It’s All Baked Inn - 4. Gather the Ingredients

It was hard to pretend that Prunella Hollow didn’t want someone to sit beside at lunch. But the spot beside her remained empty. And not because she didn’t try to fill it.

She did.

Every day, she performed small, polite offerings the way Chase said you were supposed to: she quietly shared extra glitter pens, complimented weather-appropriate clothing, and once traded her fruit snacks for someone else’s dirt and worms pudding cup because she’d been genuinely curious.

…She was disappointed to discover it contained neither dirt, nor worms.

Still, most of the other kids looked at her funny when she talked too much. Or when she brought up safe water sources during math, as if ‘don’t drink creek water unless it’s boiled’ was somehow not relevant to other basics like counting to twenty.

“She's weird,” a girl whispered once at lunch, loud enough to be heard and soft enough to act like it hadn’t happened.

Prunella pretended she didn’t hear.

But she did.

Chase always told her that some people were mean to things they didn’t understand. That the things other kids called ‘weird’ were usually the things that made you special. Unique. Important.

And if everyone was the same, life would be boring.

That was also how he justified dancing in the middle of the post office one time.

Prunella had pretended she didn’t know him — but she’d watched anyway. Just in case he needed backup.

Though, even if she understood Chase’s advice, it didn’t make the lonely feeling go away. It didn’t make the whispering stop. It didn’t make the groups at recess suddenly open up like doors.

And Prunella wanted someone to talk to.

So she decided she would find a friend.

That Monday, during free time, she wandered to the classroom’s reading zone like it was a secret mission area. The fluorescent lights were too bright and made everything look slightly sickly, rain tapped softly against the windows, and most of the other kids had collected in loud clusters — near the computers, the board games, the craft table where someone was still trying to peel glue off their fingers.

Mrs. Eddie, their teacher, was cleaning up from morning crafts. The air smelled like whiteboard cleaner and damp construction paper.

Prunella liked the reading corner because it was quieter.

And because the rug had a map pattern with tiny roads and train tracks that made her feel like she was sitting inside a plan.

In the far corner, away from everyone else, she spotted the boy she’d been watching for a week.

Robin.

He was the quiet boy she’d noticed before — at lunch, at pickup, always a little off to the side like he was waiting for the world to remember him.

He was sitting cross-legged with a book almost as big as his head, turning pages very carefully, like they were made of butterfly wings. He didn’t look up at the noise. He didn’t look up when someone ran past him. He didn’t even look up when Prunella approached.

He just tucked a hand under his chin and kept reading.

Prunella sat down beside him without asking. Sitting next to someone was a normal friend activity, so she started there.

“My brother says no one should be alone all the time,” she announced matter-of-factly.

Robin blinked at her, wide doe-eyes half-hidden under his bangs. He didn’t scoot away. That felt like a good sign. His fingers picked at the carpet — soft and plush, printed with a tiny blue river.

Prunella leaned closer, peering at the page.

“Also,” she added, tapping the illustration with careful precision, “that’s a Hercules beetle. They’re really strong.”

Robin stared at the beetle. Then at her. His mouth opened, closed, then he tried again in a small voice.

“Do… you like bugs, too?”

“I like everything,” Prunella said proudly, because it was true. “Bugs are cool. Especially bugs that pretend to be other bugs. That’s called mimicry.” She thought for a second, because important facts should be balanced with important opinions. “But cats and unicorns are extra cool.”

Robin’s mouth twitched like it was trying to decide whether it was allowed to smile.

“I have a book about birds at home,” he whispered. “And one about frogs.”

Prunella tapped her chin, because frogs were serious business.

“Blue poison dart frogs are my favorite,” she said. “Their poison was used a long time ago to cover the tips of arrows. For hunting.”

Robin went quiet for a second.

Then — very carefully, like he was sharing something valuable — he slid the book closer so she could see better.

Prunella leaned in.

And that was enough.

They didn’t have to talk the whole time after that. They didn’t have to promise anything. Robin didn’t run away, and Prunella didn’t feel like she had to be smaller.

For the rest of free time, they sat side by side on the map rug and looked at bugs that could lift forty times their weight.

Prunella decided that counted as friendship.

That afternoon, she ran to the exit gate like her sneakers had rockets, backpack bouncing hard against her shoulders. The rain had stopped but everything smelled wet — concrete and leaves and pencil shavings from the hallway.

Chase was there, waiting like always, looking tired in that way he tried to hide. He smiled anyway when he saw her, because he always did.

He bent to grab her backpack strap gently before it could slide off her shoulder. “Did something cool happ—”

“Guess what!” Prunella shouted, holding up a triumphant fist. “I made a friend.”

Chase blinked, like the sentence had to travel a longer distance to reach him. “You… did?”

“Yes,” she said, very patient with him. “His name is Robin and he says I’m smart and he likes frogs and survival gear and I got him to promise he’d watch Lady Lovalorn.”

Chase’s eyebrows lifted. His whole face changed — surprise first, then something soft and bright that made Prunella’s chest feel warm, too.

“…You did,” he repeated, but this time it sounded like he believed her.

Prunella jumped over a crack in the sidewalk. “That’s what I said,” she huffed. “Are you listening?”

Chase laughed — quiet, exhausted, happy — and reached for her hand as they got to the curb. “I’m proud of you, kid.” His grin widened into full Chase-mode. “I’ll have to meet this amazing Robin dude. Do I summon him and his dad with the bat signal?”

Prunella didn’t laugh. She just sighed like she was the very tired adult in the family.

“Do I have to hold your hand?” she asked.

“Yep.” Chase squeezed her fingers gently. His smile changed a little, turning soft in the strange way it sometimes did when he looked at her too long. “Crossing-the-street rules. You gotta hold my hand until you’re as big as me.”

Prunella looked him up and down, measuring. “So next week?” she asked, tilting her head.

Chase squinted at her. “Keep it up and I’m not making apple pie tonight anymore.”

Prunella could tell he only half-meant it because his eyes were smiling even when he tried to look stern.

She sighed again — dramatic, long-suffering — and tugged the strap of her backpack tighter, the one with her explorer patch barely hanging on by a thread. Then, she glanced down at it with satisfaction.

It looked like a badge she’d earned.

And in a way, it was.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

“Look at you, earning your keep,” Violet teased, trying not to look as impressed as she was by the tray of brownies Chase held out in offering.

They were a little uneven at the edges in the way homemade things tended to be. He’d set them out on the plain metal platter Violet had pressed into his hands that morning with a casual, “Make something bakery-adjacent for the meeting. It makes people feel cared for.”

Chase rolled his eyes. “I live to serve, boss lady,” he joked.

Then he glanced past her at the employee lounge as staff filtered in for this month’s mandatory team meeting, which Violet had warned would start at four-thirty sharp — give or take a few minutes depending on vibes. He had shown up ten minutes early anyway, because being ‘the new guy’ meant you either arrived early or you arrived as a cautionary tale people referenced later in break rooms.

The lounge had clearly once been some kind of banquet overflow space. The carpet still held the ghost of an old floral pattern beneath years of traffic, and the overhead lights buzzed with determined mediocrity. A portable projector sat on a rolling cart at the front of the room, aimed crookedly at a pull-down screen. Folding chairs had been arranged in neat rows like a school assembly, and a whiteboard beside the screen already had ‘OPENING WEEK NOTES’ scrawled across the top in Violet’s sharp, elegant handwriting.

A side table held refreshments in the loosest possible sense of the word: store-brand granola bars, a pre-packed fruit and cheese platter, a stack of paper cups, and… another tray of brownies.

Chase noticed those immediately and raised an eyebrow.

They sat in perfect little squares in perfect little rows on a white cardboard catering tray, with a neat little tent card perched beside it:

‘With appreciation to the Keyhouse team on a strong opening — The Ashton Family’

Violet followed his line of sight, then sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t know there would be brownies, or I would’ve told you.” She offered a brief, apologetic smile.

Chase’s own grin wobbled.

He set his tray down beside the other one and immediately regretted the side-by-side comparison. His looked warm and sincere. The Ashtons’ looked like they had a publicist.

“I feel like mine just got into a knife fight with the upper crust. And I don’t mean that loaf of bread next to the cheese.” He squinted at it. “Though it is giving me funny looks.”

Violet glanced at the paired trays, then huffed a quiet laugh through her nose. “Please try not to go all Hatfields and McCoys over baked goods. You’ll survive.”

“Will I?”

“No,” she said. “But the brownies will. They’ll all get eaten one way or another.”

Then she brushed past him toward the front of the room, tablet in hand, leaving Chase to suffer alone.

