The Art of Coming Home

Chapter One Zephyr Blackwood had sworn he'd never set foot in Willowbrook again. Yet here he stood, outside the renovated Victorian that would house his new tattoo parlor, trying to ignore the way Main Street's quaint storefronts made his chest tighten with unwanted memories. Five years. Five years since he'd packed his motorcycle and left everything behind—including the woman who'd taught him that hearts could break in ways that never fully healed. "Damn," he muttered, running a hand through his shoulder-length black hair. The autumn air carried a sickeningly familiar scent of cinnamon and vanilla that made his stomach clench. He knew that smell. Knew exactly where it came from. *Honey's Sweet Things* sat directly across the street, its powder-blue awning cheerful as ever. The bakery's window display overflowed with Halloween-themed cupcakes and cookies, each one more elaborate than the last. Classic Clementine—never met a holiday she couldn't celebrate with aggressive enthusiasm. He'd chosen this location specifically because the rent was cheap and the foot traffic was good. The fact that it put him across from his ex's bakery? Pure cosmic joke. The universe had always had a twisted sense of humor where he was concerned. Zephyr unlocked the door to his shop and stepped inside, inhaling the scent of fresh paint and possibility. The space was perfect—exposed brick walls, original hardwood floors, plenty of natural light. He could already envision his artwork displayed on the walls, the buzz of tattoo machines filling the air, clients discovering the permanent art that would mark their stories on their skin. This was why he'd come back. Not for her. Never for her. His phone buzzed. A text from his sister Luna: *Stop brooding and come to dinner tonight. 7pm. Don't make me hunt you down.* He almost smiled. Luna had been the one constant in his life, the one person who'd never let him completely disappear into his own darkness. She'd also been suspiciously insistent about him moving back to Willowbrook, claiming their mother needed him nearby. He should have known she was scheming. The bell above his door chimed, and Zephyr turned, expecting to see the contractor he'd hired to finish the renovations. Instead, sunshine personified stood in his doorway. Clementine Honeycutt looked exactly as he remembered, yet completely different. Her copper hair was longer now, twisted up in some complicated braid that left wisps framing her heart-shaped face. Those green eyes—the ones that still haunted his dreams—widened as they met his. She wore a flour-dusted apron over a dress covered in tiny sunflowers, because of course she did. Clementine had never met a pattern she didn't love. "Zephyr." His name on her lips hit him like a physical blow. "You're really back." He crossed his arms, letting his body language speak the words his voice couldn't. The last time they'd spoken, she'd been crying, begging him to stay, to talk, to understand. He'd left instead, too young and too hurt to do anything else. "I brought a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift." She held up a pink bakery box, her smile faltering under his stare. "Lemon lavender scones. I remembered they were your—" She stopped, biting her lower lip. "Anyway. Welcome back." "I don't want anything from you, Clementine." She flinched but recovered quickly, that perpetual optimism reasserting itself. "That's fine. I'll just leave them here." She set the box on his counter, and he caught a glimpse of the delicate tattoo on her inner wrist—a constellation he'd inked there himself the night she'd turned twenty-one. The night she'd told him she loved him for the first time. "How long are you staying?" she asked, fidgeting with her apron strings. "Permanently." Something flashed in her eyes—hope, maybe, or fear. "Oh. That's... that's good. The town needs more businesses. Especially ones that bring in younger crowds." She was babbling now, filling the tense silence with words. "I've expanded too. Added a coffee bar, started doing wedding cakes. Remember how I always said I wanted to—" "Clementine." He kept his voice flat, emotionless. "We're not doing this." "Doing what?" "Acting like we're friends. Like there's anything between us except bad history." She lifted her chin, and there it was—that flash of steel beneath the sweetness that had always surprised him. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just wanted to..." She shook her head. "Never mind. Enjoy the scones." She turned to leave, and he should have let her go. Should have maintained the wall he'd built between them. Instead, he heard himself asking, "How's Derek?" She paused at the door, glancing back with confusion written across her features. "Derek? I haven't seen him in years. Not since—" Understanding dawned. "Oh my god. Zephyr, you still think—" "I don't think anything." He turned away, busying himself with unpacking boxes. "Forget I asked." "No." The door clicked shut, and suddenly she was in his space, all five-foot-four of her vibrating with indignation. "No, you don't get to do that. You don't get to come back here after five years of silence and act like—" "Like what? Like you betrayed me? Like I found you half-naked with another man in our bed?" "I was not half-naked! He spilled coffee on my shirt, and I was changing—" "In our bedroom. With the door locked." "Because I didn't want you to see me like that! I was planning your surprise birthday party, you absolute idiot. Derek was helping me. That's what I was trying to tell you, but you wouldn't listen. You just assumed the worst and left." The words hung between them, sharp as broken glass. Zephyr stared at her, processing this information that didn't fit the narrative he'd carried for five years. "You're lying." But even as he said it, doubt crept in. Clementine was many things—perpetually cheerful, stubbornly optimistic, addicted to patterns that should never exist on clothing—but she'd never been a liar. "Check my Instagram from that night," she said quietly. "The party still happened. All your friends came. We waited for you for three hours." She left without another word, the bell chiming her departure like a funeral toll. Zephyr stood frozen, his carefully constructed version of history crumbling around him. After several minutes, he pulled out his phone. He'd blocked her on everything years ago, but it was easy enough to search from a browser. And there it was—October 15th, five years ago. Picture after picture of a birthday party. His friends. A cake decorated with intricate fondant tattoo designs. And Clementine, smiling bravely despite eyes red from crying. The caption read: *Sometimes love means celebrating someone even when they're not there to see it. Happy birthday, Z. Wherever you are.