They met again in the park.
Neutral territory. Trees. Slides. A bench painted in mismatched pastels by a scout troop with poor coordination and excellent heart.
Juniper ran in circles around the jungle gym, hair flying, arms outstretched like wings. The fox had made a triumphant return to her grip.
Lennox watched from the bench, sketchbook on his knee, pencil unmoving.
Beside him, Isla sat with her hands folded over a thermos of apple cider.
Too warm for cider.
Too tense to drink it.
"She hasn't looked at me once," Isla murmured.
"She's trying not to like you too fast," Lennox said. "That's her version of strategy."
Isla exhaled. "She's not the only one."
Juniper eventually slowed. Not stopped. Just shifted pace.
She wandered toward the bench, fox trailing by one arm, eyes narrowed in that suspicious toddler way that said: I'm forming an opinion, and you will live with it.
"Do you like puzzles?" she asked Isla.
Isla blinked. "Yes."
Juniper nodded, satisfied. "Good. Because I brought one. And Dad said you might help."
Silence.
Not because of the puzzle.
But because she'd said Dad.
Isla's heart tripped over the word. Lennox didn't flinch. Just kept drawing. A smile curled quietly at the corner of his mouth like it belonged there.
Juniper pulled a small box from her backpack. Dinosaur-shaped pieces. Seventy-two total.
"Middle seat," she said, climbing onto the bench and squeezing herself in between Isla and Lennox.
"Middle seat?"
"I like to sit between people who make me feel not-alone," she said plainly.
And that was it.
The whole declaration.
She dumped the puzzle onto the bench without ceremony. Pieces scattered like stars across wood.
Isla blinked down at them. "You're missing some corners."
Juniper shrugged. "Aren't we all?"
Lennox nearly dropped his pencil.
They built the puzzle together. Slowly. Messily. Juniper made Isla guess which piece came next and changed the rules halfway through. When Isla accidentally placed a stegosaurus head on the wrong tail, Juniper poked her in the arm with the fox's nose.
"That's not how science works," she said.
And Isla laughed.
Really laughed.
It cracked her open a little.
When the last piece clicked into place—minus two corners and a mysteriously missing volcano—Juniper leaned back with a dramatic sigh.
"I think we should do this again sometime."
"Puzzles?" Isla asked.
Juniper shrugged. "Life."
And just like that, she curled up on the bench between them, fox tucked under one arm, thumb in her mouth, her head tipping gently against Isla's side.
Isla froze.
Not out of fear.
But because something deep, deep in her chest whispered:
This is what home sounds like when it exhales.
---
Later, when Juniper had been coaxed into the car with promises of grilled cheese and the possibility of Saturday pancakes, Lennox walked Isla to her front door.
"She likes you," he said.
Isla smiled, small and shaken. "She doesn't know me yet."
He looked at her, voice low. "Neither did I."
They stood in the doorway for a moment.
Too close. Not touching.
Until finally, he said:
"I've kissed you in my head a hundred times."
Isla's breath hitched. "I've let you."
A heartbeat.
And then—finally, finally—
He leaned in.
And kissed her.
Not a question.
Not a maybe.
But a yes.