Aarushi Sen
Rivalry on Maple Street
There were only two things Maya Verma loved more than cinnamon rolls: winning and watching Theo Fernandes lose.
Which is why Monday morning began exactly the way she liked it—with Theo storming out of his café across the street, scowling at a batch of sunken muffins while Maya casually sipped her soy cappuccino on the patio of Sugar & Sage, her quaint vegan café with mismatched chairs and hanging ferns.
“Morning, Theo,” she called sweetly, stirring her coffee like it held all her smugness.
Theo glared at her. “Your oven’s probably powered by smugness.”
“It runs on optimism and oat milk, actually.”
This was Maple Street. The heart of Maplewood. And home to the longest-running feud in pastry history: Sugar & Sage vs. Fern & Frost—the sleek, glossy dessert bar that Theo inherited from his Portuguese grandmother. His cakes were sinful. Her brownies were guilt-free. The town was divided, like frosting on a half-and-half birthday cake.
But all rivalries need fuel. And this year’s came early.
Granny Jo, Maya’s flamboyant seventy-two-year-old grandmother with a cane and a megaphone, came barging into the café holding a bright pink flyer. “It’s back, Maya! The Sweetheart Chef Contest! The Jenkinses have won three years in a row with their PDA and lemon bars. We are breaking that streak!”
Maya rolled her eyes. “Granny, I’m not a couple.”
“That’s what Theo’s for.”
Maya almost spit out her coffee. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve seen the way you two argue. That’s not hate, that’s unresolved tension with a sprinkle of denial. You’d be perfect together—on paper.”
Before Maya could protest, the bell over her door jingled and in walked Theo, holding the same flyer.
“No,” they both said at the same time, pointing at each other.
Granny Jo clapped her hands. “Perfect! Chemistry!”
Theo narrowed his eyes. “This is a joke.”
“I’d rather enter the contest with a burnt pie crust.”
Maya snorted. “Your pie crusts are always burnt.”
Theo turned red. “You use banana peel bacon. That should be illegal.”
Granny Jo smacked her cane on the floor. “Enough! You two want to win, right? The prize money is five thousand dollars and a feature in Bite Weekly. Your cafés could use that. So either fake a relationship and bake like your lives depend on it—or let the Jenkinses win again by licking frosting off each other on national TV.”
There was silence. A long, awkward, butter-scented silence.
Maya spoke first. “Fine. But only because I refuse to let Darla Jenkins win again with her fake eyelashes and fake orgasms over truffle tarts.”
Theo sighed. “This is going to be a disaster.”
Granny Jo beamed. “The best ones always are.”
The next day began with rehearsed hand-holding outside the farmer’s market.
“Smile,” Maya muttered.
“I am smiling,” Theo said through clenched teeth.
“You look like you’re in dental pain.”
People were already staring. Mrs. Patel, who ran the flower shop, nearly dropped a whole bouquet. “You two? Together? Well, butter my biscuit!”
Maya gave a painful laugh. “Crazy, right?”
Theo leaned in, whispering. “Why do you smell like lavender and judgment?”
“Because I wear lavender oil and I judge you. Walk faster.”
At Fern & Frost, Theo dragged her in for a fake “surprise visit” that turned into a disaster when she touched his mixing bowl and he screamed like she’d insulted his ancestors.
“Don’t ever stir clockwise. You’re breaking the air bubbles.”
“You’re breaking my will to live.”
They posed for a selfie in front of the mixing station. Maya posted it with the caption:
“When rivals become sweethearts 💕 #FakeDate #TotallyRealLove #PastryBae”
Within minutes, Maplewood’s unofficial gossip page lit up.
@sweetmapletruths: “BREAKING: Maya & Theo are dating?? I smell more than cinnamon rolls…”
@darlaJenkinsOfficial: “Lol, we love a good publicity stunt. Good luck, ‘lovebirds.’”
Maya threw her phone down. “We need to convince these people we’re real.”