* "Fuck." He sank onto a paint-stained drop cloth, head in his hands. Five years. Five years of hating her for something she'd never done. Chapter Two Clementine's hands shook as she piped buttercream roses onto a wedding cake. Three days had passed since Zephyr's return, three days of pretending her world hadn't tilted off its axis. "If you squeeze any harder, you're going to explode that piping bag," her assistant Maple observed. "And that's our last batch of ivory buttercream." "Sorry." Clem forced her grip to relax. "Just thinking." "About the smoking-hot tattoo artist who moved in across the street? The one you've been not-watching through the window all morning?" Heat flooded Clem's cheeks. "I haven't been watching him." "Right. That's why you've frosted the same tier three times." Maple hip-checked her gently. "Want to talk about it?" Clem set down the piping bag and slumped against the prep counter. "We were together for three years. High school sweethearts who actually made it work. I thought we were forever, you know? Then one misunderstanding, and he was gone. No discussion, no chance to explain. Just... gone." "And now he's back." "Now he's back, and he looks at me like I'm something he stepped in." She laughed bitterly. "The stupid thing is, I can't even blame him. From what he saw... God, it must have looked awful." "What exactly did he see?" Clem busied herself with cleaning her workspace. "His best friend Derek, shirtless in our bedroom. I was changing because Derek had spilled coffee on me. We were planning Zeph's surprise party, going over the guest list. But Zeph came home early and..." She shrugged. "Drew his own conclusions." "And he never let you explain?" "I tried. Called, texted, showed up at his sister's house. He'd already left town. After a while, I stopped trying. If he could throw away everything we had without even listening to me..." She trailed off, blinking back tears she refused to shed. Maple wrapped an arm around her. "His loss, babe. You're amazing, and if he can't see that—" The bakery door chimed, and both women looked up. Luna Blackwood strode in, all dark elegance and purposeful energy. Where her brother was storm clouds and sharp edges, Luna was moonlight and mystery. "Clementine. We need to talk." "Luna." Clem straightened, smoothing her apron. "What can I get you?" "The truth. And maybe one of those ridiculously decorated sugar cookies." She pointed to the display case. "The one with the cat wearing a witch hat." Clem packaged the cookie and poured Luna a cup of coffee without being asked—black, no sugar, just like her brother. Some habits died hard. "So," Luna said, settling at one of the small café tables. "My idiot brother finally knows what actually happened that night." "Good for him." Luna's lips twitched. "You're angry. Good. You should be. But here's the thing—he's miserable. Has been for five years. And before you say that's his own fault, I know. Believe me, I've told him repeatedly. But you two were good together. Better than good. You balanced each other." "Were. Past tense." Clem sat across from her once-almost-sister-in-law. "He left, Luna. Without a word, without letting me explain. What kind of love is that?" "The young, stupid kind. The scared kind." Luna leaned forward. "Did you know our dad left when Zeph was fifteen? Just came home one day to find his stuff gone and divorce papers on the table. No warning, no explanation. It messed him up. Made him expect abandonment, look for betrayal even where it didn't exist." "I know about his dad. I was there, remember? I held him while he cried about it. I thought..." Clem's voice caught. "I thought I'd shown him he could trust me." "You did. Which is why seeing what he thought he saw broke him so completely." Luna reached across the table, squeezing Clem's hand. "I'm not excusing what he did. But I am asking—what would it take for you to forgive him?" Clem pulled her hand away. "I don't know if I can. He hurt me, Luna. Not just by leaving, but by thinking I was capable of cheating on him. By not trusting what we had." "Fair. But can I point out something? You've dated, what, three guys in the past five years? And from what I hear, none of them lasted more than a few months." "So?" "So my brother hasn't dated anyone. Not one person. He's been living like a monk, pouring everything into his art and pretending he's fine alone." Luna stood, cookie in hand. "Just think about it, okay? You two have unfinished business. Maybe it ends with closure, maybe it ends with more. But it needs to end, one way or another." After Luna left, Clem stood at the window, watching Zephyr hang artwork in his shop. He moved with the same focused intensity she remembered, completely absorbed in his task. He'd taken off his shirt in the afternoon heat, revealing new tattoos covering his arms and chest—a garden of black and gray artwork that told stories she didn't know. Once, she'd known every mark on his body, had traced each tattoo with fingers and lips and— "You're doing it again," Maple said. "The staring thing." "Shut up." But Clem didn't move from the window. Couldn't, really, not when he chose that moment to look up and catch her watching. Their eyes met across the street, and for a