You, of course.

She paused at the gate of her beloved coffee shop, letting the moment linger. The thick overgrowth of wild vines and flowers that clung lovingly to the rustic walls welcomed her like an old friend. With her suitcase still trailing behind her, she tilted her face to the sky and closed her eyes, basking in the golden warmth of sunlight filtering down through the trees. Three days passed in a blur of sweeping, scrubbing, organizing, and now—finally—she stood behind the counter again, flipping the sign to "OPEN." A wave of warmth surged in her chest as the villagers—her villagers—filed in with cheerful greetings and eyes glimmering with affection. Their chatter filled the air like birdsong, a soothing chaos she had dearly missed.

While balancing trays of drinks and exchanging heartfelt pleasantries, she arrived at the corner table where the town's iconic trio of silver-haired ladies always sat, sipping and judging in equal measure.

"We thought you were gone for good, dear. We're down to a bare few young ones around here!" one of them huffed with theatrical dismay, her voice rising like the wind before a storm.

With a knowing smile, she leaned in and gently poured more coffee into the woman's porcelain cup.

"By the way," the lady whispered, eyes twinkling with mischief, "have you heard about that little tart who used to stir up this town like a spoon in hot soup?"

The gossip was stirring, as inevitable as morning fog, but Twyla didn't linger. She knew what was coming.

Andrea's name had resurfaced in scandal. A damning photo had emerged just days ago—her lips locked with a stranger's—and the internet had devoured it whole. In a shocking twist, her engagement to Calian was announced the very next day, along with a statement claiming the photo was old and irrelevant. Their agency quickly swept it under the rug, threatening lawsuits against anyone who dared breathe the word "infidelity." Suddenly, Andrea and Calian were everywhere—every feed, every channel—at the center of a media whirlwind.

That evening, after an emotionally full and physically draining day of reuniting with her community, Twyla finally collapsed into her favorite chair. She cradled a steaming mug of corn tea, its earthy aroma wrapping around her like a woolen shawl. Outside, the night unfolded gently, filled with the delicate symphony of insects and the occasional hoot of an owl. She rested her chin on her hands, eyes shut, exhaling peace.

When she opened them, she nearly dropped her cup.

He was there.

Calian stood beneath the flickering street lamp across the lane, the soft glow outlining his figure like a ghost out of a dream. Her body moved before her mind caught up—rising abruptly, closing the shutters in a panic—but he had already crossed the street, his steps swift.

The bell above the café door jingled.

No words. No preamble. Just eyes meeting eyes—and then lips meeting lips.

They collided with an urgency that made the world fall away. Each step in sync, they moved together until her back found the counter, his kiss pouring over her like a dam breaking, raw and desperate.

Her waterfall of a man—gentle, soothing—was now a rapid, wild with longing.

"I've missed you," he whispered, his breath warm on her skin, sending a blush cascading down her cheeks.

"Me too," she replied, her voice catching like wind in reeds.

He stepped back reluctantly, threading their fingers together.

"The engagement..." he began, then sighed. "It's not real. It's just to keep Andrea's image from crumbling completely."

Twyla's heart clenched. "Is this part of the deal with Carter?"

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Silence settled between them like dust—soft, telling, inescapable.

She took a deep breath, grounding herself in the reality that Calian, at least, was honest. He never lied to the ones he loved. Maybe that was his greatest strength—or his cruelest weakness.

Just a week ago, after Carter's attempted assault, Calian had marched into his agency and threatened to walk away. In response, Carter was forced to sign a binding agreement: stay away from Twyla or pay a price so steep it would cripple his career. Carter reluctantly agreed, even attempted an apology, but Calian had blocked every path to her.

But the agency—greedy to its core—saw a chance to spin scandal into sympathy. They made a deal with Calian to keep dating Andrea, whose popularity had skyrocketed again. He agreed—not for them, but for her. To protect Twyla from lawsuits, from fans, from the media beast.

And he suffered for it.

"Good people just can't catch a break, can they?" he murmured, a shadow darkening his expression.

She slipped into his arms, resting her cheek against his chest. "Don't dwell too much. I'm here, always."

Moved by pity and fierce love, she made a quiet vow to be stronger. Supportive. Even when the drama based on Calian and Andrea's supposed love story began filming in her very hometown. When the production crew asked if her café could be featured in several scenes, she hesitated—then agreed. If it meant seeing him more often, enduring Andrea was worth it.

His new leading lady, Eliza, was refreshingly kind. Sweet, even. Twyla found herself surprisingly comfortable with her, and one afternoon, the crew invited Twyla to appear in the show. A whirlwind of makeup artists and costume racks followed.

