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Why not?? What's wrong with it?

Me:

Nothing's wrong with it. It's perfect.

Mom:

Then take it. This is what you've been working for. Everything you gave up, all those late nights, all those events you ran for nothing. This is it baby. Don't overthink it.

Everything you gave up. Marcus at the restaurant table. Marcus asking if she even wanted to be there. Seven years of love quietly sacrificed on the altar of ambition, and now the altar is actually paying off.

So why does it feel like I'm about to do the same thing again?

I pocket the phone. Finish the cups. Straighten a tablecloth. Check a lantern. Keep moving, keep working, keep my hands busy so my brain doesn't have room to process what I already know.

That I'm falling for Dante Morales. That I have been since he showed up to my venue with a measuring tape and corrected my cedar post spacing without being asked. That last night in that cabin was the first time in months I haven't felt alone, the first time someone's hands on my body felt like being seen instead of being used.

And that accepting Noah's contract means spending twelve months working alongside Dante in a professional capacity where every stolen glance, every accidental touch, every memory of what his mouth felt like between my thighs is a liability I can't afford.

The bonfire lights up at seven. Guests settle into the hay bale seating. The evening program runs beautifully. Music, firelight, stars. Everything I designed. Everything I dreamed this event could be.

Dante is at the north entrance. Same post as last night. Same rigid posture. Same professional distance.

At nine fifteen, when the crowd starts thinning, he walks past the cider station where I'm wiping down the counter. Doesn't stop. Doesn't look at me.

But he sets something on the counter as he passes.

A to go cup. Steam curling from the lid. A sticky note on the side.

Fresh. Not cold. — D

The handwriting is small, precise. Military clean.

I hold the cup in both hands. The warmth seeps through my fingers into my palms, up my wrists, into the cold hollow space behind my sternum that has been expanding all day.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes. I blink them away. Pick up the cup. Walk to the staff parking area behind the lodge where nobody can see me.

And I sit on the tailgate of a supply truck in the dark, drinking hot coffee, crying into a paper cup because a man remembered that my coffee was cold last night and decided to fix it without being asked, without making a scene, without needing me to say thank you.

That's the thing about Dante Morales that wrecks me. He doesn't ask for credit. He just shows up. He measures the terrain. He brings coffee. He tapes down cables. He catches you when you stumble. And when you tell him it can't happen again, he says copy that and still makes sure your coffee is hot.

My phone buzzes again.

Talia:

You okay? Haven't seen you in 20 min. Rivera said you were in the parking area.

Me:

Fine. Just needed a minute.

Talia:

Take your time. Everything's running smooth. You built something beautiful this weekend Sloane.

Something beautiful. Right.

I built something beautiful, and then I smashed the one part of it that was for me.