---
The airport was bustling—travelers moving in hurried strides, announcements echoing across the terminals, luggage wheels clattering like soft thunder. Ava stood still in the middle of it all, watching Ethan check his bag at the counter.
He looked calm, but she knew him well enough by now to see the nerves in the way he flexed his fingers, the way his smile flickered every few seconds. His trip wasn't long—just three weeks in New York, then Seattle and Portland for meetings, food tours, interviews. The publishers had approved his travel memoir proposal, and the deal was signed.
Everything was happening.
And Ava was proud.
But she was also scared.
Three weeks felt like a lifetime when you were trying to hold something together that hadn't yet learned to stand on its own legs.
"You okay?" Ethan asked, turning to her after collecting his boarding pass.
"Yeah," she lied. "You?"
He chuckled. "No. But I will be."
They walked to security together, slowly, like drawing out the final moments of a season they weren't ready to end.
"When I land," Ethan said, "I'll call."
"You better," Ava whispered.
He pulled her into a tight hug, burying his face in her hair. "Three weeks."
"You'll blink and it'll be over."
They kissed—quick and quiet—and then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, disappearing behind the line of travelers with backpacks and boarding passes.
Ava stood still for a long time, her arms folded against the cold, the buzz of noise suddenly dull in her ears.
She didn't cry.
Not at the airport.
Instead, she turned and walked out into the late afternoon light, her phone already buzzing with bakery updates and delivery confirmations.
Life didn't stop. Even when your heart felt like it had.
---
The first few days passed in a blur. Ava kept herself busy with new recipe trials, staff scheduling, and a growing demand for catering orders. Sweet Delights had reached a new peak of popularity, and the pressure mounted with every glowing review and custom cake request.
She was working harder than ever—but part of her wondered if she was hiding in the hustle. Maybe it was easier to drown in whipped cream than face the silence of Ethan's absence.
But he kept his promise.
Every night, he called. From hotel rooms, from taxis, once even from a rooftop bar where he whispered sweet nothings over the sound of a saxophone playing in the background.
They talked about their days. About the people he met, the food he tasted, the stories he was writing.
But they also talked about her. About how the bakery was holding up. About Mel's hilarious customer mishaps. About a new intern who accidentally added salt instead of sugar to an entire tray of muffins.
It helped. More than she wanted to admit.
And then, somewhere between the calls and texts, something shifted.
Ethan started sending her letters.
Real, handwritten letters. Folded paper, ink-smudged, sometimes wrinkled from travel.
The first one came on the fifth day.
> Dear Ava,
New York is overwhelming and wonderful. There's too much noise, too many lights, and an infinite amount of good coffee. But none of it feels quite right without you beside me. I walked past a bakery this morning and the smell of cinnamon stopped me cold. I wanted to run inside and see if they had your apple tarts. They didn't, obviously. No one does it like you.
I miss you. In the little ways and the big ones.
Yours,
Ethan
Ava reread it four times before sliding it into her journal.
The next letter came from Seattle. Then Portland. Then Chicago.
Each one more vulnerable than the last.
> I'm realizing something out here. I've chased success for a long time. Always thought that once I had it—truly had it—I'd feel complete. But the more I collect it, the more I realize it's not success I'm looking for. It's meaning.
And you, Ava… you are meaning. You're what makes all of this feel worth something.
Ava cried the night she read that one. Quietly. Alone in her apartment with a cup of mint tea and flour still dusting her sleeves.
---
But life kept testing her.
A major supply chain issue caused delays in key ingredients. A freezer broke down overnight, ruining an entire day's worth of desserts. A food blogger—one with a large following—visited anonymously and left a scathing review, calling Sweet Delights "overhyped and underwhelming."
Ava didn't sleep for two nights after that one. She worked herself to the bone, reworking recipes, cleaning the bakery top to bottom, snapping at Mel, then apologizing tearfully. She was burning out. Fast.
And Ethan wasn't there to ground her.
He called one night, sensing her edge.
"You sound tired," he said gently.
"I'm fine."
"You always say that when you're not."
Silence.
"Ava, talk to me."
"I'm trying," she said, her voice cracking. "But everything's falling apart. And I'm holding it all together with pastry string."
He was quiet for a beat. "I'm coming home."
"No, you're not."
"I can reschedule—"
"No," she said firmly. "You worked for this. You earned it. I'm just… in a hard week. That's all."
Ethan sighed. "Then let me help. Even from here. What do you need?"
She closed her eyes. "I need to remember why I love this place."
---
The next morning, she arrived at the bakery to find an envelope taped to the front door.
It wasn't Ethan's handwriting.
Inside was a card. A drawing of a smiling croissant. And a note:
> Hi Ava,
I came by yesterday and you were in the back. I didn't want to bother you, but I just wanted to say thank you. Your vanilla raspberry cupcakes are my daughter's favorite. She's going through chemo right now, and they're the only thing that still makes her smile. You don't know us, but you make our days better.
Keep baking, okay?
—Clara (Mom of Lily, age 7)
Ava read the note three times, her heart swelling, throat tight.
She walked straight into the kitchen, pulled out her best ingredients, and began baking a special batch just for Lily. No distractions. No anxiety. Just her and the oven. The way it used to be.
She felt alive again.
---
Ethan returned a week later, earlier than expected.
He walked into the bakery just before closing, suitcase still in hand, hair windblown, looking exhausted but radiant.
Ava turned, stunned. "You're early."
"I couldn't wait," he said. "I missed the smell. I missed the mess. I missed you."
She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck.
He held her like he hadn't seen her in years.
After they closed up, they sat on the bakery's front steps, sipping tea under the evening sky, shoulder to shoulder.
"I have something for you," he said, pulling a small notebook from his bag.
"What's this?"
"My first draft," he said. "Of the book. I dedicated it to you."
Ava opened the cover and read:
> To Ava:
For teaching me that the sweetest things in life are never perfect, never predictable—but always worth the risk.
Tears welled in her eyes. "Ethan…"
"I want to build something with you," he said softly. "Not just visit. Not just borrow. Build. Wherever this story takes us, I want you in it."
Ava leaned into him, the book clutched to her chest. "Then let's write it."
They sat there long after the city went to sleep.
Two dreamers. Two stubborn, beautiful souls.
And the story they were writing—imperfect, messy, vulnerable—was just getting good.
---