I crack the window. The cold bites instantly, but the air smells like pine, woodsmoke, and something faintly sweet.
It smells like possibility.
The knot in my chest loosens.
A weathered wooden sign appears ahead, carved by hand.
Welcome to Hope Peak
A wreath of pine branches hangs below it, tied with a red velvet bow.
Another sign points left:Snowcap Inn
That’s where I’m headed. The bakery is next door. The two buildings have been neighbors for decades, according to the lawyer. Sisters in wood and stone.
My tires crunch over packed snow as I turn, and there it is.
The Snowcap Inn. A wide, two-story house with dark wood siding and a wraparound porch. There’s smoke rising from the chimney, curling into the cold air like a greeting. A carved wooden sign swings gently in the wind.
Two trucks are parked out front. One idles with a plow attached. The other looks like it belongs here, part of the scenery.
And then I seehim.
At first, it’s just a man bent over a shovel. Tall. Solid. Wearing a flannel. Jeans tucked into heavy boots. His posture tells me he isn’t just working; he’s built for this. Built for snow and labor and long days that require strength you don’t get in a gym.
No showmanship. No straining. Just quiet force.
My gaze lingers on the way his shoulders move beneath the flannel, the grounded ease in his stance. I can’t see much of his face, just a knit beanie and dark hair poking out from beneath it. But even from here, there’s something still about him. Something weighty.
My heart thumps in my chest before I can reason with it.
He doesn’t look up as I pass.
Good.He looks like troubleanyway. I probably wouldn’t know what to do if he did.
Beside the inn sits a smaller building painted soft turquoise with white trim. A curved sign swings above the door.
Hope Peak Bakehouse
I park. Step out. Breathe.
The front window is frosted at the edges. Gold lettering on the glass spells out the name, with a tiny cupcake doodled beside it. A little crooked. A little perfect.
My fingers fumble over the keys.
I push open the door. The bell overhead jingles, bright and clear.
And the scent that greets me nearly buckles my knees.
Faint traces of yeast, vanilla, sugar.
It’s old, buried under six months of stillness, but it’s there. A memory clinging to the walls.
I step inside and close the door quickly. The cold clings to my clothes anyway.
The interior is simple. Charming. A glass display case stretches along one wall. An old oak counter sits beside it. Two small café tables rest under the front window with mismatched chairs. String lights hang from the ceiling beams, casting a warm glow.
Behind the counter, a swinging door reveals a stainless steel kitchen.
