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The kitchen of Briar Hollow Inn was alive with scent and warmth.

Sunshine poured through the tall windows, catching on steam rising from the waffle iron.

Butter sizzled in a cast iron pan. A charm from Missy clinked against the side of the spice jar, humming contentedly, a spell that ensured the cinnamon stayed potent and the maple syrup never ran out.

Behind him, the familiar creak of old floorboards signaled footsteps. Soft. Steady.

Autumn.

“Is this breakfast or a bribe?” she asked, voice still raspy with sleep, curls wild and glorious around her face.

He turned, grinning. “Depends. You planning to kiss me before or after you taste this?”

She padded over in fuzzy socks and one of his old T-shirts, looped her arms around his waist, and kissed his cheek.

“Before,” she murmured, “but only so I can have seconds.”

He laughed, the sound low and easy. He kissed her lightly. “Smart woman.”

They ate on the porch enjoying their own little section of the inn, early and separate from the guests.

The summer air thick with the scent of garden roses and warm syrup.

The inn had reopened weeks ago, but mornings were still quiet—this time was theirs, before the bustle of guests and bookings and other people’s stories.

The “Reformed Haunted Inn” reputation had stuck, in the best way. Most folks came for the thrill of ghost stories and the draw of magic. Fewer expected the soft charm of Dorian’s gardens or the steady calm of Autumn’s voice as she led twilight ghost tours through the halls.

She had a way of telling the stories—some true, some polished up for tourists—that made people listen like it was gospel. Her laugh echoed through the halls now, not silence. Not fear.

Peace had taken root here.

And so had love.

That afternoon, guests drifted in and out. Junie brought fresh-squeezed lemonade from the Sip, and Nico had stopped by with a delivery of spellbound tea leaves— “for romantic clarity,” he claimed, winking far too dramatically.

Dorian fixed a squeaky railing, restocked the kitchen, and then made his way to the garden where Autumn already waited. The space had bloomed into something wild and wonderful, lavender spilling into the rosemary beds, sunflowers tilting like they knew her name.

She stood barefoot beneath the trellis, reading from her notebook, a pencil tucked behind her ear. Her skin glowed in the dappled light, and when she looked up and saw him, her whole face softened.

“Busy?” he asked.

“Always,” she said, slipping her hand into his.

“Wanna dance anyway?”

She tilted her head. “There music I don’t hear?”

“Nope,” he said, tugging her gently. “We’ll make our own.”

He pulled her close in the garden, his hand at her waist, hers curling behind his neck. They swayed, no rhythm, no audience, just the rustling trees and birds too polite to interrupt.

“Remember when you thought I was going to save you by simply being here?” she murmured.

He chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious you did?”

“From the realtors.”

“And so much more.”

They laughed, forehead to forehead, breath mingling. In that moment, nothing else mattered.

Not the ghosts. Not the rituals. Not the past. Just this.

Them.

The garden. The inn. The life they’d built from broken pieces and made whole.

“You happy?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” he said, kissing her. “I’m home.”