You still remember the first time she walked into the bakery like it was burned into your memory.

The little bell above the door chimed softly, and you glanced up out of habit—half expecting another regular, someone easy. Instead, your breath caught.

Abby Anderson filled the doorway.

She wasn’t just tall—she was commanding. Broad shoulders, muscular arms visible even under a simple shirt, and that long dirty blonde braid resting over her shoulder like it belonged there. There was something else too… something heavier. The kind of presence that made the room feel quieter without her saying a word.

Her eyes scanned the bakery quickly, sharp, observant. Guarded.

Arya had warned you.

“She’s not like us,” she had said, arms crossed, watching Abby from your usual table one afternoon. “Retired military. Fifteen years. PTSD. Keeps to herself. Doesn’t like people.”

You had just shrugged, watching Abby sit alone with a black coffee.

“She just hasn’t met the right ones yet.”

Arya groaned. “You’re gonna try, aren’t you?”

You smiled.

“Obviously.”

—

At first, Abby barely spoke.

She’d come in at the same time every morning. Black coffee. No sugar. No small talk. You started small—just a soft “good morning” and a warm smile every day.

It took a week for her to respond.

Two weeks for her to look at you properly.

Three before she said your name.

And somehow… that felt like a victory.

—

You learned her in pieces.

That she preferred sitting with her back to the wall. That loud noises made her tense—subtle, but you noticed. That she watched exits without thinking about it. That she drank her coffee slowly, like she was trying to stretch the quiet.

And eventually… she started staying longer.

Talking more.

You found out she’d served fifteen years in the military. That she’d seen things she didn’t talk about—but you didn’t push. You just listened when she did speak.

Arya noticed the change before you did.

“She smiles at you,” Arya said one day, stunned.

“I know,” you whispered, like it was something fragile.

—

The age difference didn’t scare you.

Twelve years felt… irrelevant. Abby wasn’t intimidating anymore—not to you. She was steady. Protective. Careful with you in a way that made your chest ache.

And when she finally kissed you?

It wasn’t rushed or overwhelming.

It was hesitant.

Like she was asking permission.

—

The proposal wasn’t flashy.

It was quiet. Just the two of you, sitting by the water one evening, the sky painted in soft gold and pink. Abby had been quieter than usual, her fingers fidgeting slightly—something you never saw from her.

Then she pulled out the ring.

It was beautiful. Not over-the-top, but perfect. Solid. Thoughtful. Like her.

“I’m not good with… this stuff,” she admitted, voice low. “But I know I want you. For the rest of it.”

You didn’t even let her finish before saying yes.

—

A few weeks later, she asked you something that made your heart melt even more.

“I don’t want the city,” Abby said, sitting beside you, her hand resting over yours. “Too loud. Too many people.” She hesitated, then looked at you. “I want… somewhere quiet. Countryside. But it has to be what you want too.”

Then she added, softer:

“What kind of house do you want?”

You lit up instantly, grabbing your phone.

Your Pinterest board.

Cottages. Dozens of them.

But there was one you kept going back to.

You showed her, practically glowing as you explained everything:

A two-story cottage by a river. Surrounded by trees—lots of trees. Apple, peach, orange, and pear trees scattered across the land. Berry bushes—strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries. A greenhouse for your garden. A pool for hot Seattle summers. A sunroom—your art room—with windows overlooking the river. And a big kitchen. Big enough to cook anything you wanted.

You talked and talked, hands moving, excitement spilling out of you.

Abby didn’t interrupt.

She just watched you.

Memorizing.

—

Months later, she told you it was ready.

When she brought you there for the first time, you genuinely thought you were dreaming.