A SECOND CHANCE AT FOREVER Chapter 101: CHAPTER HUNDRED & ONE

KYLE

It had been three days, and I still couldn’t get the sound of her laugh out of my head.

Not the forced, polite one she gave strangers, or the tight smile she wore when people asked too many questions. No. This was real. Loose. Unfiltered. The kind of laugh that cracked something open in me, and I hadn’t been able to seal it back since.

I hadn’t texted her. I told myself to give her space. But every hour that passed made it harder.

So I did the next best thing. I showed up at her store again.

Call it stupid. Call it desperate. Call it me falling into a habit I never quite broke. But I walked in like I had a reason to be there—like I wasn’t just there to see her. Smell the oils. Watch the way she bit her lip when she concentrated. Pretend I wasn’t still completely, absolutely wrecked for her.

The bell jingled as I stepped inside.

She was by the counter, bent over a clipboard, scribbling something with a bright purple pen. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up, a soft smudge of oil on her wrist. Her hair was in that messy bun she only wore when she didn’t expect anyone—when she was in her element. When she was most herself.

She didn’t look up immediately.

And I took a second—just one—to watch her.

Then she looked up.

Her eyes did that flicker thing—surprise, then exasperation, then something I couldn’t quite name. But it wasn’t anger. That was new.

“You know, most people call before showing up,” she said, setting her pen down.

“Most people don’t smell bergamot from the sidewalk and get curious.”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t even like bergamot.”

“I do now.”

That earned me a look. Half-smirk. Half-warning. “You here to sniff perfume or cause trouble?”

“Depends. Which one gets me five more minutes with you?”

That softened her, just barely. She moved behind the counter and began straightening bottles like she wasn’t flustered. Like my presence didn’t affect her the way hers wrecked me. But I knew her too well. The tiny stutter in her movements. The way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear twice.

I cleared my throat, suddenly aware I was just standing there like a lovesick idiot. “You need help with anything?”

“Help?” she repeated, amused. “Kyle, the last time you helped me then.. you spilled sandalwood all over the counter and made the entire house smell like incense for three days.”

“It was romantic,” I said, deadpan. “Very bohemian.”

She laughed. That laugh. And damn it, there it was again—the crack.

I couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop remembering how natural things had felt that night with her. Ice cream. Sidewalks. Sprinkles and sarcasm and the soft silence after.

I didn’t even realize I’d moved closer until I was leaning on the counter, fingers brushing the edge where hers had just been.

Ashley tilted her head, her eyes flicking to the tray of sample bottles beside her. “Actually… I do need help.”

I raised an eyebrow, cautious. “With?”

She pointed. “I’ve been trying to name this new blend for two days. Scent Haven wants something punchy and ‘emotionally evocative,’ but everything I come up with sounds like a candle you’d find in a breakup kit.”

I moved around the counter before she could stop me, plucking up a bottle and sniffing it. Warm. Spicy. Sharp, but not overpowering. “This one?”

She nodded. “Pink pepper, amber, a little blood orange and vanilla.”

“Hmm.” I held it to the light like I knew what I was doing. “What about… Soft Chaos?”

She blinked. “Soft Chaos?”

I shrugged. “It smells like someone who looks put together but would absolutely key your car if you ghosted her.”

Ashley snorted—snorted—and covered her mouth. “God, no. That’s awful. That’s… that’s actually kind of brilliant.”

“Told you I’m a genius.”

She grinned, brushing her fingers against mine to take the bottle back. It was a light touch. Barely there. But I felt it all the way through me.

She turned serious for a second, inspecting the bottle again. “You always used to help me name things, didn’t you?”

“Only the best ones,” I said. “You named our perfume ‘Collapse,’ remember?”

Her eyes flicked to mine—just for a second—before dropping back to the bottle.

Silence hung between us, dense and unspoken.

So I broke it.

“Okay, but hear me out,” I said. “What if we called this one Mild Panic?”

She burst out laughing again. “Kyle.”

“I’m serious. You said emotionally evocative. That’s how I feel every time I’m around you—mild panic.”

“Better than soft chaos?”

“Marginally.”

She shook her head, and that little half-smile tugged at her lips again. That was the thing about Ashley—she always wore her feelings like a secret. But I’d known her long enough to read the cracks in the armor.

“Okay, genius,” she said, setting the bottle down. “If you’re going to loiter in my store giving questionable name ideas, at least make yourself useful. Hand me the patchouli on the top shelf.”

I moved toward the shelf, only to bump into the edge of the stool with my shin. Hard.

Ashley winced as I cursed under my breath, grabbing the edge of the counter for balance.

“Are you okay?” she asked, hurrying over. Her eyes scanned me with concern before dropping to where I’d smacked my shin.

“I’m fine,” I muttered, even as I tried not to limp. “Just went to war with a stool and lost.”

“Let me see”,” she said, crouching beside me. 

“I don’t need—”

“Oh hush.” She was already rolling up the fabric of my pants leg before I could finish protesting.

There was a faint red mark forming, angry and definitely going to bruise by morning. She reached for a small first aid kit under the counter and rummaged through it like she knew exactly where everything was.

“This is for perfume accidents, not clumsy giants,” she mumbled, pulling out a little tin of arnica balm.

“You keep injury balm in a perfume store?”

“Have you met me?” she said, dabbing a bit on her fingers and gently pressing it into the sore spot. Her touch was careful, precise, like she was mixing oils instead of tending to my bruised ego.

I stayed still, more out of surprise than anything. Ashley wasn’t one to fuss. But right now, she was focused, brows furrowed, lashes low as she worked. A stray piece of hair had slipped from her bun, curling along her cheek, and I had to bite down the ridiculous urge to brush it back.

She looked… calm. In her element. The smell of patchouli and orange still hung in the air, but underneath it was her. Familiar. Clean. Sharp, with a little sweetness.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

I blinked. “No I’m not.”

She smirked. “You’re literally burning holes into my scalp.”

“I’m just appreciating the effort,” I said casually. “And the multitasking. Nurse and perfumer. Impressive.”

She gave my leg one last gentle pat and stood. “Try not to sue me for workplace injury.”

“No promises.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back toward the table. “And for the record, I didn’t injure you. The stool did.”

“I feel like your store owes me emotional damages.”

“I’ll write you a coupon for free ice cream.”

“Now we’re talking,” I said, standing up slower than I’d like.

She didn’t laugh this time, but there was something softer in the way she moved—like we’d stepped back into that strange space where things were almost easy again.

And I’d take almost. For now.