vanish if she breathes too hard.
“Ezra… why?”
I shrug, even though my chest feels tight. “Because you deserve something good. Something that isn’t burdened by memory.”
Her throat works, her lips part slightly. I can see the wall she’s trying to hold up. The one built from years of being strong because no one else was there to be strong for her.
“They’re beautiful,” she says finally. “Thank you.”
“So are you,” I almost say.
But I don’t.
Instead, I nod. “Glad you think so.”
She reaches out, fingertips brushing the petals. Her touch is careful, reverent. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”
That shouldn’t break me. But it does.
Because someone like Sloane, someone who pours herself into everyone around her, should’ve been surrounded by bouquets her whole damn life.
Her smile trembles a little as she glances at me. “Thank you. Really.”
Something in my chest shifts. The kind of ache that feels almost good. I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to thank me. That kindness doesn’t need to be earned. But again, the words sit heavy on my tongue, and I let them stay there, only offering a quiet smile.
“You’re welcome, Sloane.”
She sets the flowers in a glass jar, humming softly under her breath. The room feels different now. Lighter somehow, as if she brought the sun in with her.
I sit back down with my notebook, pretending to focus on the half-written lyrics in front of me. But really, all I can think about is how she looked when she smiled. And before I know it, the pen starts moving on its own, a line, then another.
The girl who blooms where the broken things grow.
The one who turns the quiet into song.
By evening, the cabin hums with a foreign kind of calm.
Roman and Creed’s absence still lingers in the corners, but Sloane’s laughter earlier, light, unguarded, keeps replaying in my mind.
And maybe that’s why I get the ridiculous idea to cook for her. To return the favor. To prove that I can do something remotely domestic and human outside of stringing together sad metaphors.
It starts with confidence.
Always does.
I roll up my sleeves, set my jaw, and declare to no one in particular, “How hard can it be?”
The answer, apparently, is very.
The first warning sign comes when I realize I don’t actually know how the stove works. It hisses in a way that feels vaguely threatening, and I find myself squinting at it as if it’s an opponent I need to outwit.
The second sign comes when I open the fridge and just… stare. Eggs. Milk. Half a lemon. Something that might be cheese but could also be a science experiment.
Shit, is it too late to order takeout like I usually do?
The fridge hums at me, judging every life choice I’ve ever made.
I shut it, rub a hand over my jaw, and mutter, “Okay, fine. Improvise.”
The word sounds brave, but I’m already regretting it. I grab a pan, splash in some oil, crack a couple of eggs, and immediately realize I have no idea what the hell I’m making. The sizzle is violent. The smell… questionable.
There’s a flicker of panic in my chest, but I tell myself it’s fine. I’ve handled sold-out crowds; I can handle a frying pan.
I’m mid-pep talk when a voice cuts through the quiet. “What are you doing?”
I spin around so fast I nearly knock the spatula off the counter. Sloane’s in the doorway, one eyebrow arched, amusement already tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I freeze. Half-guilty, half caught in the act.
“Cooking,” I say, with the same tone someone might use to confess to a minor crime.
“Cooking,” she repeats, stepping into the kitchen. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
I glance back at the pan. Smoke curls upward as a distress signal. “It’s… a work in progress.”
Sloane crosses her arms, trying not to laugh. “Why are you cooking when I’m here? That’s my job, remember?”
“I… I want to do something nice for you.”
Her expression softens at that, just a fraction, but I see it. The teasing drops away, replaced by something quieter, something that sits between surprise and warmth.
“For me?”
I clear my throat, suddenly hyper aware of the absurdity of the moment. Me, standing here, smoke rising from a frying pan as a warning flare. “Yeah. You’ve been cooking for everyone for days, Sloane. Thought maybe it was time someone returned the favor.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re about to cause one if you keep letting that pan smoke like that.”
I grab a towel and wave at the smoke uselessly. “It’s fine. Totally under control.”
“Sure,” she says, stepping closer and peering into the pan. “So… what exactly is this culinary masterpiece?”
I hesitate. “An omelet.”
“That’s… ambitious,” she says carefully, biting back a grin. “Did you use eggs?”
“Obviously.”
“And… anything else?”
I blink down at the pan. “Does seasoning count?”