He took in the room. It was already fuller than he’d expected. Front desk staff clustered toward the left side, restaurant servers and hosts claimed a block toward the back, and a couple of maintenance guys in branded polos stood near the snack table talking quietly. Housekeeping had gathered in twos and threes, and Mrs. G had somehow already made herself a visual focal point from the middle row despite not technically doing anything except existing in a dramatic scarf and speaking with her hands.

His gaze bounced from face to face, looking for Silvie.

Then he spotted her.

She was seated near the middle, posture neat, hair tucked behind her ears, one leg crossed over the other. Calm as ever. Next to her—

Chase stopped.

Buddy sat at the aisle seat.

Of course he did.

Black button-down. Dark slacks. Clipboard resting flat against one knee. He looked like he belonged less in an employee lounge and more in a courtroom where he was about to sentence everyone for poor break compliance.

And because the universe liked to keep Chase humble, the only empty chair left in that row — the only empty chair in the whole middle section — was the seat directly beside him.

Chase actually glanced behind him to make sure he wasn’t missing another option.

Nope.

Just him, the door, the brownie table, and his fate.

Silvie looked up, noticed him hovering, smiled gently, and lifted her brows as if to say, ‘well?’

Chase mouthed, “Absolutely not.”

Her expression remained serenely unhelpful.

Then Buddy looked up too.

Not casually. Not after a sweep of the room.

Immediately.

His eyes found Chase at once. The look lasted barely a heartbeat before Buddy’s attention returned to the clipboard in his lap.

Which somehow made it worse.

Chase had the ridiculous, prickling sensation of having been clocked. Judged and catalogued in less than three seconds.

Silvie tipped her head toward the empty chair.

Chase sighed, adjusted his nametag that didn’t need adjusting, and made his way toward her. And by the time he reached the seat, Buddy had angled his clipboard the tiniest fraction inward to make room.

Not much.

Just enough.

Chase hated that he noticed.

He dropped into the chair and immediately became too aware of everything: the dry scratch of the fabric seat, the faint clean scent of Buddy’s cologne, the immaculate line of his sleeve, the fact that Buddy’s shoulder was warm and very much attached to a person who made Chase feel like a clerical mistake.

Silvie leaned in from Chase’s other side. “You look quite distressed,” she murmured.

“Me? No, I totally love corporate presentations that could’ve been an email,” Chase whispered back. “Gives me a chance to catch up on my beauty sleep.”

Silvie held a hand to her mouth, gasping in faux concern. “Violet and the leads worked hard on this.”

“I know, I know,” he conceded. “I’m sure it’ll be the bestest presentation about booking numbers and stuff ever.”

“Behave, Chase,” she warned, grinning.

“That feels targeted.”

“It is.”

He slumped down slightly in his chair. “Cool. Love that for me.”

Buddy, without looking at him, murmured, “Try not to fidget yourself into a small fire. The meeting hasn’t even started.”

Chase turned his head. “Wow. Is that you being rude… or concerned?” he asked innocently.

“Multitasking.” He tapped the back of his pen lightly against Chase’s bouncing knee.

The contact lasted barely a second. Buddy withdrew first, attention snapping toward the front with suspicious speed.

That caught Chase off guard hard enough that no answer came.

Silvie looked very deliberately at the front of the room.

People continued filtering in, and the room filled with the soft scrape of chair legs and low conversation. Mrs. G waved at Chase from two rows up as if he were her son leaving for war instead of a bakery employee at a staff meeting. Chase gave a small wave back.

Buddy watched Chase’s hand move through the air, then hummed. “You wave as if you were royalty.”

“Thanks. I practice for my adoring fans,” Chase answered quickly, grin turning smug. Then his voice dipped into teasing territory, aiming to get under Buddy’s skin. Just a little. “Y’know, for someone so grumpy, you say the sweetest things.”

“I don’t,” Buddy replied, still maddeningly calm. Then, after the smallest pause, “You simply hear them that way.”

Chase stared.

Buddy’s mouth curved — barely there, gone so fast Chase almost doubted it.

Oh.

So that was on purpose.

Chase opened his mouth, fully intending to say something smart back.

Then, because the universe was clearly still having fun, he looked toward the back of the room and found Simon.

Buddy’s gaze followed Chase’s toward the back of the room. His expression did not change, but his pen went still against the clipboard.

Simon sat with the restaurant crew, long legs stretched out a little too comfortably for a folding chair, sleeves rolled up, looking as if he’d been personally designed to make the concept of staff meetings seem flirtatious. His gaze caught on Chase almost at once.

His face lit.

Not subtly.

Then he lifted two fingers in a lazy little salute.

…And winked.

Chase felt his face go warm so fast it should have set off the fire alarm. He ducked his head and pretended to be fascinated by the projector cart.

Silvie elbowed him lightly. “Control your face, Chase.”

“This is my controlled face,” Chase whispered, scandalized.

“It’s still very revealing.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m helpful.” Her gaze flicked toward Simon, then back to Chase. “Though I suppose he is your type.”

Chase’s head snapped toward her. “My type is fictional men. Key word is fic-tion-al. Definition: check the interwebs.”

“Mm,” Silvie hummed. “I believe you described boy bands, mysterious bad boys, and ‘hot’ movie monsters who have a ‘dangerous vibe.’”

Chase opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, “I deny these allegations. If you’ve heard me say them, no you haven’t — and I’m not crazy, you are.”

Silvie smiled serenely. “He has the look.”

Chase’s ears warmed. “Okay, first of all, Simon does not look dangerous.”

“No?”

Chase glanced toward the back again. Simon was leaning lazily in his chair, sleeves rolled, looking annoyingly comfortable under fluorescent lighting.

“…Maybe, like, fake-dangerous.”

Beside him, Buddy’s pen stopped.

Silvie’s brows rose. “That’s what you like?”

“A hundred-percent yes,” Chase whispered. Then he continued, oblivious. “Guys who look like they could ruin your life but probably hug kittens on the weekend.”

Silvie’s eyes slid, very briefly, toward Buddy.

He continued staring at the front of the room.

Perfectly still.

Then he murmured, “Your standards are fascinatingly questionable.”

Chase whipped toward him. “Were you listening?”

Buddy finally looked over, one brow arching. “You were whispering approximately six inches from my ear.”

Silvie pressed her lips together.

Chase’s face flamed. “Forget everything you heard.”

“I doubt I will.” Then he added mildly, “You can much less control your volume, let alone your face. And your controlled face looks alarmingly similar to your smitten one.”

Chase blanched. “Excuse you?”

Buddy raised a brow, eyes cool and unreadable. He leaned back a fraction in his chair, one ankle settling over the opposite knee with irritating ease.

“I’m simply impressed by how much emotional information you manage to project with no assistance,” he murmured.

Silvie looked from Chase to Buddy.

Then down at Buddy’s newly casual posture.

Her mouth twitched.

Chase blinked. “You’re unbelievable, dude.”

“I am not a television,” Buddy huffed, turning back to the front, “so I should hope not to broadcast my every thought. Unlike some people.”

At the front of the room, Violet stepped into place beside the projector cart, blazer immaculate as ever, tablet in hand. She tapped the side of the projector once, then twice, until the screen blinked alive and filled with the Keysbridge Inn by Ashton logo.

“Alright,” she said, not loudly, but in the exact tone that made people listen. “Thank you for coming. I know you’re tired. I know your feet hurt. I know half of you have started dreaming in reservation codes, and the other half are hearing timers in your sleep.”

A wave of tired laughter rolled through the room.

Even Chase relaxed a little.

Violet had that effect. She made competence feel less like judgment and more like structure. Like if things were chaotic, it didn’t mean you were chaos.

“This is a quick operations sync,” she continued. “We’re a few weeks into opening, and overall — we’re doing well.” She let that land. “Guest feedback is strong. Our soft-opening issues were… educational. Often loudly so. But we’re here, we’re open, and we’re functioning.”

She clicked to the next slide.

It showcased several wins from Opening Week, including ‘Bakery Satisfaction.’

Mrs. G clapped once, delighted.

Violet smiled despite herself. “Thank you, Agatha.”

Another click.

A collective sigh rose from the room as the slide reflected ‘GROWTH AREAS’ in bold lettering, naming communication, break tracking, and a few extra items to improve on — just for fun.

Chase found a pen beneath the chair in front of him and quietly rescued it. On the back of one of his folded prep notes, beneath several entirely legitimate meeting notes, he started a tiny grid.

Then titled it ‘Buzzword Bingo.’