Theo crossed his arms. “Let’s do it. But on one condition—no tofu in our contest entry.”
“Only if you admit that my gluten-free cookies are better than
Tofu Wars and Truffle Trouble
“Only if you admit that my gluten-free cookies are better than your overpriced lava cakes,” Maya finished, arms folded, eyebrow raised.
Theo gasped like she’d insulted his great-grandmother. “Lava cakes are not overpriced. They are artisanal experiences in ceramic ramekins.”
“You sound like a bakery brochure.”
They were in Theo’s kitchen now, the so-called neutral zone where their Sweetheart Chef Contest recipe would be tested. Maya had reluctantly agreed to bake in Fern & Frost for the day—Granny Jo insisted on “shared oven time” to build couple chemistry.
Spoiler alert: No chemistry. Just passive-aggressive whisking.
Maya plopped a slab of tofu onto the counter with the determination of someone preparing for battle. “This is our protein-rich secret ingredient.”
Theo stepped back like she’d brought in raw uranium. “No. No tofu. This is a dessert contest, not a sad salad potluck.”
“It’s silken tofu,” Maya explained, slicing it elegantly. “It gives mousse a creamy texture without dairy. People love it.”
“People also loved the Titanic before it sank.”
Granny Jo peeked in from the hallway, holding her knitting. “You better start looking like a couple before I sign you up for couple’s therapy.”
Theo muttered, “We’d break the therapist.”
Still, they went to work. Maya whipped up a vegan dark chocolate tofu mousse while Theo insisted on tempering Belgian chocolate for his truffle heart centers. She hummed an old Kishore Kumar tune as she garnished her test batch with pomegranate pearls.
He stared. “What are those?”
“Flavor bombs,” she said cheerfully. “Unlike your boring chocolate blocks.”
“They’re called truffles. They’re the Prada of pastries.”
She smirked. “Yeah? Well this tofu’s the Tesla of texture.”
They didn’t notice Granny Jo quietly filming them from behind a fern.
The next morning, the post went viral on Maplewood’s Facebook group:
“The way Theo looks at Maya when she fluffs tofu. Be still my cinnamon heart!” – @SweetMapleSpy
Comments poured in:
@MrsPetersBakes: “I ship them. Is Theofaya a thing yet?”
@DonutDaddy78: “Didn’t see that coming but okay I’m invested.”
@DarlaJenkinsOfficial: “Cute. If you’re into staged tofu romances. #TryHardLove”
Maya groaned. “Why does she always hashtag like a villain?”
Theo shrugged, scrolling through his phone. “Admit it—you love the attention.”
She looked up. “You think I care about attention?”
“You posted five couple photos yesterday. With captions.”
“I’m building narrative.”
“You’re performing a rom-com.”
She leaned in. “And you’re in it. So smile.”
He blinked. “Was that… flirty?”
“Was it?” she said innocently, walking off to refill her coffee. He stared after her a second too long.
Later that day, they set up for the official pre-contest photoshoot in front of Town Hall. The Jenkinses arrived first, of course, wearing matching red aprons that read “Whisked Together.”
Darla leaned over with a fox-like grin. “Well, if it isn’t Maplewood’s latest PR stunt. Planning to bake us into a coma, lovebirds?”
Theo deadpanned. “Only if coma tastes like regret and overbaked lemon squares.”
Burt Jenkins chuckled too loudly. “We’ll be rooting for you. From the winner’s podium.”
Maya grabbed Theo’s arm for the camera, plastering on the fakest smile in her arsenal. “Smile like we just got engaged,” she whispered.
Theo raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty specific request.”
“Just do it.”
As the camera clicked, she leaned her head against him—pretend, of course. But Theo didn’t pull away. For one second, it was oddly comfortable. She smelled like vanilla bean and quiet ambition. His hand, meant to rest politely on her back, stayed a second too long.
Click.
They stepped apart awkwardly, both clearing their throats.
“That’s enough love for today,” Maya said briskly.
