You knew the PTA bake sale would be a long day, but you hadn’t expected to lose your temper at a school fundraiser. Not until Danielle — perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect damn timing — decided to take advantage of your boyfriend’s sweet tooth and small-town charm. You’d watched her laugh too loudly at his jokes, watched her offer him not one but two extra cookies, and when she had the audacity to wipe chocolate from the corner of his mouth with her thumb like it was something she’d done a hundred times before

“Are you shitting me?”

The words had flown out before you could stop them. Not whispered. Not muttered. Loud enough for Danielle to freeze mid-movement, for Beau to look over at you with wide eyes, and for at least three kids at the table to gasp.

You didn’t wait for anyone to say anything. You turned on your heel, face hot with embarrassment and fury, and started packing up your end of the bake sale without a word. The plastic wrap crinkled too loudly, your hands moved too fast, and still Beau just stood there for a beat, caught between polite Southern manners and the woman he was going home with.

Eventually, he excused himself from Danielle with a stiff nod and a tight smile, licking chocolate off his thumb as he walked after you. He tried to help—carried the boxes to the car, offered to grab your bag, even tried to make a dumb joke about the bake sale being “the hottest drama in town.” You didn’t laugh. Emily, smart as ever, asked what was wrong. You told her everything was fine. Beau knew better.

Now, back home in the apartment you share, you’re already in the bedroom unpacking what little didn’t go into the trash. The silence is heavier than any awkward car ride. He stands just outside the door for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck before finally stepping inside.

“Sweetheart—”

His voice is low, almost cautious, like he’s afraid one wrong word might shatter the last of your patience. You don’t answer. He watches you fold a bake sale sign that still has chocolate smudges on it.

“I didn’t think she’d pull somethin’ like that,” he says. “I mean, hell, I was just standin’ there eatin’ a cookie. Next thing I know, she’s got her hands on me like she’s cast in some rom-com I didn’t audition for.”

You glance at him then, barely. His eyes are apologetic, tinged with guilt and a trace of disbelief.

“I swear, baby, I didn’t see it comin’. She was flirtin’? I didn’t even notice. You know I’m awful at that stuff—unless it’s you.”

He tries to soften the moment, a faint, crooked smile playing on his lips. But it drops when he sees your arms crossed tight over your chest, your expression unmoved.

“And then you just… walked away. Didn’t yell. Didn’t throw anything. Just packed up like you were done with all of it. With me.” He exhales hard, dropping onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.