The sun slanted through the kitchen windows, gilding the marble countertops where Ella stood, flour dusting her apron. She'd insisted on cooking breakfast—"No more chefs, Sebastian. I need to feel normal"—and he'd leaned against the doorframe, watching, a mug of black coffee in his hand, a half-smile on his face.
"Careful with that whisk," he said, nodding at the bowl of pancake batter. "You're gonna fling it across the room."
Ella glanced up, mock-glaring. "I've been handling small tools since I was five. A whisk is nothing compared to a screwdriver." She poured the batter onto the griddle, the sizzle filling the quiet. "Dad called yesterday. He says the cottage garden's blooming. Wants us to visit this weekend."
Sebastian pushed off the doorframe, stepping behind her to wrap his arms around her waist. His chin rested on her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. "Whatever you want, love."
It still made her stomach flutter—love. He'd started saying it a week ago, casual as anything, like it was the most natural word in the world. Like he hadn't spent months hiding behind cold stares and contracts.
She turned in his arms, wiping a smudge of flour on his cheek. "You don't have to pretend to like my dad's overcooked stew, you know. He won't mind if you sneak a sandwich beforehand."
He laughed, low and rich, and kissed her—slow, lingering, like they had all the time in the world. "Your dad's stew is… memorable. But I'll suffer through it. For you."
The griddle spat, and Ella pulled back, yelping. "Pancakes!"
Sebastian grabbed the spatula, flipping them with surprising skill. "I told you to be careful."
"You're distracting me." She poked his chest, but her smile gave her away.
He set the spatula down, his hands sliding to her hips, his gaze intense. "Good. I want to distract you. Forever."
It was a sweet promise, but Ella's mind drifted to the workshop. Her father had mentioned selling it—"Too much work for an old man"—but she'd been thinking… maybe she could take it over. Fix clocks again. Have something that was hers, not just "Sebastian Black's partner."
She bit her lip, hesitating. Sebastian hated when she kept things from him.
"What's wrong?" He brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"I was thinking… about the workshop. Dad wants to sell, but… I want to buy it. Fix it up. Start over. As a clockmaker. Like him." She waited for his reaction—maybe a frown, a protest that she didn't need to work, that he could provide for her.
Instead, he smiled. "When do we start?"
Ella blinked. "You… you're okay with it?"
"Darling, I've watched you take apart my pocket watch three times just to 'adjust the gears.' You light up when you talk about it. Why wouldn't I be okay with it?" He kissed her forehead. "But it's not 'you'—it's 'us.' We'll fix it up. Together."
Tears stung her eyes. "You're not worried people will talk? 'Sebastian Black's girl, slumming it in a workshop'?"
He scoffed. "Let them talk. They'll learn to fear your screwdriver before they mock your ambition."
She laughed, looping her arms around his neck. "You're a softie, Mr. Black."
"Only for you, Ms. White."
A week later, they stood in front of the workshop, its sign—"White & Son, Clockmakers"—faded but still proud. Ella ran her hand over the chipped paint, her heart racing.
Sebastian had brought in a crew to fix the roof, but he'd insisted they handle the interior themselves. "No contractors. Just us."
Now, he handed her a paintbrush. "Your call. What color?"
"Blue," she said, without hesitation. "Like Clara's bedroom curtains. Calm. Bright."
He nodded, grabbing a brush for himself. "Blue it is."
They worked all morning, laughing as paint splattered on their clothes, as Sebastian "accidentally" brushed her arm with his brush, leaving a streak of blue. By noon, the walls were half-painted, the windows cleaned, and the workbench—her father's old one—polished until it gleamed.
Ella set her brush down, running her hand over the bench's scarred surface. "Dad taught me to file metal here. I was seven, and I burned my thumb on the soldering iron. He said, 'Pain's just a reminder you're trying.'"
Sebastian wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his cheek on her hair. "He's a wise man."
A car horn honked outside. Ethan leaned out of a beat-up sedan, grinning. "Heard there's a paint party. Save me a brush?"
Ella laughed, waving him in. "We're painting the back wall—your turn."
Ethan grabbed a brush, smearing blue paint on Sebastian's shoulder as he passed. "Payback for the vault. You did tackle me that night."
Sebastian rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "You deserved it. Charging in like a bull."
They worked until dusk, the workshop transformed: walls blue, windows sparkling, the workbench lined with Ella's tools.
As the sun set, Sebastian pulled a small box from his pocket.
"Ella," he said, dropping to one knee. Her breath caught.
He opened the box. Inside, no ring—just a tiny silver key, shaped like a nightingale.
"It's not a proposal," he said, his voice soft. "Not yet. But it's a promise. The key to the workshop's new lock. To our future. To… forever, if you'll have me."
Tears blurred her vision. She nodded, too choked up to speak.
He stood, sliding the key into her palm. "I love you, Ella White. More than vaults, more than secrets, more than this cursed family name. Just… you."
"I love you too, Sebastian Black." She kissed him, the key warm between their hands, the workshop humming with the quiet promise of new beginnings.
Outside, the streetlamp flickered on, casting a golden glow over the sign.
Ella smiled.
Soon, it would read "White & Black."
And that, she thought, was more than enough.