Chapter 26
Leo
Wednesday comes like a held breath.
I don’t rush it. I don’t fill it with meetings, calls, or noise. I work in the morning because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. I knead dough I don’t need. I bake bread I give away. I scrub a counter that’s already clean. I try to exhaust myself into calm, and it almost works.
By late afternoon, my apartment feels too big again.
I shower. I change. I change again.
I don’t wear anything expensive. I don’t wear anything new. Dark jeans. Soft black sweater. Scuffed boots. I leave the watch behind. I leave my phone face down on the counter for a long moment before picking it up again, because part of me wants to walk into this empty-handed.
I check the time. Early. Of course, I’m early.
The Moonlight Lounge sits on a quiet side street, half-hidden between a florist and a closed tailor shop. It looks exactly like Tess described it. Small. Dim. Unconcerned with impressing anyone. The kind of place that survives because people who find it don’t want to tell anyone else.
I arrive fifteen minutes early and wait outside anyway. I don’t want to take a seat before she does. I don’t want to claim space that isn’t mine yet.
I lean against the brick wall and let myself feel it: the nerves, the ache, the hope I don’t deserve but can’t seem to kill. My chest tightens every time someone walks past with blonde hair, with that purposeful stride, with shoulders that look like they know where they’re going.
When she finally appears at the end of the block, my breath leaves my body like it’s been stolen.
She’s wearing a pink dress. Her hair is down, loose around her shoulders, and I have the strangest, most inappropriate urge to thank her for that, like it’s a gift she didn’t owe me.
She spots me before I spot her. I can tell because she slows just a fraction. I hate cataloging her reactions like this again.
But she keeps walking. She doesn’t turn away. That feels like permission.
I straighten as she approaches, my pulse pounding loud enough that I’m sure she can hear it.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she replies.
It’s not warm. It’s not cold. It’s open. Cautious. Real.
“You’re early,” she says.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I didn’t want to be late.”
“I appreciate that,” she says, and something in my chest loosens.
I gesture toward the door. “Shall we?”
She nods.
Inside, the bar is quiet but not empty. Low lights. Soft music. A bartender who looks like he’s seen everything and is deeply uninterested in seeing more. It’s perfect.
We sit at a small table near the wall. Not across from each other, beside each other. Close enough to talk without leaning in. Far enough to breathe.
We order drinks. Nothing fancy. She gets a gin and tonic. I get a beer.
The bartender leaves us alone.
Silence settles. Not awkward, but weighted. The kind that asks who’s going to be honest first.
“I want to say something,” I begin, because if I don’t, I’ll lose my nerve. “You don’t have to respond. You don’t have to reassure me. I just… need to say it.”
She studies me for a second, then nods. “Ok.”
I inhale.
“I’m not here because I think tonight fixes anything,” I say. “And I’m not here because one good date earns me forgiveness. I know it doesn’t.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around her glass. She doesn’t interrupt.
“I’m here because I think you’re an incredible woman. You’re passionate, smart, strong, and funny.” My voice stays steady, but it costs me. “I wanted to see you, not to convince you of anything. Just to… be with you. If you’d let me.”
She takes a slow sip of her drink.
“Are you being nice to me to get your job back?” Tess asks, smiling.
“I’m not being nice. I’m being truthful.”
Her cheeks flush. She doesn’t take compliments well, but they make her look beautiful.
The conversation unfolds gently after that, like something skittish realizing it isn’t about to be chased.
We don’t lunge for the big topics. We don’t circle wounds or words that still feel sharp enough to cut. We start where it’s safest, where neither of us has to defend anything. The work.
“The ovens have been temperamental lately,” Tess says, turning her glass slowly between her fingers. “Not broken. Just… moody.”
I smile despite myself. “They sense fear.”
She snorts. “They absolutely do. If I walk in tired or distracted, they punish me for it.”
“What did they do this time?” I ask.
She exhales, a sound carrying both frustration and affection.
“Croissants. Perfect lamination. Perfect butter temperature. The dough felt right in my hands. I proofed them exactly the same way I always do. Same humidity, same timing. I slide the trays in and…” She makes a soft, collapsing motion with her hand.
“They just… gave up. Sank right in the middle. Like they lost the will to live.”
I wince in sympathy. “The silent failures are the worst.”
