Olivia's POV
Adrian had been talking about his brother's visit for days, the way some people talk about holidays—half excited, half anxious. That morning, before he left to check the orchard, he leaned against the kitchen doorway and gave me that hopeful look of his.
"Liv," he said, "can you make that apple pie Noah always liked? The one with the crumb topping?"
I pretended to sigh, just to tease him. "You mean the one you always liked and blamed on Noah?"
He grinned. "Y-yeah."
So there I was, in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour, finishing the lattice on top of the pie. The house smelled like butter, cinnamon, and baked apples—the scent that always made this small place feel fuller.
Outside the open window, I could see Adrian moving between the trees in our tiny apple orchard, a basket hooked over his arm. This was one of the things I loved most about our life here in Wrenford: the smallness, the routine, the way afternoons could be measured in cups of tea and how many apples we picked.
When the timer finally rang, I pulled the pie from the oven and set it on the counter to cool. The golden crust bubbled slightly at the edges, sugar crystals catching the light. I took a breath, wiped my hands on a towel, and headed outside to call Adrian in for a break.
The late afternoon sun was soft, casting long shadows across the grass. I walked halfway down the path and spotted him coming toward me already, basket full, shirt sleeves rolled up, cheeks a little pink from the heat.
"I was just about to get you," I called.
"And I was just about to come in," he replied, lifting the basket slightly.
"You should sit, at least have some tea before—"
A taxi cab pulled up in front of our gate, cutting me off.
Adrian stopped mid-step. We exchanged a glance—a quick, shared understanding—before he set the basket down and headed toward the front.
The car door opened, and Noah stepped out.
He looked different and exactly the same all at once. Taller, somehow. His shoulders broader. City clothes, city hair, a looseness in the way he moved that didn't quite fit the stillness of Wrenford. A worn backpack was slung over one shoulder, a medium-sized suitcase at his side, paint-splattered duffel hanging from one hand.
Adrian didn't hesitate. He reached him in a few strides.
"Noah," he said, voice tighter than usual.
"Hey," Noah replied, and then they were hugging—really hugging—for the first time in over two years.
I found myself smiling without meaning to.
Adrian took the suitcase from him. "You packed your entire studio?" he joked.
"Just the essential chaos," Noah said.
They walked toward me side by side, shoulders bumping. They were both smiling in a way I hadn't seen in a while—wide, unguarded, almost boyish. For a moment, it was easy to see them younger, racing across some old backyard instead of this small gravel path.
As they got closer, Noah's eyes shifted from Adrian to me.
"Olivia," he said.
His gaze caught me off guard. It wasn't the look of someone greeting a future sister-in-law after a long time. There was something else in it—warmer, more focused.
I pushed the thought aside and smiled. "Noah. It's been a while."
He dropped the duffel and opened his arms slightly. "Can I hug you, or are we still at the polite handshake stage?"
I laughed. "I think you've graduated from handshake."
We hugged briefly. He smelled like turpentine and city air, mixed with the faintest trace of some cheap cologne that somehow still suited him. When we pulled back, I noticed the tiredness around his eyes, the kind you get from late nights and too many unfinished canvases.
"It's good to see you," I said.
"You too," he replied, and his gaze lingered a second too long before he turned back to Adrian.
"Come on," Adrian said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Liv made you an apple pie." He glanced at me. "Well—she made it and I picked the apples, so really it has both our love in it."
"Apple pie?" Noah asked, brows lifting. "Now I know I picked the right house to hide in."
"This isn't a hideout," Adrian protested. "It's a wholesome countryside retreat."
"Wholesome retreat, hideout, same thing," Noah said lightly. "I'm not complaining."
I chuckled and gestured toward the house. "Both of you, inside. The pie's waiting and it won't be nearly as charming once it cools completely."
Adrian grabbed Noah's suitcase; Noah picked up his duffel again and followed us down the path. I walked a step ahead, listening to them talk.
"So, city boy," Adrian said, "how long are we keeping you?"
"A few weeks, if you don't get sick of me first," Noah answered. "I needed a break from Crystal Bay. Too loud. Too fast. Too many opinions about what a painting 'should' be."
"Well, Wrenford will bore you to death in a day," Adrian said. "You'll be begging to go back."
"I don't know," Noah said. "Sometimes boring is exactly what a person needs."
I glanced back at him briefly. He met my eyes again and offered a small, honest smile.
Inside, the warmth of the kitchen wrapped around us. The pie sat on the counter, still slightly steaming. Noah whistled softly.
"You weren't kidding," he said. "That looks… illegal."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I replied.
He stepped closer to the counter, hands in his pockets, examining it like it was a painting. "This looks immaculate," he said, more to Adrian than to me.
"Liv did her magic," Adrian said, reaching for plates. "I just provided free labor."
"Hey," I protested, "you picked good apples. That counts."
Noah chuckled. "You two still do this, huh?"
"Do what?" Adrian asked.
"Talk like you've been married for ten years," Noah said with a smirk.
I felt my cheeks warm slightly, but Adrian just laughed.
"Well," I said, reaching for the knife, "Sit down, both of you. Before you start arguing over who gets the biggest slice."
Noah took a seat at the table, watching as I cut into the pie. The crust broke with a satisfying crackle, revealing soft, cinnamon-glazed fruit beneath. The simple sound filled the silence between us, and for a moment, everything felt easy. Normal.
I told myself that whatever odd flicker I'd seen in Noah's eyes at the gate was just my imagination.
Nothing more.