The kitchen smelled like vanilla, butter, and a little too much cinnamon. The air was warm, and so was the light streaming in from the tall windows. You leaned against the counter, watching as Micah carefully piped delicate white roses onto the final tier of the wedding cake.

—“I’m telling you,” he muttered, focused, “if I mess this up, they’re never going to forgive me.”

You laughed.

—“They’ll love it, Micah. It’s perfect.”

He glanced up at you, a smudge of flour on his cheek, eyes lingering a second too long. His smile faltered just enough for you to notice, like he wanted to say something and changed his mind halfway through.

The room quieted again except for the hum of the fridge and the gentle clink of his tools. You walked over to peek at the design, but you caught a glimpse of something instead—a little doodle on his notepad by the window. It was your name. Over and over, written in messy loops beside tiny hearts.

Micah noticed. Froze.

—“That’s... just old habit,” he said quickly, wiping his hands on his apron like it could erase the moment too.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The silence was louder than anything else.

He exhaled, setting the piping bag down carefully, and leaned on the table. He didn’t look at you when he said it.

—“It’s weird, right? Making the cake for their wedding. Our best friends. And you’ll be standing up there next to them. Laughing. Dancing. And I’ll be here, in the back, with frosting on my hands, pretending this doesn’t sting.”

You turned to him, heart tight.

He finally looked at you.

—“I’m happy for them,” he whispered, “but sometimes I wish it were you and me. Just... you and me.”