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The article came out two days later.
A full-page feature in the Wellington Weekly, complete with photos of Ava piping buttercream roses, flour on her cheek, and sunlight streaming through the bakery's wide windows. The headline read:
"Sweet Delights: The Bakery That's Warming the City—and One Writer's Heart"
The response was immediate.
Customers poured in, more than ever before. Some came for the pastries. Others came because they were rooting for Ava now, invested in her story. A few even whispered, "I read the article," as if they were in on a secret. One little girl asked Ava for her autograph.
Ava handled it all with grace—but beneath the smiles, a strange nervousness stirred. People weren't just coming for the bakery anymore. They were coming for her.
And for Ethan.
That night, when the rush had faded and the bakery was finally quiet, Ava stayed late. She needed space to think. Needed the hum of the fridge and the soft clatter of trays to drown out the noise in her head.
The door creaked open. She didn't have to look to know it was Ethan.
He stepped behind the counter and wrapped his arms around her from behind. "You didn't answer my text."
"I needed to bake," she said quietly. "It clears my head."
He glanced at the tray. Chocolate croissants. "Did it help?"
"A little."
Ethan rested his chin on her shoulder. "Want to tell me what's going on in there?" he asked, tapping her temple gently.
Ava sighed. "The article was beautiful. But it also made me feel… exposed. Like the bakery isn't just mine anymore. Like it belongs to the public now. And us… we're not just us. We're a story."
He was quiet for a moment, then said, "I get it. I do."
"I'm not used to being seen like that," she whispered. "So many people now know things about me I never planned to share."
"I know," Ethan said gently. "And maybe I overstepped by pitching the article without asking. I just wanted people to know what I already knew about you. That this place—you—are something rare."
Ava turned to face him. "It's not that I didn't appreciate it. It just... scared me."
"I don't want to be a spotlight you didn't ask for," he said. "I want to be someone who stands in it with you. Or behind you. Whatever you need."
She looked up at him, the croissants cooling on the rack behind her, the air thick with chocolate and truth. "I don't need perfect, Ethan. I just need honest."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box. Not jewelry—something even more personal.
A pen. Sleek, silver, engraved.
She opened it and read the tiny words etched on the side:
For the next chapter.
"I want to write this story with you," he said. "No editors. No angles. Just us."
Ava stared at it, her throat tightening. "Ethan…"
"It doesn't have to be fast. Or flashy. Just real."
She closed her hand around the pen and stepped into him, resting her forehead against his. "Then let's write it. One page at a time."
They didn't kiss right away. They just stood there, surrounded by silence and soft sugar, their hearts beating in quiet sync. In that moment, Ava realized something important.
Love didn't always arrive with fireworks or fanfare.
Sometimes it came quietly, like flour settling on a countertop. Like a pen in your hand, waiting for the words you didn't know you had.