Silvie looked down, saw him writing ‘pivot’ and ‘optimize’ in suspiciously neat handwriting, and closed her eyes briefly. “Chase. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Yes it is,” Chase whispered. “I’m, like, building morale. With notes.”

Buddy’s gaze slid sideways to the paper. “You forgot ‘circle back.’ Amateur hour.”

Chase blinked at him. “You’re joining in?” His mouth curved. “Wow. Didn’t take you for one to play games during business.”

“I’m not joining. I’m correcting,” Buddy murmured. “There is a difference.”

Chase added ‘circle back’ immediately.

Up front, Violet lifted a hand. “Before anyone panics, this is normal. New properties have growing pains. The point is not blame. The point is tightening the screws before the holiday push, winter bookings, and the spring wedding season, which — unfortunately for all of us — is already looming.”

Chase silently circled optimize after she said 'tightening the screws,' because it was close enough.

Violet clicked again.

“This is also a good moment to say thank you. Ashton leadership asked me to pass along their appreciation to the team for all the work you’ve put into opening Keyhouse.”

The slide shifted to a polished little branded message — with a photo of an older couple smiling in expensive, respectable clothing beneath the Ashton corporate logo.

‘To the Keysbridge by Ashton team: thank you for your hard work, professionalism, and commitment during opening. We’re proud of what you’re building in Keysbridge. — The Ashtons’

The room responded the way rooms did to polished executive gratitude: politely, a little awkwardly, with a few appreciative hums.

Beside Chase, Buddy went very still.

Not dramatic. Not enough for anyone not already looking at him to notice. But Chase was right there, close enough to feel the shift more than see it — the way his spine locked another fraction straighter, the way his jaw set like he’d bitten down on something hard and tasteless.

Chase leaned over. “Is it just me,” he whispered, “or do they look like a stock photo for aliens pretending to be human?”

Buddy’s mouth twitched — ever so slightly. Some of the tension left his jaw before he caught it. “Shush.”

“That’s what they say before the probing.”

Buddy closed his eyes.

Violet, if she noticed, didn’t let it show.

“And,” she added, with the practiced ease of someone steering past strange emotional icebergs, “yes, those brownies are from them. The other tray is from Chase, so please direct all quality-control questions to bakery.”

A few heads turned. Mrs. G waved at Chase proudly like he had just won a state fair ribbon.

Chase gave the room a tiny, doomed thumbs-up.

From beside him, Buddy muttered under his breath, “Take comfort. Yours at least look edible.”

Chase turned, scandalized. “I make epic brownies. Rude.”

Buddy kept his eyes on the screen. “And yet reassuring. You’re welcome.”

Violet moved on with merciful speed. “Which brings me to our next part of the agenda,” she announced, gesturing toward Buddy.

The room shifted when he stood.

Chase felt it physically — that tiny, automatic straighten in his own spine, that strange instinctive don’t be caught doing anything wrong that seemed to switch on every time Buddy entered a space with purpose.

Buddy moved to the front with the same controlled precision he brought to everything else. Clipboard tucked under one arm. Expression unreadable. Dark and sharp and steady under pressure.

He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves as he approached the podium.

Violet’s gaze dropped briefly to the movement.

Then lifted to his face.

Buddy ignored her, then turned to face the room.

Chase hated, actively hated, how right Buddy looked standing there.

Not softer. Not kinder.

Just certain. Like command fit him even when comfort didn’t.

“I trust you’ve had a good afternoon,” Buddy began. His voice was even, cool, and so crisp it sounded ironed. “This will be brief. I value your time. I assume you do as well.”

A few people nodded automatically.

We’re all scared of you, that’s why, Chase thought.

Beside him, Silvie glanced sideways like she’d somehow heard it anyway.

Buddy’s gaze swept the room with that unnerving steadiness of his.

It caught on Chase.

Chase stared back.

Something flickered behind Buddy’s eyes before professionalism smothered it.

“Front-of-house operations are stabilizing,” Buddy continued. “However, we are still seeing inconsistencies in communication between departments. Most of our avoidable problems are not caused by a lack of effort. They are caused by information arriving late, incompletely, or not at all.”

He tapped his pen once against the clipboard. A tiny sound, but somehow it carried.

“This includes room readiness reporting, event schedule changes, inventory updates, and guest preference handoffs. If someone verbally tells you something important and you do not log it, then for operational purposes, it did not happen.”

Chase slowly circled ‘streamline’ even though Buddy had not technically said streamline. He had, however, spiritually said streamline.

One of the housekeepers raised a hand. “What if the system glitches? It was down yesterday.”

“Then you document it on paper and upload it when it returns,” Buddy answered without blinking. “The issue is not the system. The issue is inconsistency.”

Chase’s mouth twitched.

‘The issue is always people,’ Buddy’s whole aura said.

But then Buddy’s eyes dipped, like even he knew the answer had come out sharper than necessary.

Violet stepped in smoothly. “What he means is: documentation protects everyone. If something goes wrong, we need the correct trail so the wrong person isn’t carrying the blame.”

Buddy’s jaw tightened.

Not enough for most people to catch it.

Enough for Chase to notice.

Buddy moved on. “Break compliance,” he enunciated.

A groan ran through the room.

He did not react. “Ten-minute breaks are ten minutes. Thirty-minute lunches are thirty minutes. Keep track of your time. And I don’t say that because I enjoy policing adults,” he added, voice going dry enough to crack, “but because labor compliance is not optional.”

Chase quietly boxed in ‘bandwidth’ even though nobody had said it yet. Manifesting, he decided, was a legitimate bingo strategy.

Silvie looked at his paper and whispered, “You are going to get in trouble, Chase.”

“Nuh uh.” Chase lowered his voice to almost nothing. “This helps me be all laser-focused and stuff. Totes a viable note strategy.”

Then he faced forward again before Violet could catch him.

Buddy’s gaze swept the room again. Then, without warning, it landed on Chase.

Not lingered.

Landed.

“Chase.”

Chase sat up so fast his knee bumped the underside of the chair in front of him.

Silvie made the tiniest startled inhale.

The entire room did not turn to stare, but Chase felt as though it had.

“Yes?” he asked, with the fragile dignity of a man who had not at all been caught mid-questionable note-taking.

Buddy regarded him with maddening neutrality. “From bakery’s side, what’s drawing the most guest attention right now?”

Chase blinked.

That was… not what he expected.

He’d expected to be scolded. Or corrected. Or maybe publicly executed for whispering near the sacred temple of operational logistics.

Instead, Buddy was asking him a real question.

A room-full-of-staff real question.

Buddy’s gaze dipped to the paper in Chase’s hand. “If you need to think on it for a moment, I can circle back to you.”

Chase stared.

Buddy’s expression remained perfectly professional.

The jerk had remembered.

Chase narrowed his eyes and tucked the bingo card behind his back.

Oh, so he did jokes now.

“I’m good,” he answered quickly, refusing to let Buddy see him flinch. “Uh… Seasonal stuff, mostly. Anything that looks festive and easy to grab.”

He glanced around, warming as he spoke.

“Ghost cookies,” Chase continued, making eye contact with Buddy. “Maple scones. The pumpkin muffins when they’re out early enough. People like stuff that feels cute and cozy before it even tastes good.”

A few people nodded.

Mrs. G beamed like he’d personally discovered cinnamon.

Buddy’s expression didn’t shift, but his pen moved once against the clipboard. “And why?” he asked.

There it was again — that little off-center lurch in Chase’s stomach. A follow-up.

He wants a real answer.

Chase swallowed. “Because most people don’t know exactly what they want when they walk in,” he said more slowly. “Not really. They want to feel like they found the thing. Like the place thought ahead for them.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware he was talking in front of literally everyone.

But somewhere behind the embarrassment, Chase remembered this was his job.

And this part, at least, he knew.

He looked down, then back up at Buddy. “If something looks special enough to remember,” Chase murmured, smiling softly, “they’ll usually give it a shot.”

Silence.

Not bad silence. Listening silence.

Buddy held his gaze one beat longer than necessary, and something unreadable moved behind his eyes. Then he gave one small nod.

“That aligns with restaurant upsell trends,” he acknowledged, turning slightly toward the room. “Presentation creates momentum. If guests emotionally commit before purchase, staff conversion becomes easier.”

Simon, from the back, lifted his brows at Chase like ‘look at you,’ all impressed and infuriatingly handsome.

Chase immediately looked away.

Buddy continued, but his voice had changed by half a shade — firmer now, tighter at the edges.

“Which means,” he said, “cross-department communication around displays and featured items needs to improve. Bakery, café, and restaurant all affect guest flow whether you believe you do or not.”

