Page 17 of Midnight Lessons

“Lasagna’s never just lasagna when you make it,” he says, his grin widening as he steps fully into the apartment. His eyes sweep over the room, taking in the cozy scene I’ve created, candles flickering on the table, plates set for two.

“Thanks.” I manage a smile as I lead him to the kitchen, where the scent of garlic and herbs hangs thick in the air. The small space seems even tinier with him in it.

“Still watching those crappy 80s shows, I see,” he teases, glancing at the TV where an episode of Knight Rider is currently playing.”

“Hey, don’t mock The Hoff,” I say with a mock glower. “Michael and KITT were an awesome crime-fighting duo.”

He shakes his head. “If you say so, sweetheart.”

I blush, and my pulse quickens at the endearment. The past few weeks have been surreal—Owen and I, together but not quitetogether. He’s been sweet and attentive and always there when I need him, but there’s been this restraint. A barrier between us that neither of us has dared cross.

“Wine?” I ask, uncorking the bottle and grabbing two glasses.

He nods, watching me closely as I pour. Does he feel it too? The connection simmering beneath the surface, the unspoken tension waiting to overflow like bubbles from a champagne bottle?

“Thanks,” he says, taking the glass from my hand, his fingers brushingmine.

That simple touch has goosebumps spreading up my arm, tightening my nipples. I take a sip of wine to steady myself.

We move to the table, and for the next few minutes, we do the usual—small talk about work, the bakery, and his latest project at the school. But the air between us feels different tonight. There’s an unspoken weight hanging over us, something neither of us can ignore much longer.

We finish eating and clear the dishes in comfortable silence, moving together in the confined space of the kitchen with an ease that reminds me of better days.

Once we’re done cleaning up, I refill our wine glasses, and we move to the cozy living room. We sit on my small, squashy couch, knees almost touching, the room lit by a soft glow from the lamp in the corner.

Owen picks up an old yearbook from the coffee table, the one I was flipping through last night, and opens it to a picture of us at prom.

“God, can you remember how comically awful that night was?” he asks, pointing at the image ofus, me in a dress that was too tight for my curvy frame and him with so much hair gel, it looked like he’d tipped a bottle of oil on his head.

“Hard to forget.” I chuckle, shaking my head at our younger selves. “You were so proud of that rented tux.”

“And you kept stepping on my toes during the dance.” He grins, the memory a fond one for him too.

“Only because you’re a terrible dancer,” I tease, nudging his shoulder playfully.

“Hey, I’ve improved since then,” he defends himself, closing the book and setting it aside. The air between us is lighter now, tinged with laughter and the comfort of shared history.

“Prove it,” I challenge, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe later.” He winks, and something about the way he says it sends a thrill through me.

Owen leans back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers grazing my shoulder. It’s casual but intentional, and I’m suddenly aware of every point where our bodies are touching.

“Anyway, it feels like we’ve lived a dozen lifetimes since high school, huh?” he muses aloud.

“Feels like it,” I agree, my thoughts drifting. “I always thought I’d leave Midnight Falls. Travel. Maybe even live in another country for a while.”

“Yet here you are, the queen of cookies,” he says with a softness that tells me he understands the underlying confession. “And I can’t imagine this town without you or your Halloween treats.”

His words wrap around me, comforting yet stirring a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. There’s an ease to our conversation that I didn’t expect after everything that’s happened.

And as the evening stretches on, we sip the wine he brought as stories and memories spill out. Laughter bubbles up, surprising me with its lightness.

“Remember that summer when we tried to build a treehouse in Melvyn’s old oak tree?”

I chuckle, already knowing where he's going with this. “Oh God, yes. How could I forget? You were so determined to get that thing built, even though neither of us knew what we were doing.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I still don’t know why we thought a couple of twelve-year-olds could tackle something that big.”

---