Matchmaker Mayhem
Chapter 147: Group Trip Gone Wrong (or Right?)

Chapter 147: Group Trip Gone Wrong (or Right?)

The bus rolled to a stop on a gravel road framed by whispering pines. The eco-lodge sat nestled at the base of a wooded ridge, its cedar shingles warmed by sunlight and soft moss growing along its edges like the forest had claimed it as kin.

Ava stepped down first, sunglasses on, clipboard in hand, professional to the core—despite the fact that she hadn’t had caffeine in four hours and Ryan had just spent half the ride ranking romantic clichés by effectiveness.

The air was crisp, scented with pine needles, distant firewood, and the hint of peppermint from someone’s essential oil diffuser. Birds flitted overhead. A dragonfly buzzed past Ava’s ear like it had something urgent to report.

Couples disembarked behind them, stretching, yawning, clutching water bottles and tote bags labeled Soulmates & S’mores. Ava sighed.

"This feels too peaceful," she muttered.

Ryan stepped up beside her, rolling their luggage. "Nature always lulls you into a false sense of serenity. And then someone misplaces the gluten-free snacks, and chaos reigns."

She ignored him and marched toward the lodge steps.

--

Midmorning found Ava in athletic wear, standing at the edge of the dock. Sunlight shimmered across the lake in fractured gold. Clients were scattered across the water in kayaks and paddleboards, laughter echoing as a couple tumbled in and emerged soaking and giggling.

Ava was organizing dry towels, paddle tags, and minor emotional meltdowns.

She didn’t notice Krista approach until her shadow stretched beside her on the planks.

"Hey, Ava. You got a second?"

Krista’s voice was casual, but Ava clocked the edge in it. Confessional. Focused. And just a little too... intentional.

"I’m kind of mid-chaos," Ava said, not looking up.

Krista stepped closer. The sun cast her in warm light. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and ambition.

"You’re intense," Krista said. "Powerful. Hot."

Ava blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I think you’re magnetic. Like... it’s hard not to want you."

And then Krista leaned in—just enough to tilt the world sideways.

Ava’s brain screamed ten different HR protocols at once.

But she didn’t need them.

Because the air behind her shifted. Hardened.

--

The dock creaked.

Ryan was suddenly there—solid and silent, taller than usual when his posture locked in defense mode. He didn’t say much. Just stepped between them with surgical precision.

"Back. Up."

His voice wasn’t loud. But it landed like a gavel.

Krista jumped. "Oh! I didn’t—sorry! I didn’t realize—"

"You realized," Ryan said, still calm. "She said no."

Ava, heart hammering, felt the heat rush up her neck. "Krista, that was over the line."

Krista paled, eyes wide. "I—I thought—"

"You thought wrong."

Krista gave a jerky nod and backed away, nearly tripping over a life jacket on her retreat.

Silence settled again. Even the wind paused.

Ava turned to Ryan. "You didn’t have to go full K-drama villain."

He looked at her, eyes still sharp. "I didn’t like watching someone try to take what’s mine."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yours?"

He softened. "I meant—I mean—you know what I mean."

She folded her arms. "Do I?"

His smile returned, slow and sheepish. "You’re mine to love. That’s what I meant."

--

The wind rustled the trees, sending ripples across the lake. Ducks bobbed in the shallows. Ava stared at Ryan, her brain stuttering.

"You love me?"

He nodded once, steady.

"I do."

It wasn’t grand. Or rehearsed.

It was just real.

"I love you too," she said, almost surprised at how easily the words came. "Even when you alphabetize your trauma snacks."

"I do that for us."

A laugh burst out of her—bright and unfiltered. She pulled him down into a kiss, sun on their backs, the lake glittering behind them.

Someone clapped.

They didn’t care.

--

That evening, the group sat around a crackling fire. Smoke drifted upward in thin spirals. The sky had turned a rich navy, stars beginning to prick through the canopy above.

Clients sipped barley tea and shared what they’d learned.

"I realized I don’t listen—I just wait to talk."

"I want someone who grounds me, not just excites me."

Krista, seated quietly beside her original match, glanced once at Ava, then looked away.

Ava, wrapped in a fleecy gray blanket Ryan had slung over her shoulders earlier, sipped her drink and leaned into his side.

He leaned down and murmured, "Still want to call it a disaster?"

She smiled. "It might’ve been the messiest path to clarity we’ve had yet."

"But clarity’s good, right?"

She looked up at him.

"It’s everything."

And this time, she kissed him.

No clapping. No audience.

Just the fire.

And the truth.

---

Ryan’s POV: The Moment She Said It Back

She said it.