Across the room, Simon leaned back in his chair and — because he had apparently never once respected the existence of restraint — winked at Chase again.

Chase nearly inhaled his own tongue.

Beside him, Silvie whispered, “Oh no.”

“What?” Chase whispered back in pure panic. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You exist pretty loudly.”

Up front, Buddy paused.

Just one beat.

His eyes flicked — fast — to Simon.

Then back to the room.

When he spoke again, the temperature seemed to drop three degrees. “Additionally,” he said, “active shifts are not social hours. Personal conversations should not interfere with workflow, break limits, or department readiness.”

Violet turned her head slightly, brow lifting, because that was very much not on the slide.

Chase stared at Buddy.

Did he just write a law because Simon has eyelashes?

Silvie patted his knee lightly without looking at him, as if somehow sensing the exact direction of his thoughts.

Chase pressed his lips together.

Violet cleared her throat. “That's true. It's good for all of us to be mindful of time and place.”

Buddy clicked to the next slide. Then he talked through wedding inquiries, vendor timing, arrival windows, room-turn expectations, catering coordination, and the need to make guests feel cared for without staff being flattened under unrealistic demands. He was good at it. Too good.

Not warm. Not flashy.

Just precise in a way that made Chase suspect he had already imagined every possible failure and was trying to head each one off.

Chase watched him speak and couldn’t shake the feeling that Buddy didn’t run things this tightly because he liked controlling people.

If anything, Buddy didn’t seem to enjoy dealing with people at all — if he could help it.

Buddy finished with a final, clipped line. “If you have questions, ask your department lead. If you have concerns, document them. If you need help, request it early. Do not wait until the problem is on fire.”

Mrs. G raised her hand brightly. “What if it is on fire, dear?”

Buddy looked at her. “Then we use the fire suppression system.”

Mrs. G clasped her hands together. “Wonderful! We need more sprinklers year-round and not just on the Fourth of July!”

Violet intervened before Buddy could visibly regret all his life choices. “Okay,” she cut in, clapping once. “That’s enough excitement for one afternoon. Thank you. Early shift, you can go home. Evening shift, back to your stations. Eat something. Drink water. Try to remember you’re a person.”

Chairs scraped back. People stood. The room dissolved into the loose, restless hum of post-meeting conversation — paper cups crinkling, bags slinging over shoulders, someone already laughing too loudly near the brownie table.

Chase exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for the entire presentation.

Silvie leaned toward him as she rose from her seat. “You are a bad influence,” she teased.

“I always wanted to be an influencer.”

She stared at him.

He sighed and pushed himself up from the chair. “Fine. But I still behaved.” He paused, then added, “Mostly. Selectively.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is to me.”

Silvie shook her head, the corner of her mouth twitching, and moved off into the crowd.

Across the room, Simon caught Chase’s eye and lifted his empty paper cup in a tiny toast.

Chase’s cheeks warmed instantly.

Then he felt it.

That prickling, unmistakable awareness — the strange sixth sense that came with being watched by someone who did not waste attention lightly.

He looked toward the front.

Buddy still stood beside Violet, clipboard in hand, speaking quietly enough that Chase couldn’t make out the words. But Buddy wasn’t looking at him.

He was looking past him.

At Simon.

His expression was perfectly neutral. Composed. Professional. Nothing to see here.

But his jaw was tight. Not angry, exactly. More like he was biting down on something he didn’t want anyone else to see.

Chase watched him for half a second too long.

Buddy’s eyes flicked toward him.

Just once.

Not a glare. Not a warning.

Something worse.

Just a look Chase could not read without feeling oddly implicated in it.

Chase swallowed. Then, because he was Chase and refused to back down from a direct challenge, he smiled anyway.

Bright. Friendly. A little too pleased with himself.

Like an offering.

Like a dare.

Buddy looked away first. And for some reason, that felt like winning.

Which was ridiculous.

And probably the problem.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

Keysbridge was becoming a problem in ways the assistant manager did not appreciate.

More than he’d originally thought it would. In spite of Violet’s continued assurances.

Because people were unpredictable. Complicated. And at least in California, he understood the terms.

Keysbridge was different. Softer. People offered pieces of themselves without first negotiating what they wanted back.

The thought found the man as he watched the employee lounge empty in waves — chairs scraping, tired voices rising back into conversation, the projector finally giving up with a mechanical sigh as Violet shut it down. Within minutes, the room looked abandoned in that strange, temporary way meeting spaces always did: half-drunk paper cups, a granola bar wrapper left on the floor, the brownies reduced to a few lonely crumbs and one corner piece no one trusted enough to claim.

He gathered his clipboard, straightened the stack of printed notes no one else had bothered to align, and walked out without looking back.

The hallway outside felt cooler. Quieter.

Good.

He much preferred rooms after people left them.

The last of the daylight slanted through the tall windows facing the lake, turning the polished floors into long bars of amber and shadow. Somewhere deeper in the inn, housekeeping carts rattled over thresholds. A door closed. Someone laughed too loudly near the restaurant wing. The sound traveled farther than it should have.

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and kept walking.

He was halfway to his office before he realized he was still holding his pen too tightly.

Annoying.

He loosened his grip, tucked the pen into the spine of the clipboard, and stepped inside his office, shutting the door with more care than force. The room was as he’d left it that morning — desk immaculate, papers squared, coat hanging neatly on the back of the chair, laptop centered exactly where it belonged. A small lamp in the corner cast a warm pool of light over the credenza, not that he needed warmth. He needed silence.

He set the clipboard down. Removed his watch. Rolled his shoulders once.

Then he sat.

For a long moment, he did nothing except stare at the laptop screen reflecting back the dim outline of his own face.

The meeting had gone fine. Productive, even. Clear. Necessary.

And yet something restless still scraped at the inside of his ribs.

He knew exactly why.

Because he had looked up when Chase entered.

Because he had noticed the lack of seats before Chase did.

Because he had asked him a question — then another — like some part of him had wanted to hear what he would say.

Because Simon had looked at Chase like he was something bright and easy to reach.

He knew the type.

He exhaled once through his nose and flipped the laptop open.

The draft was still there.

He had started it three nights ago. Revised it twice. Never sent it.

‘Subject: Request for Reassignment Review’

He stared at the line until the words blurred.

Then he scrolled down.

The email itself was clipped, professional, clean to the point of bloodlessness. He had written that he appreciated the developmental opportunity at Keysbridge. That he remained committed to maintaining Ashton standards. That he would welcome a conversation regarding long-term placement once the inn stabilized operationally.

It was polished enough to pass.

It also sounded like a stranger had written it, because what he actually meant was far less elegant.

I have done what was asked.

I have kept my head down.

I have been quiet. Helpful. Discreet.

I have managed the chaos and smiled when necessary and made myself useful enough to outweigh the inconvenience of keeping me.

…May I come home now?

His jaw tightened.

Home.

What a stupid word.

California was not home in any meaningful sense. It was habit. Structure. Familiar roads. Predictable weather. Rooms where every object stayed where it belonged. People who disappointed him in ways he already understood.

Still—

He knew the rules there.

Keysbridge was all softness and noise and unscheduled warmth. People looked you in the eye too long. They asked questions they actually wanted answers to. They brought you soup when you were busy instead of forwarding the request through the proper channel. They invited you places as if it did not cost them anything. As if belonging were casual.

He hated how destabilizing that was.

A knock sounded against the half-open door.

Not loud. Not tentative, either.

Violet.

Of course.

She leaned against the frame without waiting to be invited in, one shoulder braced casually against the wood, tablet tucked under her arm. Her heels were gone, replaced by the quiet practicality of flats, but she still looked impossibly composed — as if she had not just survived an all-staff meeting and three separate crises involving room blocks, one florist, and a dishwasher that had decided to develop opinions.

“You vanished very quickly,” she observed.

“I left a finished meeting,” he replied without looking up. “That is generally how they work.”

Violet stepped fully inside and shut the door behind her with a soft click. “Mm. And what, exactly, are we glaring at?”

He did not answer.

Which, admittedly, was answer enough.

Violet’s gaze drifted over the desk as she circled it — the squared papers, the watch laid neatly beside the laptop, the lamp casting its warm little circle of light.

Then she noticed the brownie.

One corner piece sat on a folded napkin near his elbow, half-eaten with the kind of absent precision that suggested he had barely realized he was doing it.

Her mouth twitched. “Oh. You had one of the brownies after all.”

His expression cooled immediately. “Not theirs.”

The answer came too quickly.

Violet’s brows lifted.

He looked down at the piece for half a beat, then away again. “The other tray.”