“Right?” She leans back slightly, eyes bright, animated in a way that feels familiar. “If something burns or explodes, at least you know why. But this? This was betrayal.”
I laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s true. “Did you redo them?”
“Of course,” she says. “Because I’m stubborn. And because I needed to prove I wasn’t losing my touch.”
“And?”
“They were fine the second time.” She frowns. “Which almost made it worse.”
“Because now you don’t trust the win,” I say quietly.
She looks at me. Really looks at me. “Exactly.”
The air between us shifts. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just… aware.
“I ruined a loaf last week,” I offer after a moment. “Not because it failed. Because I failed it.”
Her mouth quirks. “How?”
“I got distracted.” I shake my head. “I was watching the oven door like it was going to tell me a secret if I stared long enough. I missed the window. Just enough. The crust set wrong.”
“That’s the worst,” she murmurs. “When you know you were almost there.”
“I scraped it,” I admit.
She grimaces. “Ouch.”
“I stood there for a full minute debating whether I could pretend it was intentional,” I add.
She laughs, a real laugh, sudden and unguarded. It does something to my chest I’m not prepared for.
“And?” she asks. “Could you?”
“No,” I say. “It tasted like regret.”
Her smile lingers. “That’s a very specific flavor.”
“I’m developing a sensitivity to it,” I say dryly.
She studies me over the rim of her glass. “You care about the bread.”
It’s not an accusation. It’s an observation.
“I do,” I say. “I didn’t expect to. But I do.”
She nods slowly. “That part… sneaks up on you.”
We fall into a rhythm after that. Talking about hydration percentages, flour suppliers, and how dough behaves differently depending on the weather, the room, and the mood of the person touching it.
She talks with her hands when she’s explaining something technical. I notice. I notice everything, the furrow of her brow when she’s thinking through a problem, the softness in her voice when she talks about apprentices, even when she’s pretending not to.
“At the end of the day,” she says, “the work tells you the truth. You can’t bluff it. You can’t spin it. You show up, or it shows you where you messed up.”
I nod. “It’s unforgiving.”
“It’s honest,” she corrects gently.
I let that sit.
“Do you ever think about doing something else?” I ask carefully. “Not because you want to leave. Just… because the days are long.”
She shakes her head without hesitation. “No.”
Not defensive. Not dramatic. Certain.
“I think about resting,” she adds. “About making it sustainable. But I’ve never wanted to be anywhere else.”
I swallow. “I envy that.”
She tilts her head. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Because it means when something goes wrong, you don’t question whether the whole thing was a mistake.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “You still question that?”
“All the time,” I admit.
She doesn’t reach for me. She doesn’t try to fix it. She just says, “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Another pause. Comfortable now. Earned.
“You know,” she says slowly, “when my parents’ place failed, it wasn’t just the money. It was the silence afterward. The not knowing what to do with your hands.”
I nod. “That part scares me.”
She meets my gaze. “Then don’t build things you don’t know how to hold.”
The words land gently. Firmly. I breathe them in like advice I didn’t know I needed.
We talk about Gwen. About her dry menace and impossible loyalty. About Julian, whom she describes as “chaos in expensive shoes,” which feels accurate. About Zane and how Tess thinks ice hockey is overrated. I promise her I won’t tell Zane.
We don’t talk about Rex.
We don’t talk about the deal.
Not because it’s forgotten, but because it’s been set down, deliberately, for tonight.
Time passes in a way that feels unfamiliar. Unmeasured. Unleveraged.
At some point, she looks at me and says, “You’re different when you’re not trying to be impressive.”
I swallow. “Is that… good?”
She tilts her head. “It’s honest.”
I take that as a win I didn’t earn.
When we leave the bar, the city feels different. Softer. Quieter. Like it’s exhaling with us.
The streetlights hum overhead, their glow reflected in the damp pavement.
The air smells faintly of rain and warm asphalt, the kind of smell that settles low in your chest and makes everything feel closer, more real.
Somewhere down the block, a bus sighs to a stop.
A couple laughs as they pass, wrapped up in their own night, their own story.
We walk side by side. Not touching. The space between us is deliberate. Charged. Alive. It’s not empty, it’s full of intention, of restraint, of all the things we’re not doing because we’re choosing not to.
I don’t reach for her. I won’t. Not because I don’t want to, but because wanting isn’t the point anymore. The point is that she decides. That she always decides.
Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her jacket.
Mine hang loose at my sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they’re practicing patience.
Every few steps, I’m aware of her presence beside me, the warmth of her body, the quiet steadiness of her stride, the way she matches my pace without thinking.
We don’t talk much. We don’t need to. The silence isn’t awkward.
At the corner where our paths diverge, we stop.
The moment stretches.
“Well,” she says finally, her voice lighter than it was earlier but still careful. Still honest. “This was… nice.”
Nice feels fragile, like something you handle gently so it doesn’t crack. I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “It really was.”
She rocks back on her heels slightly, then forward again. I recognize the movement, the way someone stands when they’re deciding whether to stay or go. Whether to step closer or hold their ground.
Another pause. Longer this time.
I brace myself without meaning to. I know this feeling.
The quiet right before a door closes. The moment when someone thanks you for your time and walks away clean, leaving you to sit with what might have been.
If she does that, I’ll accept it. I have to.
Instead, she steps closer. Not into me. Not pressing against me. Just close enough that the space between us shrinks from distance to awareness. Close enough that I feel the warmth radiating off her, the undeniable truth of her presence.
She’s choosing to be here.
“I’m still angry,” she says quietly.
The honesty lands without sharpness. It doesn’t accuse. It just exists.
“I know,” I reply. “You’re allowed to be.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, searching, measuring. Checking for defensiveness, impatience, that subtle tightening people get when they think forgiveness should be faster. She doesn’t find it.
“And I’m still not sure,” she continues. “About us. About you.”
“I know,” I say again.
The words don’t feel rehearsed. They feel factual. Like acknowledgments. I don’t soften them. I don’t argue. I don’t mention time, effort, or proving myself.
She studies my face for a long moment, looking for cracks, hidden doors, any sign I might push if she gives me an inch.
“But tonight, didn’t feel wrong,” she says finally.
Something in my chest loosens. Not breaks. Opens. Quietly. Carefully. Like a window cracked just enough to let fresh air in.
“I’m glad,” I say. “That’s all I hoped for.”
And I mean it. Completely. I didn’t come here expecting absolution. I didn’t come here trying to win something. I came here wanting to know whether I could exist in her space without causing harm.
She hesitates again, then unmistakably nods. Small. Almost imperceptible. But deliberate.
“Ok,” she says. “You can kiss me.”
The words make me laugh, and my first instinct isn’t excitement. It’s stillness. I don’t move right away. I want her to see that. To feel that. This isn’t a reflex or a reward; it’s something I’m receiving with care.
I lift one hand slowly, stopping halfway between us. A question without words.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t step back. She tips her chin up just slightly.
Yes.
I move closer, closing the remaining distance at a pace that gives her every chance to change her mind. When my lips finally meet hers, the kiss is gentle. Light. Questioning. A kiss that asks, “Is this still ok?” with every breath, every shift.
She answers by leaning in. Not rushing. Not grabbing. Just leaning. Like she’s saying yes again, quietly, with her whole body.
The kiss deepens. Not frantic. Not desperate. Warm. Intentional. There’s no urgency, no hunger demanding more than this moment. Just a connection. Just presence.
I can taste the faint citrus of her drink. Feel the soft exhale she releases against my mouth. My hand settles at her waist, light, grounding, ready to move the second she needs space.
She doesn’t.
When we part, it’s slow. Reluctant. Our foreheads rest together for a brief second, the world narrowing to the space we share: the hum of the streetlight, the distant traffic, the quiet awareness of each other.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she says softly.
I smile, a small tug at something tender in my chest. “I know.”
She steps back, reclaiming her space, her independence. I let her go without hesitation.
“But,” she adds, meeting my eyes again, “it means you didn’t mess this up.”
Relief washes through me, not loud or triumphant, but steady and grounding. The kind that settles instead of spikes.
“That means a lot,” I say.
She nods once. Satisfied. Resolved. Still guarded, but open enough to matter.
“Goodnight, Leo.”
“Goodnight, Tess.”
She turns and walks away, her footsteps fading into the city, leaving me under the streetlight, heart full and carefully held.
I don’t follow. I don’t need to.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m chasing something that doesn’t want to be caught.
I feel like I’m being allowed to walk alongside it.
One step at a time.