moment, time collapsed. She was eighteen again, seeing him for the first time at a house party, all brooding intensity and unexpected gentleness. He'd been drawing in a corner, avoiding the chaos, and she'd been drawn to him like a moth to flame—the girl made of sunshine reaching for the boy made of shadows. He looked away first, returning to his work. But not before she caught something in his expression that looked almost like longing. Chapter Three Zephyr was thoroughly, completely fucked. He'd managed to avoid Clementine for nearly a week, timing his comings and goings to minimize the chance of encounter. But small towns had a way of forcing proximity, and tonight's town festival was no exception. "Stop sulking," Luna ordered, dragging him toward the bustling town square. "It's the Fall Festival. Mandatory attendance for all business owners. You knew this when you moved back." He had known. Had somehow forgotten that October in Willowbrook meant hay rides and pumpkin everything and Clementine Honeycutt in her element, spreading aggressive cheer wherever she went. She stood behind a booth decorated with paper leaves and twinkle lights, serving what appeared to be pumpkin spice everything. The line stretched halfway across the square, testament to her popularity. She wore a burnt orange dress that made her hair glow like fire in the setting sun, and when she laughed at something a customer said, the sound carried across the square straight to his chest. "I need a drink," he muttered. "What you need is to talk to her." Luna steered him toward a beer tent. "But liquid courage first." Three beers later, Zephyr had loosened up enough to admit the festival wasn't terrible. He'd even sold a few tattoo consultation packages from his booth. The sun had set, stringing lights creating a magical atmosphere, and live music drifted from the main stage. "Zephyr Blackwood." He turned to find Derek Morrison standing behind him, hands shoved in his pockets. His former best friend looked older, married life apparently agreeing with him judging by the wedding ring and the extra weight around his middle. "Derek." "Heard you were back. Also heard you finally know the truth about that night." Derek's jaw tightened. "Five years, man. Five years of thinking I'd betrayed you somehow. Do you have any idea what that did to me? To all of us?" Guilt twisted in Zephyr's gut. In his pain and rage, he'd cut off everyone associated with that night, including the friend who'd been like a brother to him. "I'm sorry," he said, the words rusty from disuse. "I saw what I saw and..." "And assumed the worst. About me, about Clem. About everyone who loved you." Derek shook his head. "She was destroyed when you left. Didn't eat, didn't sleep. We took turns checking on her, making sure she was okay. The girl who never stopped smiling just... stopped." Each word was a knife between his ribs. "Derek—" "I'm not finished. You want to know what she did? She defended you. Every time someone called you an asshole for leaving, she shut them down. Said you were hurting, that you'd come back when you were ready. She waited for you, Zeph. Turned down good guys because they weren't you." "That's not—" Zephyr stopped. It was his fault. All of it. "I'm married now," Derek continued. "To Melody. Remember her from high school? We have a kid on the way. I've moved on, built a good life. But I need you to know—what you did wasn't just to Clem. You nuked every relationship you had because you couldn't trust the people who loved you." Derek walked away without waiting for a response, leaving Zephyr alone with the weight of his choices. The beer turned sour in his stomach. He needed air, space, somewhere to process the wreckage of his assumptions. He slipped away from the festival, heading for the river path that wound behind Main Street. Of course, he wasn't the only one seeking solitude. Clementine sat on their bench—the one where they'd carved their initials when they were seventeen and stupid and sure their love could survive anything. She'd changed into jeans and a sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders. In the moonlight, she looked like a painting, all soft edges and muted colors. "I can go," he offered, even as his feet refused to move. She patted the bench beside her. "It's a free country. And a big bench." He sat, careful to leave space between them. The river gurgled past, carrying leaves and memories in its current. "Derek found you," she said. It wasn't a question. "Yeah." "Good. You needed to hear it from him too." She pulled her knees to her chest, making herself smaller. "I used to come here after you left. Sat right here and wondered what I'd done wrong. Took me a long time to realize the answer was nothing. I'd done nothing wrong except love someone who couldn't trust me." "Clem—" "I'm not finished." She turned to face him, and in the moonlight, her eyes glistened. "You broke me, Zephyr. Not just my heart—me. I've spent five years trying to put the pieces back together, and I've done a pretty good job. But seeing you again..." She laughed, the sound brittle. "God, I hate that you still affect me like this." "I'm sorry." The words felt inadequate, too small for the damage he'd caused. "I'm so fucking sorry, Clementine. I was young and stupid and scared—" "I was young too. But I wouldn't have left. No matter what I thought I saw, I would have fought for us." The truth of it sat between them, undeniable. She would have fought. Had tried to fight. He'd been the one to run. "I know," he admitted. "I've known for five years that I fucked up. But by then, it felt too late. Too much damage, too much time. And the thought of coming back, of seeing you with someone else..." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm a coward. Always have been when it comes to you." "Why?" "Because you terrified me." The admission burst out, surprising them both. "You were this force of nature, all light and joy and certainty. You knew exactly who you were, what you wanted. And somehow, you wanted me. The angry kid with too much baggage and not enough faith in good things." She was quiet for a long moment. Then, "You weren't just some angry kid. You were my angry kid. My brilliant, talented, passionate Zephyr who created beautiful things and made me laugh and held me like I was precious." Her voice broke. "Do you know I still can't listen to Bon Iver without crying? Still can't eat Thai food from anywhere but that place on Fifth because it tastes like Tuesday nights in your apartment?" His hand found hers without conscious thought, their fingers intertwining with muscle memory. "I listened to your voicemail every night for a year. The one where you sang happy birthday to me at midnight because you couldn't wait until morning. Kept paying the phone bill on that number just so I wouldn't lose it." "That's pathetic," she said, but her fingers tightened around his. "I know." They sat in silence, hands clasped, watching the river carry away pieces of the past. Zephyr felt something loosen in his chest, some knot that had been pulled tight for half a decade. "I don't know how to fix this," he said finally. "Don't know if it can be fixed." "Maybe it can't. Maybe we're too different now, too damaged." She stood, pulling her hand from his. "But I'm tired of carrying this anger, Zeph. So I forgive you. Not for your sake—for mine. I forgive you, and I'm letting it go." She walked away, leaving him alone on their bench. He touched the carved initials, weathered but still visible. Z + C, surrounded by a heart drawn by his eighteen-year-old self who'd believed in forever. Chapter Four Forgiveness, Clem discovered, was easier said than implemented. Especially when the object of said forgiveness was working shirtless across the street, October sun turning his skin golden while he painted his shop's window trim. "That's the third batch of muffins you've burned this week," Maple observed. "Maybe we should invest in blinds?" "I'm not—" The smoke alarm cut off Clem's protest. She yanked the charred muffins from the oven, tossing the pan in the sink. "Okay, maybe blinds would help." "Or you could just talk to him. You know, like adults who've forgiven each other do?" Clem glared at her assistant. "Forgiveness doesn't mean we need to be friends. It just means I'm not actively wishing him bodily harm anymore." "Right. That's why you made his favorite cookies yesterday. And why you keep 'accidentally' making too much coffee right when he walks by." "Those were coincidences." "Sure they were." Maple's phone buzzed. "Oh! The new barista is here for her interview. Should I send her back?" Grateful for the distraction, Clem nodded. She needed to focus on her business, not on the way Zephyr's new tattoo wrapped around his ribcage like a— "Hi! I'm Autumn!" A bubbly blonde bounced into the kitchen, all enthusiasm and barely contained energy. "Oh my gosh, it smells amazing in here! Is that cinnamon? I love cinnamon!" Three minutes into the interview, Clem knew Autumn would be perfect. Experienced, enthusiastic, and most importantly, available to start immediately. They were discussing schedules when the kitchen door burst open. "Clem!" Zephyr stood in her doorway, chest heaving, panic in his eyes. "I need your help. Please." "What's wrong?" She was already moving, ingrained instinct overriding awkwardness. "It's Luna. She's in labor, but her husband's stuck in Chicago, and she's freaking out, and I don't know what to do—" "Breathe." Clem grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Where is she?" "My shop. Her water broke, and she can't make it to the car—" "Autumn, interview's over, you're hired, start tomorrow." Clem grabbed her emergency kit—a habit from years of small-town living where you never knew when you'd need first aid supplies. "Maple, call 911, tell them we need an ambulance at the tattoo shop." She followed Zephyr across the street, finding Luna on the floor of his shop, face contorted in pain. "About time," Luna gasped. "Tell my brother to stop panicking. It's annoying." "I'm not panicking," Zephyr protested, looking very much like a man on the verge of a breakdown. "You're literally shaking." Clem knelt beside Luna, taking her hand. "How far apart are the contractions?" "Two minutes. Maybe less. This kid's in a hurry." "Okay. Ambulance is on its way, but we might need to—" Luna's scream cut her off. "Or we definitely need to. Zeph, get towels. Clean ones. And water. And stop looking like you're going to faint." The next twenty minutes blurred together. The ambulance stuck behind festival traffic. Luna's contractions coming faster. Zephyr following Clem's every instruction with shaky precision. And then, just as sirens wailed in the distance, the unmistakable cry of a newborn filled the shop. "Holy shit," Zephyr breathed, staring at his nephew with wonder. "We just... you just..." "You both just." Luna, exhausted but smiling, cradled her son. "Couldn't have done it without my birth coaches." The paramedics arrived, taking over with professional efficiency. As they loaded Luna into the ambulance, she grabbed Clem's hand. "Thank you. And take care of my idiot brother. He's going to crash from the adrenaline soon." Sure enough, the moment the ambulance pulled away, Zephyr swayed. Clem caught him, guiding him to a chair. "Head between your knees," she ordered. "Breathe." "You just delivered a baby. In my tattoo shop. Like it was nothing." "Not nothing. But I helped deliver Mrs. Henderson's twins three years ago when they came early. Occupational hazard of being the only business open at 5 AM." She rubbed his back, the gesture automatic. "You did good, Zeph. Stayed calm when it counted." He laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. "I was terrified." "But you didn't run." The words hung between them, weighted with meaning. He looked up at her, something raw and vulnerable in his dark eyes. "I'm trying to be better. Braver. The kind of man who doesn't run when things get scary." "Yeah?" "Yeah." He stood, still shaky but determined. "Clem, would you... Christ, my nephew was just born on my shop floor, and I'm covered in—this isn't how I pictured this going." "Pictured what going?" "Asking you out. On a date. A real one, not just trauma bonding over surprise deliveries." Her heart stuttered. "Zeph..." "I know I don't deserve it. Know forgiveness doesn't mean you want anything to do with me. But I need you to know—I never stopped loving you. Not for a single day in five years. And if there's even the smallest chance you might—" She kissed him. Right there in his shop that smelled like disinfectant and new beginnings, she pressed her lips to his and felt five years of longing pour out between them. He made a sound like breaking, his arms coming around her, pulling her close like he was afraid she might disappear. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she pressed her forehead to his. "One date," she said. "We'll see where it goes. But Zeph? You run again, and we're done. No third chances." "I'm not going anywhere," he promised, sealing it with another kiss that tasted like hope. "Never again." Chapter Five *One Week Later* "Tell me again why our first date is at 6 AM?" Zephyr grumbled, but his eyes were soft as he watched Clem unlock the bakery's front door. "Because this is when the magic happens." She flipped on the lights, revealing the pristine kitchen. "And because you said you wanted to know me now, not just remember who I was then. This is who I am now—someone who wakes up before dawn to make things that bring people joy." "I remember you burning toast in college." "That was before I found my calling." She tied an apron around his waist, letting her fingers linger against his sides. "Today, you're my assistant. Hope you're ready to work." What followed was the least efficient morning in her bakery's history. Zephyr proved remarkably distracting, stealing kisses between batches of muffins, drawing designs in flour on the counter, feeding her bites of warm pastry with focused intensity. "How do you do this every day?" he asked, watching her pipe intricate flowers onto cupcakes. "The precision required..." "Says the tattoo artist. This is temporary art. Yours is forever." "Not so different, really." He moved behind her, arms bracketing her body as he watched her work. "Both require steady hands, artistic vision, understanding what the client really wants versus what they say they want." She leaned back against him, letting herself enjoy the solid warmth of his chest. They'd been cautious all week, sharing coffee and conversation, rebuilding foundations. But here, in her space, with the early morning light streaming through windows and no one to witness, she let her guard down. "I missed this," she admitted. "Just being near you." His arms tightened around her. "I used to dream about you. Wake up reaching for you, spend the whole day off-kilter because you weren't there." "Why didn't you come back sooner?" "Fear. Pride. Stupidity." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Convinced myself you'd moved on, found someone better. Easier to stay away than confirm it." She turned in his arms, cupping his face. "I dated. Tried to move on. But they weren't you. No one ever was." He kissed her then, deep and desperate, lifting her onto the prep counter. Her legs wrapped around his waist, muscle memory taking over. Five years vanished as his hands tangled in her hair, her body remembering exactly how he fit against her. "Clem," he groaned, pulling back. "We should slow down." "Should we?" She nipped at his jaw, felt him shudder. "We already lost five years. I'm tired of waiting." "You said one date. I'm trying to do this right." "My bakery, my rules." She pulled him back, kissing him until he gave in, hands roaming her body like he was relearning her geography. The timer's shrill beep broke them apart. Clem laughed, breathless and flushed. "Saved by the banana bread." She hopped down, pulling perfectly golden loaves from the oven. When she turned back, Zephyr was watching her with an expression that made her stomach flutter. "What?" "You. Happy. In your element." He shook his head. "I was so scared you'd changed, become someone I didn't recognize. But you're still you, just... more. Confident and successful and absolutely fucking beautiful." Heat bloomed across her skin. "Keep talking like that and we'll never make it through the morning rush." "Promise?" But he helped her box pastries, prep the coffee bar, transform the space from kitchen to café. When she flipped the sign to "Open" at 7 AM sharp, a line had already formed. The morning flew by in a blur of customers and coffee, Zephyr charming regulars with his unexpected humor and easy competence. "Since when do you know how to make a proper cappuccino?" she asked during a brief lull. "Worked at a coffee shop in Portland. Turns out brooding tattoo artists need day jobs when they're starting out." He crafted a perfect rosetta in the foam, sliding it to a waiting customer. "Plus, I remembered how much you loved latte art. Figured I should learn." Her heart squeezed. "You learned latte art for me?" "I learned a lot of things for you. Just took me too long to use them." Before she could respond, the lunch rush hit. They worked in perfect synchronization, years of familiarity trumping time apart. When the last customer left, Clem locked the door and sagged against it. "Tired?" Zephyr pulled her into his arms. "Exhausted. But good exhausted." She traced the new tattoo visible above his collar—a constellation she didn't recognize. "Will you tell me about your new ones? The stories behind them?" "Tonight," he promised. "If you'll have dinner with me. A proper date this time. One where I pick you up and bring flowers and pretend I'm not desperate to get you alone." "Why pretend?" She grinned at his groan. "Fine. Tonight. But I have conditions." "Anything." "You cook. I want to see if you really learned anything in Portland besides coffee art." "Deal. My place or yours?" The question