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then, very carefully neutral, “Ah.”

His jaw tightened as if he regretted answering at all. “It was nearest.”

Violet hummed once — not agreeing, not disagreeing, just filing it away in whatever infuriating little cabinet she kept for things he did not wish to have noticed.

“Of course,” she murmured.

He resisted the urge to move the napkin out of sight. Barely.

After a moment, Violet stepped closer to the desk and glanced at the laptop screen. Her brows furrowed. “What are you doing—”

He leaned back in his chair, expression cooling another degree. “It is a draft.”

“That’s worse.”

“It is precise,” he argued.

“No,” she countered. “It’s an escape route dressed like a business decision.”

His gaze snapped to hers.

Violet did not flinch.

Outside the office, someone rolled a cart past and the wheels thudded twice over an uneven seam in the floor. The sound faded.

He folded his hands once on the desk, mostly so he would not do something inelegant like close the laptop too abruptly. “You are mistaken.”

“No,” Violet murmured quietly. “I’m really not.”

The silence that followed was not the comfortable kind. It was the old kind. The kind that felt like standing in a drawing room waiting to be measured and found lacking.

He looked away first, jaw set.

“This placement was always temporary,” he reminded her. “You know that.”

“I know what they told you,” Violet replied.

He laughed once, without humor. “There’s a distinction?”

“There should be.”

He looked back at the screen. The cursor blinked at the bottom of the draft, patient and accusatory.

“You do realize,” Violet said, softer now, “that something that feels different does not make it bad.”

His mouth thinned. “I am not interested in ‘different.’ I am interested in functional.”

“You keep using that word like it means safe.”

“At least in California,” he said, voice clipped, “I understand the expectations. And the people.”

Violet was quiet.

He wished she would not do that — leave room after a sentence as if people might accidentally tell the truth into it.

So he filled the space himself.

“At least there, I understand what is expected of me,” he said, eyes still on the screen.

Violet’s expression shifted — small, careful. “And that comforts you?” she asked.

He almost said yes.

Instead, he said, “It is survivable.”

The word sat between them.

Violet looked at him for a long moment. “That isn’t the same thing.”

“No,” he said. “But it is predictable.”

Her gaze flicked to the laptop, then back to him. “Predictable doesn’t mean healthy.”

He gave her a flat look. “Spare me.”

“I’m not trying to lecture you.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Violet ignored that.

“You aren’t trapped in that life anymore,” she said. “Even if they’ve worked very hard to make you feel like you are.”

His shoulders went rigid.

He looked down at the desk, at the clean grain of the wood, at his own reflection ghosted dimly in the black edge of the laptop screen.

“No,” he said after a beat. “Just the same mistake with better tailoring.”

Violet’s face softened in a way that made him want to leave the room.

He stood instead and moved to the window.

Outside, the lake lay dark under the falling evening, smooth as glass where the wind had not touched it. Trees crowded the far edge of the property, leaves beginning to bronze and curl. A few lights had come on in town already, warm and scattered in the distance.

He moved to the window and folded his arms behind his back.

“So yes,” he said after a moment. “I prefer environments where I know the rules.”

Violet watched his reflection. “And what rule are you following here?”

He didn’t answer.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Keysbridge had too few rules.

Or perhaps just the wrong ones.

People smiled at him here and meant it. Agatha called him dear and swatted him with wooden spoons. Silvie asked if he’d eaten lunch. Chase looked at him as if irritation were a game and not a verdict.

And somehow that unsettled him more than criticism ever had.

Violet stepped closer, stopping beside him at the window. Not crowding. Just there.

“You know,” she tried lightly, “there was a time when getting you out of a bad mood only required chocolate.”

“I have matured.”

“You have become more expensive.”

He said nothing.

Below them, in the courtyard, two staff members crossed toward the side entrance carrying boxes. Somewhere in town, faint and far off, a burst of laughter rose and disappeared into the evening air.

Violet tipped her head, studying his reflection instead of his face.

Then she said, with deliberate casualness, “You’ve been in this office too much.”

“That is where work generally occurs, yes.”

“I’m serious.”

“That makes one of us.”

She ignored him again, as always. “This weekend, I’m dragging you out of here.”

He turned his head, incredulous. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes,” she repeated, calm as a blade. “You’re going to leave the building voluntarily, see the town, and pretend for one hour that the world is not personally conspiring against you.”

He gave her a withering look. “I already saw the town. It contains geese and optimism.”

“And both were fine.”

“They were not.”

Violet smiled — small, infuriating, victorious. “Wear something less funeral chic.”

He stared at her.

She picked up the tablet from his desk and tucked it back under her arm. “Do not send that email tonight.”

“Naturally, you assume I listen to you.”

“I assume you’ll overthink it until morning,” she corrected. “Which, in this case, works in my favor.”

Then she moved toward the door, pausing with one hand on the knob.

For a second, her voice lost its teasing edge.

“You don’t have to go back just because the pain there is familiar.”

He looked away before she could see whatever that sentence did to him.

The door opened.

“Four o’clock on Saturday,” Violet said over her shoulder, brisk again. “Try not to fake your own death before then.”

And then she was gone.

He stood alone in the quiet office, the draft email still open on his screen and the window gone dark enough to reflect him properly now — sharp collar, tired eyes, posture still too rigid to be called resting.

After a long moment, he crossed back to the desk.

He stared at the email.

Then, without deleting it, he closed the laptop.

Outside, somewhere beyond the inn, the town kept glowing softly under the deepening sky — warm and bright and unbearably earnest.

He told himself he hated that.

The ghost of his reflection in the glass no longer looked entirely certain that was true.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

‘WELCOME ALL GHOSTS AND GHOULS’ announced a large yellow banner, taped to the school’s chain-link fence with the kind of careful enthusiasm only room moms and PTA dads could muster.

Beyond it, the Keysbridge Elementary Halloween Carnival unfolded like a whole town decided to cosplay as autumn.

Once a year, half the school grounds, the parking lot, and the sports field transformed into the spookiest fundraiser east of the Mississippi — or so the school claimed — and as the sun dipped low, purple string lights flickered on, bathing everything in a soft, haunted glow. Kids shrieked. Parents corralled. Teachers smiled with the brittle bravery of people volunteering to work with children on a Saturday.

Chase smiled anyway.

Old memories rushed in like cider steam from a paper cup — sweet, hot, and capable of burning if you weren’t careful.

He held Prunella’s hand in one of his. In the other, he carried a plastic container of cookies for the bake sale — stacked in neat rows, frosted and festive and very much his attempt at proving he belonged in stable, normal spaces.

He ran his tongue over his pointy vampire teeth — already slightly annoying in the way all costume pieces were — and glanced down at Pru.

She was proudly costumed as an explorer-survivor-whatever-she’d-decided-this-week, with Mr. Bananas pinned to her shoulder like a tiny, loyal deputy. Her eyes were bright. Her grip was firm. Like she was holding onto the night itself.

The carnival bustled as they passed through the gate, tickets in hand. Kettle corn and hot chocolate drifted on the air. Somewhere near the gym, a mini Ferris wheel squealed under the weight of shrieking children. Booths lined the blacktop — baked goods, raffle baskets, face painting, ring toss, a cakewalk set up with taped squares and a speaker already threatening to die mid-song. Farther out, a scare maze carried screams and nervous giggles through the air. Meanwhile, the cafeteria had become a haunted house, thanks to rows of black plastic sheeting and committed middle school volunteers.

And at the far end, the pumpkin carving station sat framed by hay bales and enough gourds to squash a man. Mentally, at least.

Chase spotted Pru’s teacher and a cluster of room moms that were on babysitting duty. Prunella fidgeted with Mr. Bananas for exactly one second — then darted off the moment someone waved her over.

His lips twitched into a proud smile that felt too tender to show anyone, so he swallowed it down and rolled up his sleeves like he was just a guy doing his shift.

Nothing emotional happening here. Nope.

He headed for his assigned table and set up shop.

A green apron with a candy corn pattern went over his vampire outfit, because life was cruel and because the bake sale didn’t care if it ruined your undead vibes. He arranged cookies, counted tickets, smiled at strangers until his cheeks hurt, and told himself he was fine every time the loudspeaker crackled.

An hour in, his phone buzzed.

Simon:
send me pics of your cool costume

Chase’s cheeks warmed instantly — ridiculous, considering he was wearing fake fangs and had probably scared exactly zero people unless his reflection counted. He shot back a quick, nonchalant reply, then locked his phone before he got caught smiling at it.

Simon said he had to cover the dinner rush tonight. Which was fine.