“Agreed,” Theo mumbled.
Back in Maya’s café, things were not so romantic. She returned to find her mixer oddly unplugged, and her prep fridge slightly ajar. She frowned.
Granny Jo noticed it too. “You sure you left everything closed, sweet pea?”
“I always do.”
Her mousse samples had melted. Her vanilla had vanished. It was too early to panic, but something felt off.
Sabotage? No. That would be childish.
Except this was Maplewood. And nothing was off the table—not even sabotage by spatula.
Operation Pastry Panic
Maya stood in the middle of her café kitchen, arms folded, eyes narrowed. Her once-smooth mousse was now a sad puddle of chocolate sorrow. The mini fridge door hung open like a crime scene, and her special stash of Madagascar vanilla—sealed in a gold-topped bottle—was gone.
“Okay,” she muttered, scanning the room. “Someone’s playing dirty.”
Granny Jo poked her head in from the back with a spoon in her mouth. “Maybe your fridge is haunted. Or the tofu’s finally had enough.”
“This is sabotage, Granny. And I have a suspect.”
“You think Theo did it?”
Maya hesitated. “Well… he was here yesterday. And he does hate tofu. And I did call his lava cakes ‘moist disappointment’ during a podcast once.”
Granny Jo cackled. “To be fair, they were.”
Over at Fern & Frost, Theo was having a minor crisis of his own. His box of cocoa-dusted truffle shells was mysteriously missing from the prep shelf. He’d looked everywhere. He even accused the dishwasher, who responded with a dramatic resignation and stormed out mid-sponge.
“Unbelievable,” Theo muttered, digging through boxes. “This town would sell its soul for a lemon tart.”
His best friend Raj, who handled the front counter, peeked in. “Maybe it’s the Tofu Witch.”
“Don’t call her that.”
Raj grinned. “Wow. That sounded defensive.”
Theo stood up, covered in cocoa powder. “Look, I don’t like her, okay? We’re just pretending to date for prize money. She’s tofu. I’m chocolate. We don’t mix.”
“Chocolate and tofu actually make a pretty good mousse.”
“Shut up, Raj.”
Later that afternoon, Maya stormed into Fern & Frost, apron still on, looking like she’d just fought a flour tornado.
Theo raised an eyebrow. “Nice of you to break into my café. You want a croissant or just more drama?”
“You stole my vanilla,” she accused.
“What?”
“And left my fridge open. Admit it!”
Theo laughed. “You think I sabotage tofu mousse? I lost my truffles, Maya. Someone messed with me too.”
Maya paused. “Wait… seriously?”
He nodded. “I thought it was you.”
They stared at each other, realization dawning.
“Oh no,” Maya said. “It’s Darla Jenkins. That citrus-scented snake.”
Theo looked horrified. “She’s sabotaging both of us?”
Maya nodded grimly. “It’s Operation Lemon Wedge.”
Theo leaned on the counter. “I should’ve known when she complimented my piping technique. No one nice says ‘that swirl has potential.’”
So they did the only reasonable thing two fake-dating rival bakers would do: break into Darla Jenkins’s prep station at the community hall after hours.
“Are you sure this is legal?” Theo whispered, crouching behind a stack of fondant buckets.
Maya peeked over the stainless-steel table. “Technically, no. Morally? Absolutely.”
They tiptoed across the tiled floor like they were in a Mission Impossible movie, only instead of stealing diamonds, they were looking for stolen vanilla and truffle molds.
Theo opened a fridge.
And there it was.
A jar of Madagascar vanilla, with a faded label from Sugar & Sage. Nestled beside it? A box of half-melted truffle shells. Theo’s brand.
He turned to Maya, eyes wide. “She took both of us down.”
Maya stared. “We’ve been Jenkinsed.”
On their way out, Maya grabbed a lemon square and took a bite out of pure spite. “Tastes like betrayal.”
Theo smirked. “We can’t prove she did it.”
“Yet.”