hung heavy with implication. His place meant new territory, no ghosts except what they brought. Hers meant confronting memories in every corner. "Yours," she decided. "Time to make new memories." He kissed her softly, full of promise. "Tonight then. Seven o'clock. Bring an appetite." "For food?" "Definitely not just for food." Chapter Six Clem changed outfits four times before settling on a simple wrap dress—easy to remove, not that she was planning anything. Much. She grabbed a bottle of wine and the lemon tart she'd made that afternoon, then stood outside Zephyr's apartment building, heart hammering. "You can do this," she muttered. "It's just dinner. With your ex. Who you're still in love with. Who delivered a baby with you last week. Totally normal." "Talking to yourself?" Zephyr appeared in the doorway, looking devastatingly handsome in dark jeans and a black henley. "That's new." "Shut up." But she smiled, accepting the hand he offered. "Nice building." "Wait till you see inside." He led her up two flights to a corner unit. "Fair warning—it's nothing like my old place." She stepped inside and gasped. The space was stunning—exposed brick, huge windows overlooking downtown, vintage furniture mixed with modern pieces. But what drew her eye were the walls, covered in his artwork. Paintings, sketches, photographs of his tattoo work creating a gallery that told the story of his lost years. "Zeph, this is incredible." "I had a lot of time to perfect my aesthetic." He took the wine and dessert, setting them on the kitchen counter. "And a lot of feelings to work through. Art helped." She moved along the walls, studying each piece. Dark at first, all stark lines and shadows. Then gradually lighter, color creeping in at the edges. The newest pieces vibrated with life, including one that made her stop breathing. "Is that...?" "You. From memory. Painted about a month before I moved back." He stood behind her, hands in his pockets. "Luna saw it and said I needed to stop being an idiot. That anyone who could paint someone with that much love should probably tell them in person." The painting showed her in the bakery, early morning light streaming through windows, flour in her hair and joy on her face. It was how he saw her—radiant, capable, worth coming home for. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "It's you." He turned her to face him, thumb brushing away the tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "Hungry? I made that pasta you always loved. The one with—" "Lemon and asparagus and too much parmesan." She laughed, watery but genuine. "You remembered." "I remember everything, Clem. Every detail, every moment. They kept me company when you couldn't." Dinner was perfect. Conversation flowed like they'd never been apart, punctuated by lingering looks and "accidental" touches. Zephyr told her about Portland, the artists he'd met, the techniques he'd learned. She shared stories of the bakery's growth, the disasters and triumphs of small business ownership. "Show me," she said as they cleared dishes. "The constellations. You promised stories." He hesitated, then pulled his shirt over his head. She'd seen glimpses during the week, but the full canvas of his skin stole her breath. Stars connected by delicate lines covered his ribs, each constellation precisely rendered. "This one's Andromeda," he said, taking her hand and placing it over his left side. "Got it after six months in Portland. She was chained to a rock as punishment for her mother's vanity, but Perseus saved her." His voice roughened. "I felt chained to my own stupidity, hoping someone would save me from myself." "And this?" She traced the lines across his chest, felt him shiver. "Cassiopeia. The vain queen punished to circle the sky forever." He caught her hand, pressing it flat against his heart. "Reminded me that pride comes before the fall. That I'd rather spin in exile than admit I was wrong." "They're all Greek tragedies." "Not all." He guided her fingers to a constellation over his heart, newer than the others. "This one's Corona Borealis. The crown of the abandoned princess who found love again. Got it the day I decided to come home." "Zeph..." "I was going to wait," he said roughly. "Court you properly. Prove I could be patient, careful. But Clem, having you here, touching me—I'm not that strong." "Good." She pulled him down for a kiss that five years of longing had been building toward. "I don't want careful. I want you." He lifted her onto the counter, stepping between her legs as the kiss deepened. His hands tangled in her hair, and she arched against him, relearning the planes of his body, the new muscles, the unfamiliar ink. "Bedroom," she gasped as he traced hot kisses down her throat. He carried her—actually carried her—down the hall, laying her on his bed with reverence that made her chest tight. The wrap dress disappeared in seconds, leaving her in burgundy lace she'd definitely worn on purpose. "Fuck, Clem." His eyes traveled her body like a physical touch. "You're perfect. How are you more perfect?" "Less talking." She pulled him down, wrapping her legs around his waist. "We have five years to make up for." What followed was desperate and tender by turns. Muscle memory and new discovery. He worshipped every inch of her, relearning what made her gasp, what made her beg. When he finally slid inside her, they both stilled, overwhelmed by the rightness of it. "I love you," he breathed against her lips. "Never stopped. Never could." "I love you too," she managed before coherent thought became impossible. They moved together with practiced ease, bodies remembering their rhythm even as they discovered new harmonies. Five years of absence made every touch electric, every kiss a homecoming. After, they lay tangled together, skin cooling in the night air. Clem traced lazy patterns on his chest, following the constellation lines. "What happens now?" she asked quietly. He tilted her chin up, meeting her eyes. "Now I spend every day proving I'm worth