Nate wasn't used to company, much less someone as persistent and lively as Lia. But somehow, she'd carved out a place in his life—just as she had in the pumpkin they'd brought back from the patch. The pumpkin now sat proudly on his porch, its face illuminated by a flickering candle at night.
He tried not to think too much about what that meant.
The morning air was crisp, and the faint scent of wood smoke drifted through the small neighborhood. Nate stood in his kitchen, sipping his coffee as sunlight filtered through the curtains. He had planned a quiet day of painting, but that idea was short-lived when a knock sounded at the door.
When he opened it, Lia stood there bundled in an oversized coat, holding a large box. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her smile was as bright as ever.
"Good morning!" she chirped, brushing past him into the house. "I brought you something."
"You always bring something," Nate said dryly, closing the door behind her. "What is it this time? A project? More unsolicited advice?"
"Better," she said, setting the box down on his kitchen table. She opened it with a flourish, revealing an assortment of baking supplies—flour, sugar, butter, and even a rolling pin.
He frowned. "Baking?"
"Yes, baking," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's therapeutic. Plus, I want pie."
"You want pie, so you decided to invade my kitchen?"
"Exactly." She grinned, pulling out an apron and handing it to him.
"I'm not wearing that."
"Suit yourself," she said, tying her own apron around her waist. "But you're still helping. No excuses."
To Nate's surprise, baking with Lia was... chaotic. Flour dusted nearly every surface of his kitchen, and somehow, she managed to spill sugar on the floor twice.
"You're the messiest person I've ever met," he muttered, watching as she attempted to roll out dough with far more enthusiasm than skill.
"Messy, but fun," she quipped, sticking her tongue out at him.
He couldn't argue with that. Despite the mess, there was something oddly satisfying about the process. Lia's laughter filled the room, her joy contagious as they worked together to create something from scratch.
At one point, she caught him smiling—a rare, genuine smile that made her pause.
"See? Told you this was a good idea," she said, nudging him with her elbow.
He shook his head, still smiling. "Don't let it go to your head."
As the pie baked in the oven, the two of them sat at the kitchen table, the warm aroma of cinnamon and apples filling the air. Lia leaned back in her chair, a contented look on her face.
"You know," she said, "this is probably the most domestic thing I've done in years."
Nate raised an eyebrow. "What, no baking in your old life?"
She shook her head. "No time. My job consumed everything. It was all deadlines and pressure, and anything outside of that felt... pointless."
He studied her for a moment. "And now?"
"Now, I'm trying to figure it out," she admitted. "It's weird, though. Starting over feels like learning to breathe again. Sometimes I feel like I'm making progress, and other times..." She trailed off, her smile fading slightly.
"Other times what?" he asked, his voice softer.
"Other times, it feels like I'm stuck. Like I left a part of myself back there, and I don't know how to get it back."
Her words hung in the air, and for once, Nate didn't know what to say. He wasn't good at this—emotions, comforting people. But he understood what she meant, maybe more than she realized.
"You're not stuck," he said finally. "You're just... rebuilding. It takes time."
She looked at him, her eyes searching his. "You sound like you've been there."
He hesitated, the familiar weight of his past creeping in. "Something like that."
Before she could press him further, the oven timer dinged. Lia jumped up, her expression brightening.
"Pie time!" she announced, grabbing an oven mitt and pulling the golden-brown dessert from the oven.
Nate watched her with a mix of amusement and something he couldn't quite name. She had a way of bringing light into the darkest corners, of making the mundane feel significant.
Later, as they sat on the porch eating slices of warm pie, the conversation turned lighter. Lia recounted a series of embarrassing stories from her childhood, her laughter ringing out into the quiet evening.
Nate found himself sharing a story of his own—a rare glimpse into his life before Cedarwood.
"There was this one time," he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia, "my brother and I tried to build a treehouse. We didn't know what we were doing, of course. The whole thing collapsed within an hour."
Lia laughed. "Sounds like a disaster."
"It was," he admitted. "But it was also fun. Probably one of the last good memories I have with him."
She looked at him, her expression softening. "Do you still talk to him?"
"No," Nate said, his tone curt. He didn't elaborate, and Lia didn't push.
Instead, she reached over and lightly touched his arm. "Thanks for sharing that," she said simply.
He nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
As the evening wore on, the temperature dropped, and Lia finally stood to leave.
"This was fun," she said, smiling at him. "You're not as terrible of a baker as I thought you'd be."
"Thanks, I guess," he replied, his lips twitching into a faint smirk.
She started down the porch steps, then paused and turned back to him. "Hey, Nate?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad we're friends," she said, her voice warm.
The word friends echoed in his mind as he watched her walk away. It wasn't something he'd thought about, but as he stood there in the cool night air, he realized that was exactly what they'd become.
And for the first time in years, he didn't mind the idea.