“Then we need a plan.”
Maya nodded slowly, mouth full. “Operation Pastry Panic. We make something better. Something she can’t sabotage. Something unstoppable.”
Theo looked unsure. “Together?”
Maya sighed. “Look, you still annoy me.”
“You grated beets into a brownie.”
“You wear three aprons like you’re baking in the Queen’s court.”
“But…” She hesitated. “You also care. About the food. About the details. And if we work together, we can actually win this thing.”
Theo shrugged. “Fine. But if I see even one chia seed, I’m walking.”
They returned to Sugar & Sage just after midnight. The café was quiet, lit only by the soft yellow glow of the hanging fairy lights. Theo looked around.
“I hate how cozy this place is,” he muttered.
Maya handed him a spoonful of her newly revised mousse. “Try this.”
He tasted it. Paused. Swallowed.
“…Okay. That’s freakishly good.”
“No tofu this time. Avocado.”
Theo blinked. “Who are you?”
“Someone who wants to beat Darla Jenkins.”
He held up a mixing bowl. “Let’s bake, partner.”
They smiled—grudgingly, awkwardly, but… real.
Swirls, Spoilers, and a Sudden Kiss
At 12:42 a.m., Sugar & Sage smelled like magic.
The air was thick with bittersweet chocolate, roasted hazelnuts, and something else—something neither Maya nor Theo could name. Maybe it was adrenaline. Or pride. Or the strange aftertaste of partnership they’d started to get used to.
Theo was piping delicate chocolate hearts onto Maya’s avocado mousse base, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“You look like you’re solving world hunger,” she teased.
He didn’t look up. “Precision matters. One bad swirl and it all falls apart.”
“You say that like it’s a life motto.”
“It kind of is.”
Maya rolled her eyes and adjusted the garnish on her tray. “Well, Picasso, make sure your chocolate doesn’t droop. I don’t want your lazy piping ruining my masterpiece.”
He glanced at her, a rare softness in his smile. “You know, when you’re not throwing tofu at people, you’re actually… impressive.”
She blinked. “Did you just compliment me?”
“I’m hallucinating from lack of sleep. Don’t get used to it.”
Maya turned back to her tray, but the corner of her mouth twitched up.
As they worked into the early hours, something shifted.
They shared playlists. Maya confessed her obsession with Korean baking vlogs. Theo admitted he used to cry during The Great British Bake Off eliminations. They laughed too hard over burnt test tarts and argued over the optimal spoon-to-dish ratio like it was politics.
At some point, Maya leaned over Theo’s shoulder to correct his chocolate drizzle angle. Her hand brushed his. He didn’t pull away.
She froze. He turned his head.
Their faces were… close.
Very close.
Too close.
“Don’t move,” she whispered. “There’s… powdered sugar on your cheek.”
“Oh,” he said, not moving.
She reached up to dust it off with her thumb, fingers trembling slightly.
Their eyes met.
And just like that—
It happened.
A kiss.
Quick. Soft. Unexpected.
Like two rivals slipped and landed mouth-first into something dangerously real.
They pulled away at the same time.
Theo cleared his throat. “Okay. That was…”
“A disaster,” Maya blurted.
“Yeah. Total disaster.”
They stood silently for a moment, the air between them now warm in a different way.
Maya busied herself with a spoon. “We should keep working.”
Theo nodded quickly. “Right. The mousse. The mousse is priority.”
The next morning, Maplewood Sun ran a special feature on the Sweetheart Chef Contest participants.
There, right in the center fold, was a candid shot of Maya and Theo at the midnight counter—smiling, baking, inches from each other.
The caption read:
📸 “From bitter rivals to baking soulmates?”
Comments flooded in. The town had already made up its mind. They were rooting for #Theaya now. A ship had sailed.
Back at Fern & Frost, Theo stared at his phone.
Raj peered over. “So. Are you in love with her yet?”
Theo groaned. “No. That kiss was a fluke.”