"I'm just a humble café owner!" she protested as they fitted her into an elegant dress.

"You are a mysterious, enchanting café owner tucked away in this sleepy countryside," the makeup artist said with a wink. "Our director is going for magic."

"This is ridiculous!"

"No complaining! I didn't just make you stunning for you to hide in the shadows. You're a goddess, darling!"

Blushing furiously, she stepped outside—and all eyes turned. Calian's gaze found her first, his smile slow and proud, like dawn breaking over the mountains. To throw off the rising tension, she struck a series of absurd poses as if modeling on a catwalk. The crew burst into laughter. Calian bit his lip to stifle a laugh of his own.

Later, Eliza snapped photos of her behind the scenes and sent them to Calian.

That night, by the riverbank, she caught him scrolling through them with a dopey grin.

"What the heck! Delete those now!" she cried, lunging for his phone.

"Nope," he said smugly, holding it out of reach.

"Then send me one of yours!"

"But you've got a shrine of me under your bed."

"Excuse me?!"

"I saw your stash—DVDs, old magazines. My phone fell under the bed one night. I didn't mean to snoop."

Her face went crimson. She had hidden them long ago and forgotten. He grinned.

"If I poke your cheek right now, will it explode?"

"Grrrr!"

She launched a tickle attack, giggling as he squirmed. The memory of the first time she found out he was ticklish flashed in her mind. They had just woken up together one morning—another intimate memory she quickly pushed aside.

They stilled. He kissed her cheek, then her nose, then her chin. She tilted her face up, heart thudding.

"Calian... the happiness I feel with you—it scares me sometimes. Is that normal?"

He wrapped his arms tighter around her. "Would you think me weak if I said I feel the same?"

"Tell me your fear, and I'll tell you mine."

He hesitated. "I'm afraid... that one day, you'll change your mind."

She stepped back, searching his face.

"It weirdly comforts me to know you're afraid too. But when that fear comes, just hold me like this."

He buried his face in her hair.

"It's almost stupid, isn't it?" he murmured. "How love makes cowards of us both."

"Then maybe we should love less?" she teased.

"Not a chance."

But peace was fleeting. The shoot was halfway through, and the next leg would take him back to the city. Just when they thought the ache of parting couldn't get worse—it did.

Andrea arrived on set with boxes of treats and a bouquet of smiles. Without hesitation, she kissed Calian's cheek and looped her arm around his like ivy reclaiming a tree. Twyla had just arrived with drinks when she saw it. She bit her tongue so hard it bled patience. She reminded herself: he's doing this for me.

But with every lingering touch, every staged smile, something inside her began to splinter. Her tears came uninvited.

That night, they sat in silence on her sofa, a movie flickering unnoticed.

"I want to fight," she said evenly.

He nodded, ready.

"Why'd you let her touch you like that? Enjoy it?" Her voice trembled with mock anger.

"I'm sorry."

"She kissed your cheek! She practically wrapped herself around you! What now, want her back?"

He remained quiet.

"Words are useless," she muttered. "No phrase is strong enough to hold my fury!"

Then, "Let's break up."

His head snapped up, eyes wild. "Do you really mean that?"

"I mean—I..."

She froze. Why couldn't she say that she didn't mean it? Did part of her mean it? She asked herself. 

"Twyla!"

She did not respond. He hurriedly took out his phone from his pocket. He began calling someone, and someone answered. "I can't do this. Prepare a press conf—"

She slapped the phone from his hand.

"Can't I have a second to think?!"

"If you need to think, it means you're seriously considering it."

"Yes, I considered it! And it was awful. It hurt. I don't want to feel that. I told you—hold me when I'm scared!"

The tears burst free.

He pulled her close, kissing the crown of her head. "I'm sorry."

"I told you I'd be understanding. I failed on day one."

"If you're pathetic, then I'm a colossal jerk."

"Don't call yourself that. I swore I'd never love a jerk again."

"Then don't call yourself pathetic."

She sighed into his chest.

"Are you sure I'm not?"

"I'd never ask a pathetic woman to marry me."

Her head jerked up.

"What?!"

But he crushed her back into his arms.

"Let's get married."

"Stop joking!"

"You said to hold you when you're scared. That means I don't let go."

"Ugh, just—"

She wriggled but gave up.

Silence.

She attacked with tickles again, and he fell onto the sofa laughing.

Afterward, she rested on him as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Such a gorgeous lady," he said with wonder. "I wonder who she belongs to."

She smiled, heart full. "You, of course."