Her laughter bursts out then, full, unrestrained, and I swear, it fills every inch of the room. The corners of her eyes crinkle, and the air in this cabin is lighter.
“Move over,” she says, shooing me out of the way. “You’re going to make the pan cry.”
I step aside, hands raised in surrender, watching as she takes over. She moves with an easy rhythm. She’s not even thinking about it, scraping away the burnt remains of my disaster, cracking new eggs, and humming softly under her breath.
I lean against the counter, half-amused, half in awe. “You make it look easy.”
“That’s because it is easy,” she teases, not looking up. “You’re just dramatic.”
“Occupational hazard,” I say. “Comes with spending too many nights weaving heartbreak into melodies and chasing poetry through the rain.”
Sloane glances up, smiling. “And here I thought you were a rockstar, not a poet.”
“Why can’t I be both?”
“You can. But poets shouldn’t cook.”
“Fair.”
She chuckles again, flipping the omelet effortlessly.
The smell of actual food replaces the burnt stench, and something about the simple domesticity of it hits me harder than I expect. I can’t remember the last time a kitchen felt this way. Warm, alive, belonging to someone who cared.
When she plates the food and sets it in front of me, I sit down without thinking.
“Moment of truth,” she says, watching me.
I take a bite. It’s perfect, obviously.
“Unreal,” I say around a mouthful.
“Better than yours?”
“Tragically so.”
Sloane leans against the counter, arms folded, watching me eat as if I’m some half-tamed thing she doesn’t quite trust yet.
“You really were going to serve that burnt disaster, weren’t you?” she teases, eyes glinting.
I grin, mouth full. “I was going to call it rustic.”
Her laugh. It’s soft and real, the kind that catches me off guard. A chord progression I didn’t expect but can’t stop replaying.
She drifts closer, curiosity replacing humor. “You know, you don’t have to go all out with cooking. I thought rockstars just… ordered takeout and called it art.”
“I always do,” I admit. “But I feel like you don’t have enough nice things done for you. You are always the one caring for others, without getting anything in return.”
I’m drawn to her. I can’t seem to stop myself from moving closer. The fact that she once had something with Roman isn’t halting me anymore. I can’t seem to stop myself, however hard I try. I need that gravity. I crave the closeness.
She blinks, the words catching her off guard. “That’s… not true.”
“It is,” I say softly. “You carry everyone else’s weight so quietly that no one notices it’s heavy.”
Her breath hitches, and she looks away, down at her hands, at the floor, anywhere but me. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“Maybe not,” I murmur, stepping closer, “but I notice things.”
She laughs once, short and uncertain. “Like what?”
“The way you hum when you think no one’s listening, like you’re trying to coax the quiet back to life.
The way your shoulders tighten when someone’s voice sharpens, even if the words aren’t meant for you.
And the way you move around the kitchen, feeding people who don’t know what a gift it is, like it’s your way of holding the world still when everything else is shaking. ”
Her gaze lifts, sharp now, wounded but curious. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“Always.”
The atmosphere between us hums, low and electric.
“I’m not… someone you can fix,” she says quietly.
“I’m not trying to,” I reply. “I just want to see you. Really see you. That’s all.”
Something shifts then, barely perceptible but impossible to ignore. The kind of silence that pulls two people closer without a single word.
I reach out, my fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. She doesn’t move away. Her eyes meet mine, and I’m falling into a song I’ve been trying to write for years.
“I shouldn’t—” she starts, trembling.
“I know,” I whisper, and my hand lingers anyway. “But it feels like we already did.”
Her lips part in the faintest exhale, and for a heartbeat, the whole world tilts toward her, the night folds in around us, and all I can think is how right it feels to be this close to her, how impossible it is to want anything else.
When our lips meet, it feels less like a choice and more like gravity finally cashing in on its debt.
Her lips are soft, tasting faintly of citrus and something warmer. Sunlight caught in honey. The world stills around us. Every breath feels shared, every heartbeat strung together in the same fragile rhythm.
When she finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for air.
Her hand stays on my jaw, fingers trembling slightly, eyes searching mine as though she’s trying to decide whether what just happened was real.
Her pupils are wide, her lips parted, and I swear the universe tilts, just a little, to make room for this moment.