The Sweetest Thing Called Love

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For a while, everything was golden.

The article had cemented Ava and Sweet Delights as local treasures. Customers continued to flood in, often waiting in lines that stretched down the block. Regulars brought flowers. A woman in her seventies even baked Ava a lemon cake to "return the joy." Ethan came by every morning before work, just to steal a pastry—and sometimes a kiss—before vanishing behind his laptop at his favorite café down the street.

It was happiness of a quiet sort, one Ava had never known. Not the kind that screamed or demanded the world's attention, but the kind that settled deep into her bones. The kind that whispered, This is where you're meant to be.

And still, she couldn't ignore the little things that started to go wrong.

First came the broken mixer—old, finicky, and impossible to replace on short notice. Then her assistant, Mel, called in sick for three days straight with a fever. A small catering event for a birthday party got double-booked, and Ava had to personally deliver the second order halfway across the city, only to arrive late and be greeted by a fuming client.

She shook it off at first. Small things. Manageable.

But when her bank called about a discrepancy in one of her business accounts—a billing error that traced back to a recent supplier switch—something inside Ava clenched.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept more than five hours. Couldn't remember the last day that didn't involve juggling orders, phone calls, interviews, or unexpected glitches.

She missed the days when she just baked.

The fame, the growing demand, the eyes watching her—it was thrilling at first. But now it pressed on her shoulders like an invisible weight.

And Ethan? He'd been nothing but kind, but even he was changing. The success of his latest column, which featured more of their "sweet love story" than she'd expected, had caught the attention of a publishing house in New York.

They wanted to meet with him.

"It's just a conversation," Ethan told her one night over takeout, as they sat on the bakery's kitchen floor after closing. "Nothing's decided. But they're interested in a collection. Maybe even a travel-food memoir. It would mean a lot of work… maybe some travel. But nothing that can't wait."

Ava nodded slowly, setting her container of lo mein aside. "You should go. Talk to them."

"You think?"

"Yes," she said, forcing a smile. "This is everything you've worked for."

But she didn't tell him about the missed payment on the new oven. Or the customer who left a scathing review online, accusing her of being "too big for her apron." Or the dread that crept into her chest every time she turned the bakery's key in the morning, wondering what might break next.

Instead, she curled into Ethan's shoulder, let him hold her, and stayed quiet.

A week later, Ethan left for New York.

It was only four days.

But the silence in his absence filled the bakery like rising steam.

Ava buried herself in her work, running on caffeine and adrenaline. She answered emails late into the night, replied to reviews herself, rearranged the display case three times one morning because something just felt off. When Mel returned, she was met with an Ava who smiled too tightly and spoke too quickly.

On the second day of Ethan's trip, Celeste came back.

Ava was dusting powdered sugar over a tray of eclairs when the editor walked in, dressed in sharp gray and wearing a barely-there smirk.

"I see business is still booming," Celeste said, her eyes scanning the shop.

Ava didn't look up. "What do you want?"

"To be clear," Celeste said, her voice like polished glass, "I have no personal stake in this. But Ethan is on the verge of something big. National big. Maybe more."

"I know."

"He mentioned you've been overwhelmed."

Ava's hand froze over the tray. "He said that?"

Celeste nodded. "He's worried about you. But he's also wondering if being with you might hold him back."

Ava's breath caught.

"That's not a threat," Celeste added. "It's just reality. This bakery is beautiful. But it's a rooted kind of life. Ethan… isn't."

Ava set down the sugar sifter slowly. "Are you trying to break us up?"

Celeste raised a perfectly groomed brow. "I'm trying to make sure neither of you get hurt. Ethan thrives in movement. In possibility. And you're… already exhausted."

She turned without another word and left.

Ava stared at the tray in front of her, the powdered sugar catching in the sunlight like frost.

The words sank in deeper than she wanted to admit.

When Ethan returned, he was glowing—excited, energized. The publisher wanted a full manuscript. A six-month timeline. And a few months of travel to various cities for inspiration.

Ava listened, nodding, smiling, encouraging.

But something in her was already bracing for goodbye.

That night, as they sat on her balcony, the city glowing below them, she finally spoke.

"Would you be happy here, Ethan?" she asked quietly. "If none of this happened? If the book didn't go anywhere, if you were just... here?"

He turned to her, caught off guard by the question. "I am happy here."

"That's not what I asked."

Ethan was silent for a long time. Then: "I don't know."

It wasn't cruel. It wasn't careless. It was just honest.

Ava nodded. She'd always valued honesty.

But the crack had formed.

And even though he held her tightly that night, as if trying to fuse the pieces back together, Ava knew—

Some fractures couldn't be iced over with sugar.

They had to be faced. Eventually.

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