Raj smirked. “Fluke-fluke, or Netflix romantic subplot fluke?”
Theo threw a dish towel at him. “Go refill the espresso machine.”
At Sugar & Sage, Granny Jo was reading the paper with smug delight. “You two look like frosting and fireworks.”
Maya mumbled into her cup. “It was… a strategy kiss.”
Granny raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, kisses don’t come with strategy. That’s why they work.”
That evening, they met again at the community kitchen for the contest rehearsal.
No sabotage this time. No missing ingredients.
But there was tension—electric, awkward, and swirling between the swirls of chocolate and the heat of the ovens.
Theo said quietly, “About last night—”
Maya cut in, eyes on her piping bag. “Let’s not talk about it. We’ve got a contest to win.”
He hesitated. “Right. Professionalism.”
“Strictly.”
“Totally.”
So they worked—shoulder to shoulder, heartbeats slightly off rhythm, pretending that the kiss didn’t mean something neither of them wanted to admit.
Yet.
The Jenkins Trap and a Baking Breakdown
The rehearsal round of the Sweetheart Chef Contest was held in Maplewood’s grand community hall—a place that looked like a barn had gotten a renovation and a Pinterest account. White fairy lights twinkled across the beams, the scent of sugar and competition thick in the air.
Ten couples had gathered, armed with stand mixers and sugar dreams. And then there were Maya and Theo—faking it for the cameras, but barely faking their flustered glances.
“Remember,” Maya whispered as they tied on matching aprons, “we’re a team.”
Theo nodded, tightening his apron strings. “Even if one of us believes tofu is a food group and the other has taste.”
She elbowed him. Lightly. “Be nice.”
Their signature dessert—Double Chocolate Mousse with Hazelnut Heart and Candied Basil Crumble—was a hit during tasting. Judges took silent notes. Theo caught one of them licking the spoon. Maya saw another go back for seconds. Things were looking up.
Until the Jenkinses arrived.
Darla wore red lipstick, red shoes, and a red apron that screamed homewrecking cinnamon roll. Burt trailed behind her, carrying their “surprise showstopper”: a croquembouche in the shape of a heart tower, dripping in spun sugar and smugness.
“Hello, darlings,” Darla sang, walking over to Maya and Theo’s station with the grace of a Disney villain. “Just thought we’d stop by and wish you luck. You’ll need it.”
Theo forced a smile. “You too. Your croquembouche looks lovely. Shame about the burnt choux.”
Darla’s smile faltered for half a second. Maya almost clapped.
But then Darla dropped the real bomb.
“Oh, by the way,” she said sweetly, “one of the judges is allergic to basil.”
Maya froze. “What?”
Theo looked at their tray. “Our crumble has candied basil.”
Darla’s lashes fluttered. “Oops. Did I ruin the surprise?”
She walked off with a wink.
Maya’s heart sank. “What if she’s right? What if it knocks points?”
Theo was already pulling the tray back. “We change it. Last minute.”
“With what? We don’t have time!”
He scanned the ingredients shelf. “Mint. And a little lime zest. Give it a refreshing kick.”
“You sure?”
He looked her dead in the eyes. “We’ve got this.”
But five minutes into the redo, the mixer jammed.
Then the baking sheet buckled in the oven.
And then Maya, in a panic to grab the lime, knocked over the entire bowl of crumble onto the floor.
She gasped. “No no no no—”
Theo knelt beside her, helping pick up pieces. “It’s okay, we’ve got time.”
“No, we don’t!” she snapped. “We’re going to lose because I panicked and dropped the most important part—”
“Maya—”
She stood, breathing hard, brushing flour off her face. “Maybe this whole thing is a joke. We faked our way in, we faked being a couple, and now we’re faking teamwork too.”
He straightened up. “You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” she said, her voice cracking. “Except that I can’t mess this up. Not again.”
He looked at her, really looked.
“Maya, hey. Breathe. It’s just a crumble.”
