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"It was." The simple validation, the lack of judgment, made something loosen in my chest. "I used to love creating things, but somewhere along the way it became just another way to disappoint people."

"People who demand perfection without allowing for humanity usually end up disappointed," Micah said quietly. "That's their problem, not yours."

"Easy to say, harder to believe," I admitted.

"I know." His voice was gentle. "After Laura left, I spent months convinced I wasn't ambitious enough, driven enough, successful enough. It took time to remember that those were her definitions, not mine."

The parallel he was drawing, the way he offered his own vulnerability without making it about him, made my throat tight with unexpected emotion. "How do you get past it? The voice that tells you you're not enough?"

"Slowly," he said. "And with help. This town, these people, they reminded me that worth isn't about grand achievements or impressive plans. Sometimes it's just about showing up consistently, caring about small things, making someone's day a little better with the right pastry."

I found myself really looking at him then, taking in the genuine warmth in his expression, the way he spoke about his life here with quiet pride rather than defensiveness. He wasn't trying to impress me or prove anything. He was just... himself. Content in his own skin in a way I envied.

"You're easy to talk to," he said, as if reading my thoughts. "That's rare."

"Is it?"

"In my experience, yes. Most people are performing some version of themselves. You feel real."

The compliment hit deeper than it should have, probably because it was exactly what I'd been afraid I'd lost. The ability to be genuine, to connect with someone without calculating every word.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "For today. For making me feel like..."

"Like what?"

"Like myself. For the first time in a long while."

Something shifted in Micah's expression, a warmth that made my pulse quicken. We were sitting closer now, the space between us somehow smaller. His scent curled around me, warm bread, cinnamon, and something deeper. My own scent responded before I even realized it, softening with contentment, recognition. Safety.

"Kit," he said softly, and there was something in his voice that made me look up, meet his eyes directly.

The moment stretched between us, charged with possibility. He lifted his hand, fingers brushing against my cheek so gently I might have imagined it. The touch sent sparks down my spine, and I found myself leaning into it without conscious thought.

His thumb traced across my cheekbone, and I saw his gaze drop to my lips for just a moment before returning to my eyes. The question there was clear, patient, waiting for my answer.

But the intimacy of it, the tenderness, was so different from what I'd known that it startled me. I pulled back slightly, not in fear but in sudden, overwhelming vulnerability.

Micah's hand dropped immediately, his expression shifting to gentle understanding rather than disappointment. "No rush," he said quietly. "I like spending time with you, whatever that looks like."

The reassurance, the complete lack of pressure, made my chest ache with gratitude. "I'm sorry, I just..."

"Don't apologize. Not for setting boundaries." He settled back on the bench, giving me space while staying close enough that I didn't feel rejected. "We have all the time in the world."

All the time in the world. The phrase felt like a promise, like maybe there really was space here for me to heal at my own pace without rush or expectation.

"We should probably head back," I said reluctantly, noticing how the light was starting to change. "I don't want to keep you too long."

"You're not keeping me," Micah said, but he stood and offered me his hand to help me up. "But you're right, dinner prep calls."

The walk back to town was quieter but comfortable, the easy conversation of the afternoon settling into something warmer, more intimate. By the time we reached the bakery, I felt lighter than I had in months.

"Thank you," I said as we stopped in front of my car. "This was exactly what I needed."

"Same here," Micah said with a smile. "Maybe we can do it again sometime? I never did show you the greenhouse behind the bakery."

"I'd like that."

He reached out like he might touch my hand, then seemed to think better of it. "Drive safe. Text me when you get home?"