the second chance you gave me. Now we build something new on the foundation of what we had. Now I love you, out loud and in public, without fear or hesitation." "That's a lot of nows." "I've got nothing but time." He kissed her softly. "Stay. Tonight, tomorrow, as long as you'll have me." "Just tonight?" She grinned at his panicked expression. "Kidding. But I have to be at the bakery by five." "I'll drive you. Help with the morning prep. Be your assistant again." "You have your own business to run." "My first appointment's not until noon. Besides," he pulled her closer, "I like watching you work. All confident and commanding. It's incredibly hot." "Everything I do is incredibly hot to you right now." "Not just right now. Always." He proved it by showing her exactly how hot he found her, until they were both breathless and sated again. As sleep finally claimed them, Clem felt something settle in her chest. Not the naive certainty of first love, but something deeper. Something that had been tested by separation and strengthened by forgiveness. They'd found their way back to each other. The rest was just details. Chapter Seven *Six Months Later* "I cannot believe you agreed to this." Zephyr stood in Clem's bedroom doorway, looking deeply skeptical. "A couples tattoo? Us?" "You're literally a tattoo artist." Clem finished French braiding her hair, grinning at his reflection. "This is your bread and butter." "Other couples. Not us. We already did this once, remember?" He gestured to her wrist where the constellation he'd inked a lifetime ago still decorated her skin. "Besides, you hate needles." "I hate medical needles. Art needles wielded by my incredibly talented boyfriend are totally different." She turned, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Plus, it's our six-month anniversary—" "Which is not a thing adults celebrate—" "And I want to mark it. Permanently. Unless..." She pulled back, studying his face. "Are you worried about jinxing us? Because if you're not sure about this, about us—" He silenced her with a kiss. "I'm sure. I wake up every day sure. It's just—last time I tattooed you, I left three months later." "Last time, you were young and scared and hadn't learned to trust us yet." She cupped his face. "This time is different. We're different." "You're right." He rested his forehead against hers. "What did you have in mind?" "Sun and moon. Small, simple. You design them. I want your art on my skin, something only you could create." His eyes darkened. "Where?" "Hip. Right..." She took his hand, guiding it to the spot below her waist. "Here." "That's... that's a sensitive area." "Good thing I trust my artist." Two hours later, Clem lay on the table in Zephyr's private studio, trying to remember to breathe. The initial sketch had been perfect—a delicate sun with rays that looked like brushstrokes, designed to complement the crescent moon that would go on his ribs. "You okay?" He paused, gloved hand gentle on her hip. "We can stop anytime." "I'm good. It's just... intense. Having your hands on me while you're all focused and professional." She caught his smirk. "Don't look so smug." "Can't help it. My girlfriend finds my competence arousing." "Your girlfriend finds everything about you arousing, which is really inconvenient when you're stabbing her repeatedly with needles." He laughed, returning to work. The buzz of the machine filled the comfortable silence, broken only by his occasional murmurs of encouragement and her steadied breathing. "There." He sat back, setting down the machine. "Want to see?" She stood carefully, moving to the full-length mirror. The sun was gorgeous—delicate lines suggesting movement and warmth, perfectly placed to peek above her waistband. "It's beautiful," she breathed. "Now your turn." They switched places, Clem watching as he transferred the moon design to his ribs. Her hands weren't as steady as his, but he talked her through it, patient and encouraging. "You're a natural," he said as she completed a particularly tricky curve. "Sure you don't want to apprentice?" "Pretty sure the health department would frown on me splitting time between needles and pastries." She concentrated on keeping her lines clean. "Almost done." When she finished, they stood side by side in the mirror, admiring their new ink. The designs worked perfectly together—her sun reaching toward his moon, eternal balance in minimalist beauty. "No running this time," she said softly. "Promise?" "No running," he confirmed, pulling her carefully against his side. "Though I might need you to tattoo that on me too, just as a reminder." "I have better uses for your skin." She traced the unmarked territory on his shoulder. "Like this spot. Perfect for a cupcake with attitude." "Absolutely not." "A rolling pin with flames?" "Clem." "Oh! A portrait of Mrs. Henderson." "Now you're just being mean." But he was laughing, spinning her carefully to avoid their fresh tattoos. "I love you, you know that? Even when you're threatening me with pastry-themed ink." "I love you too. Enough to let you permanently mark me. Twice." "The first one was practice," he said, kissing her wrist. "This one's the real deal." Later, as they carefully cleaned and wrapped their new tattoos, Clem caught him staring at her with an odd expression. "What?" "Just thinking. About time and chances and how lucky I am." He pulled her between his legs where he sat on the bathroom counter. "Six months ago, I thought I'd lost you forever. Now you're here, wearing my art, building a life with me. It feels like a dream sometimes." "Want me to pinch you?" "I want you to move in with me." The words hung between them, sudden and significant. Clem's heart stuttered. "Zeph..." "I know it's fast. But we already lost five years, and I don't want to waste any more time pretending I don't want everything with you." He framed her face with his hands. "Move in with me. Wake up with me every morning. Let me drive you to the bakery and complain about the early hour while secretly loving