“No. It’s not. It’s my café, Theo. It’s my last chance. I don’t have a backup plan like you and your dessert truck and your—charming cheekbones.”
He blinked. “Wait—what?”
“Nothing,” she mumbled, turning away.
He placed a hand gently on her arm. “Maya. We’re not faking the teamwork. Not anymore. We’re here. Together. And if you fall apart, I’ll carry the tray myself. But I’d rather bake with you.”
She looked up, teary-eyed. “Even if I’m an oat-milk mess?”
He smiled. “Especially then.”
With two minutes on the clock, they improvised. Theo grabbed crushed shortbread cookies, toasted them with sugar and zest. Maya whipped a new batch of mousse like her life depended on it.
They plated with thirty seconds to spare.
The dish wasn’t what they’d rehearsed.
It was better.
Cleaner. Sharper. Real.
As they stepped back from the counter, breathless and covered in chocolate dust, Theo turned to her.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You didn’t say anything about the kiss.”
Maya swallowed. “You didn’t either.”
“I’m saying it now.”
She looked at him, uncertain. “So what are we saying?”
He took her hand. “That maybe… it wasn’t a disaster.”
A pause.
Then a smile.
Then—another kiss.
No powdered sugar. No strategy.
Just… honest sweetness.
Trouble in the Tasting Room
“Please clear your stations,” announced the booming voice of Mrs. Mapleton, the head judge and owner of The Whisk & Whistle Bakery. She adjusted her spectacles with theatrical flair. “Tasting begins now.”
The room fell into an anxious hush. Dishes gleamed under the overhead lights. Couples smiled nervously. Darla and Burt posed next to their glittery croquembouche as if they’d birthed it.
Maya and Theo exchanged one last look—half nerves, half giddy relief.
The judges made their rounds. One tasted a burnt peach tart and coughed discreetly into a napkin. Another struggled to cut into a pie crust that could double as construction material. Then, finally, they arrived at Maya and Theo’s table.
Judge #1, a stern-looking food critic named Vikram Roy, examined their plated mousse like it owed him money. He scooped a bite, sniffed, then tasted.
Silence.
Maya clutched Theo’s hand under the table.
Judge #2, a soft-spoken baker from Vermont, tried a spoonful and gave a tiny, reverent sigh. “That is… delightfully complex. Silky texture. Bright finish.”
Judge #3, the rumored basil-allergic one, cautiously took a bite.
Theo held his breath.
The judge blinked.
Then smiled.
“No basil,” he said. “Smart call. The mint lifts the chocolate.”
Maya and Theo exhaled so hard it probably moved nearby frosting.
Vikram Roy spoke at last. “You’ve got balance. You’ve got technique. And somehow, you’ve made chocolate… playful.”
Theo nudged Maya. “He called us playful.”
“Miracle,” she whispered.
But across the room, Darla Jenkins was not enjoying her turn.
One judge struggled to bite into the sugar lattice. Another looked concerned about the rum filling. The third accidentally jabbed a piece of spun sugar into her eye.
Darla watched in horror as her croquembouche dream tower tilted… and collapsed.
Crack.
Burt gasped. “No!”
One judge winced. “That’s… unfortunate.”
Darla, twitching, forced a smile. “The deconstruction is intentional.”
Maya leaned toward Theo. “Should we send condolences or just glitter?”
Theo whispered, “Send both.”
After the tasting, contestants were ushered out while the judges deliberated.
Outside in the sunlit courtyard, tension gave way to ice cream from a volunteer stand and awkward small talk.
Theo handed Maya a cone. “Salted caramel. No tofu.”
“Appreciate it.”
They sat on a wooden bench near the fountain. Maplewood’s church bell chimed in the distance. Maya swung her feet slightly like a kid.
“So,” she said, licking the melting swirl. “We’re doing okay.”
Theo nodded. “I’d say better than okay.”
She turned to him. “Theo, can I ask you something?”
“Only if it’s not about chia seeds.”
