Elara hadn't expected the Harvest Festival to feel so much like a heartbeat—one that pulsed through the town's streets, through her bones, and all the way into the roots of Honeyfern House. Lanterns floated on strings above the square like stars caught between sky and earth, and the scent of cinnamon, clove, and lavender hung in the air.
Rowan was already waiting by the café when she arrived.
He wore a pressed navy shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a small sprig of lavender pinned to his chest.
"You clean up," she said, tilting her head, "almost dangerously well."
He grinned and handed her a single bloom from the bunch he held. "And you look like someone pulled the sunset down just to wrap it around you."
Elara's dress was soft and flowing, the color of dusk-touched petals. She tucked the lavender behind her ear, suddenly shy under the way he looked at her—like the whole town had faded away.
They wandered through the crowd together, passing vendors selling honeyed apples, braided breads, and handmade soaps. Children ran past with painted faces, and live music thrummed from a stage in the park.
Every so often, Elara caught snippets of conversation behind them.
"Isn't that young Rowan Bell?"
"He's with Lydia's granddaughter, I heard."
"She's bringing Honeyfern back. Just like her grandmother would've wanted."
For the first time, the whispers didn't sting. They grounded her. This was her home. These people remembered her not just as the girl who left, but as someone returning.
By the time they reached the contest table, her wreath sat among a dozen others—woven from lavender, thyme, rosemary, and late summer blooms. Hers was simple but strong, echoing her grandmother's style. Honest. Unpretentious.
The judging hadn't started yet, so they meandered toward the orchard where older couples danced under strung lights and children chased each other barefoot between the trees.
Rowan took her hand. "Dance with me?"
"I haven't in years."
"I'll lead."
She laughed, nervous, but let him pull her in. The music was gentle—an old folk melody played on guitar and fiddle. His hand settled at her waist, her other hand resting in his.
They moved slowly, swaying more than stepping, but it was enough. The orchard around them blurred into soft colors, all warm amber and lavender dusk.
"I thought love had to be thunder and lightning," Elara whispered against his neck. "But this… this is like breathing."
He kissed her forehead. "That's because it's real."
They danced through two songs, then wandered toward the orchard's edge where the trees grew thinner and stars began to peek through the canopy.
There, Rowan turned to her, expression unreadable. "There's something I've been wanting to tell you."
Elara felt a twist in her stomach. "What is it?"
He hesitated, as though wrestling the words into shape.
"I got a call this morning. One of my old projects in Portland—an architecture firm—wants to bring me on as lead designer for a restoration project. Big contract. Six months, maybe more."
"Oh." The word was small. Flat.
"I haven't said yes."
Elara nodded slowly, already feeling the first fracture.
"But they want an answer by the end of the week," he added.
"And what do you want?" she asked, voice thin.
He stepped closer. "I want you. I want this." His hand touched her wrist. "But I've spent so many years putting parts of myself on pause. I'm scared if I keep saying no to things, I'll start losing those parts."
Elara looked away. "So go."
"What?"
"If you need to do this—if it's for you—then go. I won't be the one who cages you in. I can't."
Rowan's jaw clenched. "I'm not asking for permission, Elara. I'm asking if you'll wait. If we can survive the distance."
She met his eyes. "I don't know. But I'd rather have a version of you that feels whole—even if it hurts—than keep you here by guilt or fear."
There was a long silence. Then Rowan took her face in his hands.
"I love you," he said.
It was the first time either of them had said it out loud.
Elara blinked, and her breath caught.
"I love you too," she whispered.
It broke something inside them—broke open the grief, the longing, the impossible hope they'd both tried to hold back. They kissed under the orchard trees, and for a moment, nothing else existed.
When they returned to the square, the wreath judging had ended.
A blue ribbon hung from her wreath.
"You won," Rowan said, smiling.
But Elara barely noticed.
Because in the crowd, near the edge of the tent, stood a woman in a fitted blazer, clutching a file folder and a smirk.
"Elara Green?" she called.
"Yes?"
"I'm Josephine Marlin. I believe we have some business to discuss."
The festival noise seemed to dull. Rowan stepped closer.
Elara stood taller. "We can discuss it at my lawyer's office. Monday morning."
Josephine raised a brow. "So formal. Your grandmother was always such a dreamer. Let's hope you inherited more sense than sentiment."
She turned and walked away, heels clicking like a gavel against the bricks.
Elara's fingers dug into Rowan's arm.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No," she said. "But I will be."
Together, they turned back to the crowd, to the festival, to the breathless space between beginnings and endings.
And the lavender night held them both.