Chase wasn’t sure he was ready to mix the parts of his life yet anyway — the inn, Pru, the fragile stability he’d fought for, and then… whatever Simon was.

Flirting was easy. Feelings were not. Feelings were the part where you could lose something.

He went back to selling baked goods and cakewalk tickets — explaining, for the sixth time, that yes, the cakewalk was basically musical chairs but with frosting-covered prizes.

That’s when Violet appeared beside him like she’d been conjured, already sipping something warm from an orange cup.

Over the past few weeks, they’d shifted into something comfortable — coworkers to friends in the way that happened when someone saw you at your most exhausted and didn’t judge you for it. Violet was bossy in a way that didn’t bother him. She checked in even when she didn’t have time. She had a sharp tongue, but it usually pointed away from him, not at him.

He’d invited her on a whim — half-joking, half-hopeful.

Apparently, she’d taken him seriously.

Chase blinked. He barely recognized her under a wide-brimmed hat and green face paint. “You came to the carnival,” he exclaimed, adjusting a stack of napkins. “Killer costume!”

Violet grinned. “I am the baddest witch in Keysbridge.” Then she nodded at his table. “But I don’t recall cursing you to take work home.”

Chase chuckled. “It’s work and a hobby.” He wiped his hands on a napkin. “Want anything? I hear the snickerdoodles are stupid good.”

“And not just because you made them?” She squinted at him, eyes glinting.

“You wound me.”

“You’re a terrible influence,” Violet decided. “I’ll take two.”

Chase smirked and started wrapping them up.

Violet nodded toward a nearby sign with cartoon pumpkins and aggressively cheerful font. “Are you doing the carving thing with her?”

“Yeah,” Chase replied, and felt his stomach tighten on reflex. “After I survive the bake sale.”

That’s when he noticed him.

Buddy stood off to the side like he’d been parked there. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. All black, as usual — like he refused to let a holiday have him.

And on his head—

A pair of fuzzy black cat ears.

They sat there like an afterthought. Like he’d put them on under protest. Like they had been placed on him against his will by a woman with a clipboard and a mission. Which, they probably were.

Chase bit his lip hard to keep from laughing.

“You… dragged him here?” he hissed under his breath.

Violet’s mouth twitched. “I told him it was ‘team building.’ You’d think I sentenced him to a public humiliation ritual. Hard Nox life over there.”

She thumbed over her shoulder.

Buddy caught them looking.

His expression stayed flat for a beat too long — all rigid shoulders and visible regret — and then, as if remembering he was being observed, he adjusted almost lazily into something more composed. His stance eased. His chin lifted. The scowl sharpened at the edges into something faintly smug.

Like he had decided, at the last second, that if Chase was going to see him in cat ears, he would at least be seen well.

Violet made a tiny sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.

“Oh,” she murmured.

Buddy’s glare sharpened. “Don’t.”

Chase blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Nothing,” Violet sang.

Buddy sighed and gave Chase a single nod.

It wasn’t warm.

But it also wasn’t hostile.

Which, for Buddy, was basically a hug.

Violet paid, nudged Chase’s arm, and leaned in like she was passing off a dangerous animal. “I have to go ‘network.’ Which means I’m leaving the angry kitten to you.” Then she winked and strode off, taking a big bite of cookie as she went. “Team building!” she called over her shoulder, disappearing into the crowd.

Chase stared after her for half a second — betrayed, amused, doomed.

Then he looked back at Buddy.

A week ago, Chase would’ve let him brood alone and taken his break in peace. But something about the way Buddy had helped him in the kitchen the other day — small, quiet, annoyingly decent — had shifted their orbit.

And something about the way Buddy looked now — stiff and uncomfortable in a sea of laughing kids — made Chase’s chest do that irritating, sympathetic tug.

Maybe Buddy was in a bad mood because he felt out of place.

Maybe Buddy was always out of place.

And maybe Chase was tired of pretending they weren’t going to keep running into each other like fate had a sense of humor.

He sighed, plastered on his friendliest smile, and called out, “Are you just going to sulk by the cake pops, or are you going to say hi, Buddy?”

Buddy’s eye twitched.

He huffed and inched closer to the register like he’d been dragged by an invisible rope. “I told you my name is not ‘Buddy.’”

He glanced away, voice dropping. “And I’m not here to socialize.”

But he didn’t walk away.

Chase barked out a laugh he couldn’t stop. Seeing Buddy attempt grumpy dignity while wearing plush cat ears was… unfair. A gift. A personal act of violence against Chase’s self-control.

“Sorry to bother you, Your Royal Catness,” Chase managed, trying — and failing — to calm down.

He bowed.

The giggles came back harder.

Buddy narrowed his eyes, cheeks going red even under the warm, festive lighting. “It was Vi’s idea,” he muttered, turning his head away.

“Well… well if you say so,” Chase assured him, catching his breath. “But I think we can change your mind about the whole ‘socialize’ thing. I can take a quick break.”

He pumped sanitizer into his hands, shoved his apron at another parent manning the booth, and stepped out from behind the table.

“I’m very persuasive, you know. ’S’how I got the job.”

“That was clearly an administrative oversight,” Buddy muttered.

Then his eyes flicked up and down Chase’s costume now that he could see it better — the teeth, the slicked-back hair, the too-long cape dragging slightly on the blacktop. “And just what are you supposed to be?”

Chase spun once, then batted his eyelashes. “A vampire, duh. Check out my sick fangs.”

Buddy tilted his head. “Figures. From little leech to full-grown blood sucker.”

Chase blanched. “’Scuse you. I earned my job fair and square.”

Something in Buddy’s expression shifted, as though he had only then heard what the joke sounded like.

Chase pointed at Buddy, smiling — but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Also, just because you don’t say hi to me doesn’t mean I don’t notice you stealing my brownies every week.”

Buddy’s mouth opened.

Closed.

He seemed to consider denial, found it beneath him, and settled for glaring.

“Who’s leeching off who?” Chase pressed, delighted.

Buddy cleared his throat. “I wonder. You must’ve seen a ghost.” Then, louder, like he couldn’t quite help himself, “You’re insufferable in a seasonal costume. Try not to preen too hard, Dracula.”

Chase’s eyes rolled so hard he would’ve lost his vampire contacts — if he’d had any. “Well, I’m going to be sinking my fangs into a caramel apple in a minute, so come on, dude.” He jerked his head toward the stalls. “I promise I don’t bite.”

Buddy trailed after him. Close enough to follow. Far enough to pretend he wasn’t with him.

“Cats bite, too,” Buddy mumbled.

Chase snorted. “Noted.”

They walked without speaking for a moment, the sounds of the carnival crashing into the space between them. Milk bottles clinked as softballs whizzed past them. One child started to cry because his classmate beat him in the cakewalk and picked the donut holes he wanted. Music pressed in too, festive and light.

Buddy’s shoulders stiffened more with every step, like every second of holiday joy and neighborly fun were possible contaminants to his carefully maintained brooding aura.

Yet he stayed by Chase.

And Chase caught him staring.

“What?”

Buddy’s jaw ticked, then he looked away again. “Why a vampire?”

Chase gasped. “Because Vampires are the coolest. And Caspian Wolfsblood is… oh my God. He’s the dreamiest.” He flung his hand over his chest and sighed.

Buddy’s brows lifted. “Dreamy?”

Chase nodded. “I wish I were a tall, dark, and handsome vampire just like him.”

Buddy’s brows lifted.

For some reason, he smoothed a hand over his hair.

Then he stepped closer, just enough that Chase had to tilt his head back. “Ambitious.”

Chase sputtered. “Rude. I’ll at least be tall. I got a growth spurt coming.”

He held a hand up to Buddy’s level, indicating his intended height.

Buddy blinked at him once, then stepped past with the faintest edge of a smirk. “It is nice to dream, isn’t it?”

Chase grumbled but followed along.

They wove through stalls, dodging kids with glow sticks and plastic wands, the Halloween playlist thumping friendly background noise. Stars pricked into the sky as the last orange of sunset drained away.

They stopped at a booth with a poison-apple sign — skull and crossbones and everything, because subtlety was dead.

Buddy scoffed. “Is that meant to make it more appetizing?”

“Duh.” Chase pointed at the display case. “They’re to die for. Look, they even have one dipped in chocolate and covered in brownie pieces.”

Buddy straightened.

His eyes widened — just barely.

Then he furrowed his brows and looked away like his face had betrayed him.

Chase rocked on his heels, pleased. “You always look like you’re judging the air. What did oxygen do to you?”