She smiled. “No, I’m serious. When we started this thing… was it just about winning for you?”
He hesitated. “At first, yeah. I wanted the prize money. And maybe to beat you.”
“Nice.”
“But somewhere between the flour fights and near-arrest for breaking into Darla’s kitchen…” He paused. “I just wanted more time with you.”
Her smile dropped softly into something warmer. “Me too.”
There was a long pause. Then—
“You have ice cream on your nose,” he said.
She scrunched it. “Get it off.”
He leaned in and wiped it gently.
Their eyes met again. Not the first time. But somehow, this time felt like a decision.
They didn’t kiss.
Not yet.
But they didn’t have to.
The announcement happened on stage beneath a banner that read “Sweetheart Chef Champions 2025.”
Third place went to a couple from out of town who’d made molten ginger cakes and held hands the entire time. Second place… went to the Jenkinses.
Gasps. Murmurs. Darla looked like she might sue the universe.
“And the winners of this year’s Sweetheart Chef Contest,” Mrs. Mapleton announced, “for creativity, teamwork, and a dessert that made Judge Roy actually smile… are Theo Fernandes and Maya Verma!”
The crowd erupted.
Granny Jo burst into tears. “I knew it! I raised a winner!”
Theo pulled Maya onstage. Their hands were still sticky with joy and sugar, but neither cared. They posed for the camera. Not as rivals. Not as a fake couple.
Just… a beginning.
Fern & Sage and Future Things
Two days after the big win, Maplewood still smelled like celebration.
The town paper featured Maya and Theo on the front page, beaming beneath a chocolate-smeared banner. The headline read:
“Sweethearts or Sweet Lies? Maple Street’s Rivals Win the Gold.”
“I mean, that’s fair,” Theo said, flipping the paper over as they sat outside Sugar & Sage. “We did fake it.”
Maya sipped her lavender latte. “Speak for yourself. I felt at least thirty percent genuine affection.”
He grinned. “Thirty? That’s generous.”
Their elbows brushed on the bench between their cafés. A new awkwardness had settled in—not the old one fueled by sarcasm and frosting insults. This was new. Tender. Undefined.
“Granny Jo says we should start a YouTube channel,” Maya muttered.
“Ignore her,” Theo said. “She told me to propose using a macaroon.”
“She told me you were a ‘fine specimen of pastry potential.’”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or frightened.”
They sat in silence for a beat, listening to birds and distant milk frothers.
Then Maya blurted, “I’ve been thinking.”
Theo tensed. “Uh oh.”
“No, good thinking. Maybe. I mean…” She exhaled. “What if we—what if we actually… merged?”
He blinked. “As in…?”
“Our cafés.”
He choked on his coffee. “You want to merge businesses? With me?”
“Look, it’s crazy, I know. But hear me out. We’re across the street. We both need the extra foot traffic. People already think we’re some kind of Maplewood baking power couple.”
He scratched his neck. “You want to call it… Sugar & Frost?”
She made a face. “That sounds like a shampoo brand. I was thinking… Fern & Sage. Equal parts you and me. Sweet and earthy. Dessert with roots.”
Theo looked stunned. “You’ve… actually thought about this.”
She smiled shyly. “I may have sketched a logo during last night’s staff meeting.”
He leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “Wow. I mean… it’s bold.”
“It’s just an idea. You can say no.”
He didn’t say no.
He said, “Let’s try a pop-up.”
Maya blinked. “Seriously?”
“We test it for one weekend. Combine menus. Share space. See if we don’t kill each other.”
She laughed. “That’s the most romantic offer you’ve ever made.”
By Saturday, the pop-up was real.
Fern & Sage opened its doors for the first time in a hybrid space—her cozy café with his dessert bar’s minimal flair. His black-and-gold signage leaned beside her potted plants. His decadent lava cakes shared the display case with her raspberry-oat bars. There was even a corner called “The Compromise Counter” featuring vegan chocolate croissants and oat milk hot fudge.