Not with fanfare. Not with the usual sparkle she wielded like armor.

Just... softly. Like it cost her something to admit. Like it mattered.

"I love you too."

And Ryan Kim—rational, spreadsheet-loving, risk-averse Ryan—felt something shift inside his chest. Like a locked door he didn’t even know he’d built had just swung open.

The lake glimmered behind her. The sun turned strands of her hair gold. But it was her expression that stunned him—unguarded, unpolished. Real.

No sarcasm. No strategic detachment.

Just Ava.

The same woman who used sarcasm as sunscreen. Who organized emotional landmines with color-coded tabs. Who once matched a couple by analyzing their coffee orders and handed him the report like it was a recipe for magic.

He remembered every version of her.

The Ava who whispered insecurities in the dark after a bad client review.

The Ava who cried after watching a little boy give his mom his last dumpling.

The Ava who once texted him "emergency" only to ask if penguins had knees.

He’d loved all of them long before he admitted it.

And now—here she was, finally letting him in.

And damn it, he wanted to hold her so carefully it would make gravity jealous.

Ryan didn’t care that they were on a rickety dock or that Krista was somewhere in the background having a revelation about boundaries.

All he cared about was this moment.

This Ava.

He wrapped his arms around her like he was memorizing something.

Because he was.

Because for once, he wasn’t the one calculating the risk.

He was just... all in.

---

Ava

She had said it.

Not with flowers or fire.

Not in one of her carefully curated, magazine-ready moments.

Just with her feet on damp wood, her fingers still tingling from shock, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.

"I love you too."

And the second it left her mouth, the air changed.

Not heavier.

Lighter.

Like she had been dragging something invisible behind her for years—and it finally unclenched its fists.

Ava didn’t fall in love easily.

She knew how to flirt. How to charm. How to distract and dazzle and bend attention in her direction like a spotlight she could control.

But this?

This wasn’t control.

This was terrifying.

And grounding.

And maddening.

And real.

She looked at him now—Ryan, with his granola bar wrappers, his quietly possessive arms, his laugh that always started in his chest and ended in hers—and wondered how long he’d been waiting for her to catch up.

How long had he known?

How long had she known?

It wasn’t about the kiss. Or the jealousy. Or the perfect timing.

It was the fact that when the storm hit—and it always did—he was the only one who didn’t flinch.

The only one who never made her feel like she was too much or not enough or some exhausting equation waiting to be simplified.

He just saw her.

No noise. No edits.

Just Ava.

And that night, back at the cabin, she curled up beside him beneath the thin retreat blanket, her forehead pressed to the space just beneath his collarbone.

His arm curled around her without hesitation, his warmth steady and wordless.

She exhaled.

No performance. No pressure.

Just this.

And for the first time in a long while... she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

---

The cabin creaked faintly around them, wood settling like old bones. Outside, the forest murmured in the dark—leaves rustling, crickets humming, the lake brushing the dock in slow, sleepy waves.

Ava stayed curled against him, listening to Ryan’s heartbeat. It was steady. Comforting. The kind of rhythm that didn’t need a crescendo to feel real.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

And maybe that was the miracle.

Because Ava Lee always filled silence. With ideas, with humor, with stories. With strategies. With her own carefully controlled chaos.

But not now.

Now, wrapped in a shared blanket and breath, she let herself be held.

Ryan’s thumb moved slowly along her back in idle, absent circles, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Like touching her was second nature.

She closed her eyes.

"I think," she whispered, "this is the first time I’ve felt... safe without being in charge."

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly, tucking her tighter into the crook of his body.

"You don’t have to earn it," he said eventually, voice muffled against her hair. "You don’t have to prove anything. Just be here."

Ava swallowed.

That was the part that always scared her. The being.

Not performing. Not fixing. Not proving.

Just being.

"I might forget how to do that sometimes," she admitted.

"I’ll remind you," Ryan murmured.

She smiled. "Every time?"

"Every single time."

She breathed in the scent of him—cedarwood, warmth, something faintly herbal from the retreat lotion he pretended not to use.

"I’m not great at stillness," she added.

"You don’t have to be still," he said. "You just have to stay."

She did.

She stayed.

---

Outside, the stars blinked in lazy constellations, uncaring and ancient. The forest exhaled, the lake stilled, and inside that little wooden cabin, time folded in on itself—not rushing forward, not dragging behind. Just existing. Just enough.

And in the quiet curve of that night, with no cameras, no clients, and no plan—Ava let herself be loved.

Not for her brilliance.

Not for her boldness.

But for the way her heartbeat stilled, soft and certain, in the space where someone had waited—without pressure, without question—for her to finally rest.

And she did.