“I’m… thinking,” Buddy replied, leaning one elbow against the counter.

It was not a particularly useful position.

Chase looked at him anyway.

Buddy stayed there.

Chase hummed. “Well, try thinking with a caramel apple in your mouth. It’s harder to be grumpy when you’re chewing.”

Buddy gave him a withering look.

Then, at the counter, he accepted the treat.

Chase grinned around his apple. Maybe Buddy wasn’t quite as immune to joy as he liked to pretend. Maybe even a grumpy city boy in cat ears could be dragged, inch by inch, into having a decent time.

Also, it was hard to take anyone seriously while they wore cat ears.

“Progress,” Chase proclaimed, yanking his vampire teeth out with a string of drool — because of course — and biting into his apple.

Buddy took one bite.

Chewed once. Twice.

“Needs more brownie,” he declared.

Chase stared. “That’s your professional assessment?”

“And darker chocolate.”

“Of course you have a preferred cocoa percentage.”

Buddy looked offended. “Everyone should.”

Chase rolled his eyes. “Got it. Dark chocolate brownie overload. I’ll ask the ghost to scrounge some up,” he said solemnly, crunching into the apple again.

Buddy huffed faintly, then kept eating as if trying very hard not to enjoy it.

After a moment, his gaze snagged on the face-painting booth. One child sat on the stool, wiggling all over the place while the artist tried to steady their chin with one hand and paint with the other.

“It would come out much better if they could stay still,” Buddy muttered.

Then, before he seemed to realize he was speaking out loud, he added with a small flick of his apple hand, “Really, it cannot be that difficult to paint cat whiskers and a nose on a child. They should also add—”

Chase’s eyebrow rose slowly.

Buddy blinked at him, caught. “What?”

Chase’s grin spread. “Wow. You have opinions on face paint.”

“I have no opinions.”

“You have lots of opinions, dude,” Chase said. “Wanna go show them how it’s done? Add your own whiskers and complete your costume, Your Royal Catness?”

Buddy’s eyes narrowed. “I will do no such thing.”

Chase’s grin sharpened. “If you say so.” He paused, then added, because apparently he had no instincts for self-preservation, “But that was weirdly adorable.”

“S-shut it,” Buddy shot back, far too fast, his cheeks warming under the carnival lights.

Chase opened his mouth to answer — then stopped. His gaze snagged somewhere over Buddy’s shoulder. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. No way.”

Buddy’s glare sharpened. “Excuse me? I am perfectly capable of making you—”

“Not you.” Chase pointed past him. “Although, actually, kind of you.”

Buddy turned. “What now?”

A wall of stuffed animals hung behind a milk-bottle game in violent shades of orange, purple, and green. And right in the middle sat a plush black cat — with an expression of profound disappointment.

Chase slowly turned his head.

Buddy followed his gaze. “No.”

“It looks exactly like you.”

“It is a stuffed animal.”

“Judgmental eyes. Black outfit. Tiny little frown.” Chase pressed a hand to his chest. “Buddy, I think you have a son.”

“I’m too young for children and too old to be mocked with plush carnival toys,” Buddy huffed.

Chase’s smile faltered slightly. Then he looked at the booth again and shoved his apple at Buddy. “Hold this.”

Buddy blinked.

But he listened.

A few minutes later, Chase returned with two prizes tucked beneath his arm. One, a ridiculous purple bat. The other was, of course, the black cat.

Chase threw it into Buddy’s lap.

Buddy looked down at it.

Then at Chase.

“No.”

“Yep.” Chase grinned. “His name is—”

“I’m not naming this creature,” Buddy muttered, handing Chase his apple again. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Chase hummed. “Love and cherish him,” he suggested, then took a bite.

“I will do neither.”

“Fine,” he mumbled around caramel. “Neglect him emotionally. It’ll make him mysterious.”

Buddy stared at him.

Chase's grin softened around the edges. “Consider it, like… compensation for dragging you around a carnival against your will.”

“You did not drag me.”

“Aw. So you came willingly?”

Buddy’s face reddened. “That is not what I said.”

Chase lit up. “You’re blushing.”

“And you’re wearing fake fangs and drooling on yourself,” Buddy replied. “I would advise caution before criticizing anyone else.”

He tried to fold his arms, remembered he was holding an apple, and settled for turning away slightly.

Chase rolled his eyes, amused. “I am not—”

Then he felt the caramel and drool on his chin.

Buddy didn’t say another word. He just held out a napkin like he’d been waiting for the exact moment Chase would be disgusting. He reached out as if to wipe the caramel away himself, then something stopped him. His gaze flicked briefly past Chase — to the crowd, the lights, the dozens of people moving around them — and his hand changed direction. He pressed the napkin into Chase’s palm instead.

This time, Chase grew very warm.

They ate in near-silence after that, carnival music and laughter threading between them, and the silence felt warmer — and much more awkward — than it had a minute ago.

When Chase headed back toward the booth, Buddy gave him a curt nod and wandered off in search of Violet, muttering under his breath about fetching her broomstick so they could leave.

Chase watched the black cat ears disappear into the crowd.

For some reason, the napkin stayed warm in his hand.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

Warmth bled out from the assistant manager as he moved away from the space heaters and the bustle of the refreshment stands.

He had nearly touched Chase's face.

Ridiculous.

People touched faces every day. Doctors. Barbers. Makeup artists. Presumably dermatologists.

None of those examples were helping.

The realization followed him through the crowd like an accusation.

He had not just handed Chase a napkin. Not just pointed out the mess. He had almost touched him — there, in the middle of a crowded carnival beneath several hundred strings of aggressively cheerful lights.

Idiotic.

But he had corrected course. No harm done. Chase had probably forgotten already.

The assistant manager moved through a pack of kids with glow sticks, nearly tripping over discarded masks and headbands like the carnival itself was trying to humble him.

Near the cakewalk, he almost collided with a small explorer-costumed girl.

The stuffed monkey registered first. Then the solemn little scowl beneath the safari hat.

She stumbled, looked up at him, and squinted hard.

“You look like a villain,” she announced bluntly, pointing at his all-black outfit and the plush cat Chase had saddled him with.

Then her eyes landed on his cat ears.

“A villain that's right by liking cats.”

He blinked. “I… get that a lot.” He hesitated, like concern was a language he had to translate. “Are you alright?”

She rambled on, unfazed. “If you were a real black cat, I’d name you Sir Bad Cat. Like in Lady Lovalorn.”

He put his hands on his hips and raised a brow. “Well, I’m not a real cat, now am I?”

“You act like one.”

“How?”

“You’re grumpy and your hair is shiny.”

He had no response to that.

The girl tilted her head. “Just don’t steal any candy, Sir Bad Cat. My brother says bad guys steal candy.”

Then she wandered away toward a quiet boy in a frog hat.

Odd little thing.

He followed her path with his eyes — and found Chase waiting on a guest at the bake sale booth. Bright-eyed and tucking an extra cookie into a child's hand, followed by a finger to his lips.

“Found something interesting?” Violet asked, appearing at his side with a steaming pretzel.

She raised an eyebrow at the stuffed animal in his arms.

His shoulders hitched before he forced them back down. “Apparently my name is 'Sir Bad Cat' now.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Nothing.”

Violet hummed.

Then he turned and walked briskly toward the outer gate — away from the noise and, theoretically, toward freedom. Violet followed, eating her pretzel in silence.

He made it as far as the fence.

There, he leaned against it and folded his arms, trapping the black cat against his chest. Carnival light flickered orange across his jaw. Laughter buzzed around him.

His eyes remained fixed on one particular booth.

Violet tore off a piece of pretzel. “I thought you said you hated small-town events.”

“I do,” he replied flatly.

He didn’t move again.

Violet chewed, letting the moment sit. “So why are you still here? You only agreed to half an hour. You’re Mister Punctual. Not like you.”

She made a show of thinking.

“Unless—” She raised a hand to her mouth and mock-gasped. “Don’t tell me you’re having a good time. You? Heaven forbid.”

His jaw clenched. “I assure you that this is unpleasant.”

“I’m sure. If you frown any harder,” Violet said mildly, “your face might stay like that.”

He didn’t answer right away.

The loudspeaker crackled overhead, announcing an event dubbed 'Pumpkins and Papas' in the sort of cheerful tone usually reserved for corralling small animals. The children running amok across the blacktop were close enough.

Chase’s posture changed. Barely — but the assistant manager saw it. His smile remained in place as he hung up his apron, while something beneath it seemed to brace.

He watched the little girl from earlier grab Chase's hand and tug him toward the carving tables. Then begin ranting about something with all the enthusiasm only a child on a sugar high could muster. Chase bent his head toward her, attention fixed on every word despite the noise around them.