The turnout was massive.
Couples came in for date brunch. Kids begged for mousse swirls. Food bloggers took photos of the floral walls and captioned them:
“Enemies-to-Lovers Café Is Real, and I’m Crying.”
Raj, now the official barista-DJ hybrid, played soft jazz. Granny Jo danced with a retired librarian near the sugar-free section.
Theo and Maya worked side by side, shouting orders, plating, laughing, occasionally bumping into each other.
And when a customer asked, “So… are you two actually together now?”—they both paused.
Maya looked at Theo.
He looked at her.
And then he said, “Yeah. We are.”
That night, after the crowd dwindled and only the fairy lights remained, Theo and Maya sat in the empty café, feet up on a table, sharing leftover mousse straight from the bowl.
“I’ve never been more exhausted,” she murmured.
“I’ve never been more full,” he replied, mouth full.
She turned to him. “So what now?”
He looked around, then back at her. “We keep baking. We keep building. We keep kissing, preferably more often.”
She smiled, leaning in. “That last one’s especially important.”
They kissed—no panic, no contest, no pretense.
Just Fern. Just Sage.
Just them.
The Last Bite
The official grand opening of Fern & Sage was scheduled for Sunday, and Maplewood hadn’t shut up about it all week.
The café’s windows were painted with pastel vines and handwritten chalkboard signs reading “Sweet Meets Savory” and “Yes, We’re Actually a Couple Now.”
Theo insisted on serving free espresso shots for couples. Maya insisted on biodegradable cups. They argued about table runners, agreed on lighting, and somehow found a rhythm that felt like they’d been doing this for years.
“I swear the universe conspired to shove us into a mixer,” Maya said, adjusting the daffodils in a mason jar.
Theo passed her a tray of mini tarts. “If so, it had excellent taste.”
Raj clanged a spoon against a saucepan. “You two are gross. Can we focus?”
“On love?” Maya teased.
“On inventory,” he groaned. “You’re both out of chocolate again.”
The line outside was longer than expected.
A local food vlogger livestreamed the launch, panning over Theo’s ganache-drenched brownies and Maya’s basil-laced lemon muffins. One tourist even asked if they were “that viral fake couple turned real couple from Instagram.”
“I suppose that’s us,” Theo said, shaking hands.
“Legendary,” the tourist whispered.
Inside, Granny Jo sat at her corner table wearing sunglasses and a shirt that read: Team Theaya: I Called It First. She waved her cane like royalty.
Maya walked over with a plate. “Extra crumble, just for you.”
“Crumble and closure,” Granny Jo winked. “Now go kiss your business partner before someone else does.”
By sunset, the last customer had left, and the closed sign went up.
The counters were sticky, feet ached, and someone had spilled ganache on the new rug. But Maya and Theo were too tired to care.
They stood behind the counter, staring at each other, surrounded by trays, empty espresso cups, and the comforting hum of the fridge.
“We did it,” she whispered.
He nodded. “We really did.”
She reached into the display case and pulled out one last dessert: their winning mousse.
Theo took two spoons from the drawer. “You know what they say.”
Maya raised an eyebrow. “About mousse?”
“No. About love.”
She smirked. “That it sneaks up on you like a sabotaged vanilla bottle?”
He laughed. “Exactly.”
They sat at their usual bench outside, the evening breeze brushing the flowers, the air thick with chocolate, sugar, and something unspoken.
They ate in silence, trading spoonfuls, knees touching.
Then Maya said, quietly, “You still pipe in perfect swirls.”
“And you still judge silently while pretending not to.”
“Do I?” she teased.
He leaned in, brushed a crumb from her cheek. “You love it.”
She didn’t deny it.
Their kiss this time was slow. No urgency, no stage lights, no audience.
Just them.
Later, Maya scribbled the day’s final note on the kitchen chalkboard:
Today’s special: Sometimes, fake turns real. And real turns sweet.
And underneath, Theo added:
Final bite? Still better shared.
END