every minute." "You hate mornings." "I hate mornings without you more." His thumbs stroked her cheeks. "Say yes, Clem. Take another chance on us." She thought about the past six months. How they'd rebuilt slowly, carefully, learning to trust again. How he showed up every morning he could, becoming as much a fixture at the bakery as the ovens. How they'd navigated family dinners and town gossip, his mother's initial coldness thawing as she saw how happy they made each other. "Yes," she said, watching joy bloom across his face. "But I'm keeping my good coffee machine. Yours is terrible." "Deal. Anything else?" "I need one room for my craft supplies." "Done." "And we're getting a cat." "... Fine. But I'm naming it." "Absolutely not. You'll name it something ridiculous like Nietzsche or Doom." "Those are excellent cat names." She kissed him, pouring six months of rebuilt trust and five years of stubborn love into the connection. When they pulled apart, both breathing hard, she smiled. "We're really doing this. Again." "We're really doing this forever," he corrected. "No more agains. Just forward." "Just forward," she agreed, and sealed it with another kiss. Epilogue *Two Years Later* "Stop fidgeting," Luna commanded, fixing Zephyr's tie for the third time. "You look like you're going to bolt." "I'm not going to bolt." He ran a hand through his hair, carefully styled for once. "Just... what if she changes her mind?" "Then she'd be at the bakery covered in flour, not in the bridal suite getting ready to marry your disaster self." Luna stepped back, examining her work. "You clean up nice, little brother." "Thanks." He glanced out the window at the assembled guests filling the garden behind Willowbrook Inn. "Is it supposed to feel like this? Like I might die if she doesn't appear soon?" "That's love, idiot. The real kind that survives fuck-ups and separations and delivered-a-baby-on-a-tattoo-shop-floor level chaos." "We're never living that down, are we?" "My son was born on freshly painted concrete while you tried not to faint. That story's getting told at every major event forever." She squeezed his shoulder. "She's coming, Zeph. Breathe." The music started, and his heart stopped. Then the doors opened, and Clementine appeared, radiant in cream lace and autumn flowers, smiling like he was her whole world. He was crying before she reached him. "Hey, sunshine," he whispered as she took his hands. "Hey, storm cloud," she whispered back. "Ready to do this?" "I've been ready for seven years. Just took me a while to get here." Derek, reinstated as best man, clapped his shoulder. Maple, maid of honor, was already crying into her bouquet. The ceremony was perfect—their vows a mixture of promises and inside jokes that had their guests laughing through tears. "I promise to always trust you, even when my demons tell me not to," Zephyr said. "I promise to wake up at ungodly hours to help with the morning rush, to never run when things get hard, and to love you with the kind of faith that moves mountains and brings stubborn men home." "I promise to always fight for us, even when you're being an idiot," Clem replied through tears and laughter. "I promise to keep you fed with pastries and love, to be your sunshine when the storms get too dark, and to choose you every day for the rest of our lives." When they kissed, the crowd erupted. Somewhere in the back, Mrs. Henderson sobbed loudly about young love, while their nephew—now two and walking—escaped his father's arms to run toward them. "Aunt Cwem! Unca Zef!" He attached himself to their legs, and they scooped him up, creating the perfect family portrait that would later hang in both their shops. The reception was a blur of laughter and love. Clem had made their wedding cake—three tiers of lemon and lavender perfection decorated with hand-painted constellations. Zephyr had designed their invitations and programs, each one a small work of art their guests would treasure. "No regrets?" Clem asked as they swayed to their first dance, his arms secure around her. "Only one," he admitted. Her eyes widened. "What?" "That it took me so long to get here. To get us here." "We got here right when we were supposed to," she said firmly. "Any sooner and we might not have been ready. Any later and... well, there is no later. This is it, Zeph. Our forever." "Our forever," he agreed, spinning her as their song swelled. "I love you, Mrs. Blackwood." "I love you too, Mr. Honeycutt." He laughed. "We hyphenated the other way." "I know. But I like keeping you on your toes." As the night wound down, they found themselves on the same bench by the river where they'd found forgiveness two years ago. Still in their wedding clothes, sharing a bottle of champagne, watching stars appear in the darkening sky. "Point out our constellations," Clem requested, nestling against his side. He traced the patterns above them, naming each one, weaving their stories with theirs. When he finished, she was quiet for a long moment. "Penny for your thoughts, wife?" "Just thinking about time. How we lost five years but gained so much more. How the breaking made us stronger when we healed." She tilted her face to his. "How I'd do it all again, even the painful parts, to end up here with you." "Even the years of thinking I betrayed you?" "Even those. Because they taught me I could survive without you, which made choosing to be with you more meaningful." She kissed him softly. "We're not together because we need each other, Zeph. We're together because we choose each other. Every day, every moment, we choose this." "And I'll keep choosing it," he promised. "Keep choosing you. Even when you burn muffins because you're watching me work. Even when you threaten to tattoo vegetables on my body. Even when—" She silenced him with a kiss that promised forever, tasted like champagne and wedding cake, felt like coming home. Above them, the stars wheeled in their eternal dance, and two hearts that had always belonged together finally, truly, found their way home.