Chase did not seem aware of anyone watching. There was no advantage to be gained from the attention he gave her. He simply listened because she was speaking — and because, apparently, that was enough.

As though staying present were the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re staying,” Violet observed.

The assistant manager's brow furrowed slightly.

Then he looked away.

“Carnivals are loud,” he muttered.

Violet hummed. “Mm-hm.”

And her eyes didn’t leave his face.

 

‿︵‿𖣑⫘⫘⫘☆𓎩☾⫘⫘⫘𖣑‿︵‿

 

Chase tried not to make a face as the 'Pumpkins and Papas' announcement chirped again, but his stomach still sank on reflex.

Pru tugged him through the hay bales and decorations, her hand locked tightly in his, while he followed like he was walking into a scene he’d been dreading all week.

In the carving area, Pru immediately sat beside Robin and his dad, two big pumpkins between them. Chase recognized him at once — the quiet boy from pickup, the one who had looked almost as solitary as Pru had. Around them, room moms began hovering with markers and wipes as teachers called encouragement.

By the time Chase settled beside Pru, she was explaining her cat-unicorn design with the seriousness of an architect presenting blueprints.

He had nearly convinced himself this might be fine.

Then Robin looked up and asked, innocently, “Are you her dad?”

Chase stiffened. The question pinched in the place behind his ribs where old grief lived — quiet, ready, always.

He pulled on a friendly smile. “Well, I’m—”

“Nice to meet you!” a warm voice cut in, perfectly timed. “I’m Aidan. This is Robin.”

Chase glanced over, grateful enough to want to hug a stranger. Aidan had kind eyes, laugh lines, tangled hair, and the calm confidence of a parent who’d already cleaned pumpkin guts out of a hoodie this season.

Chase shook his hand. “I’m Chase.” He looked at Robin and smiled. “So this is the legendary Robin? I half expected your name to be Bruce Wayne, not gonna lie.”

Aidan chuckled.

Prunella groaned without looking up, already drawing on her pumpkin. “He’s told that joke five times,” she muttered, tongue sticking out in concentration.

“Dad jokes make the world go ’round,” Aidan assured, uncapping a marker for Robin.

“Exactly,” Chase agreed. “Can’t let the flat-Earthers win; I have so many other conspiracy theories I’d rather be right about first.” He smirked at Pru’s eye roll. “Like what if the moon is made of marshmallow? Sign me up.”

Robin pointed at Chase. “Your dad’s funny.”

Pru paused.

Then shrugged like it was no big deal. “He thinks he is.”

Chase’s breath hitched — just once.

Prunella didn’t correct him.

And Chase didn’t push it.

He glanced aside, letting the moment settle. When he did, he noticed Buddy leaning against the fence near the haunted-house exit, Violet beside him. The ridiculous cat ears caught the orange carnival light.

He was watching.

Chase couldn’t tell for how long.

Their eyes met across the carnival. Buddy’s expression was unreadable from that distance, but he did not look away immediately.

And he was still holding the stupid cat.

Chase tried not to feel weirdly pleased about that.

Still, he gave him a small smile.

Buddy inclined his head, barely. Then Violet said something beside him, and his attention broke.

Pru shoved a handful of pumpkin guts toward Chase. “You’re not helping.”

He looked back at her. “I am emotionally supporting the process.”

“Use the scoop.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He reached for the scoop, leaned in, and helped her dig out pumpkin guts like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Hours later, carrying Pru’s sleeping weight from the car to the porch felt more normal — and somehow more intimate — than any title spoken across a pumpkin table.

The porch light buzzed softly as Chase fumbled for his keys, thumb slipping once against cold metal before the lock finally gave. Wind chimes whispered somewhere down the street — gentle, delicate notes that felt almost rude after the carnival’s blaring playlist and the constant shriek of children having the time of their lives.

The quiet hit him like stepping underwater.

Inside, the house greeted them with that familiar, lived-in scent — faint cinnamon from whatever candle he’d lit earlier, damp wool and rain clinging to coats, the ghost of pumpkin guts on his hands no matter how much sanitizer he’d used. It smelled like theirs. Like home, in the way something could be home even if the ceiling still had a water stain and the porch step squeaked on the left side.

Chase shifted Pru’s sleeping weight higher against his chest as they crossed the threshold. Mr. Bananas was mashed between them like a faithful little witness, while the purple bat Chase had won her dangled limply from Pru's other hand by one wing.

“Alright,” he murmured, soft as if the house could hear. “I got you.”

She made a faint sleepy noise, and he adjusted his grip automatically — one arm under her knees, the other around her back. She was light, but the responsibility never was.

Upstairs, each step creaked like it wanted to comment on his life choices. Chase climbed slowly anyway, careful not to jostle her. Her head lolled against his shoulder, hair tickling his neck. He could feel the faint heat of her cheek through his sweater.

She’d completely worn herself out.

And for that, he was grateful.

Not because he wanted her exhausted — because he wanted her happy. Worn out from laughing, from games, from friends. From being a kid who got to just be a kid for a night. With someone her own age beside her.

That mattered more than the candy. More than the prizes. More than the dumb vampire teeth still poking at Chase’s gums.

He didn’t make a big deal of it out loud — didn’t want to embarrass her or make her feel like she’d done something extraordinary just by being liked.

But pride sat heavy and warm in his chest anyway.

Relief, too.

In her room, he eased her onto the bed. She blinked up at him once, eyes half-lidded, then made a solemn, dramatic effort to sit up like she was a warrior about to armor herself for battle.

“I have to wear the werewolf pajamas,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Chase smiled, brushing hair back from her forehead. “Obviously. It’s the law.”

She yawned — wide and ferocious — and let him help her out of her costume. Mr. Bananas was placed on the pillow with ceremony. The purple bat joined him a moment later. And the explorer patch on her backpack got a sleepy pat, like she was congratulating herself for surviving the mission.

Then she crawled under the covers with a theatrical grunt, the stuffed monkey tucked beneath one arm and the purple bat beneath the other, like she'd assembled her own tiny survival team. Her eyes were already closing again.

Chase tucked the blanket up to her chest and leaned down, voice dropping into that quiet, bedtime-soft register he didn’t use anywhere else.

“Goodnight, Monkey,” he whispered, brushing her hair out of her face. “Don’t let the werewolves bite.”

“Mmm,” she hummed.

He straightened, ready to back away like she might spook if he moved too fast.

“Night…” she mumbled, and he paused because he could tell something else was coming, the way she always did — like she was reaching for the right word in a dark room.

Then she sighed and said it.

“Dad.”

Chase went completely still.

The blanket was still in his hands. His fingers tightened without meaning to, knuckles whitening against the fabric.

“—Dad,” she repeated, softer now, already sliding deeper into sleep. Like it was the most natural name in the world. Like she didn’t know it had teeth.

Something caught in his throat and refused to move.

“Oh,” Chase whispered, but it came out as barely air. “Oh… Monkey…”

Dad.

The title hit him harder than it should’ve, and he hated that it did — hated the way it warmed him and gutted him at the same time.

Because she’d implied it earlier that night, too.

And because the question it dragged up always came right after, quiet and vicious:

What about their actual dad?

Prunella didn’t really remember their parents — not anymore. Not the way Chase did. To her, they were like the fairy tales he read at night: real in feeling, blurry in detail. A story with a few pictures at the end. A laugh she couldn’t quite place. A scent she couldn’t name.

And that was all Chase could give her some days — stories, cookies, and photographs. A hand to hold. A light left on.

But she deserved more.

She deserved them.

They both did.

She’d been only three when it happened. Too young for grief to take shape as memory. Too young to understand why people cried in the kitchen and spoke in careful voices and stopped saying certain names out loud.

But Chase?

Chase remembered everything.

There were days he wanted to crumble into a ball on the floor and let the world keep spinning without him. Days he wanted to stay there and not move and not be the one who knew how to fill out forms or stretch groceries or smile at caseworkers or pretend he wasn’t scared.

But he couldn’t.

Because she needed him.

And because, somehow, she kept him going even when he didn’t feel like he deserved to.

Prunella’s fingers curled around the edge of her comforter and tugged it closer in her sleep, as if the blanket could anchor her against bad dreams. Chase reached down and patted her head gently — once, twice — careful, like she might break if he pressed too hard.

Then he backed toward the door.

His hand shook when he reached for the knob. His eyes stung, hot and sudden. He blinked hard, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he pulled the door nearly closed.

Not all the way.

Just enough to leave a crack of light.