"See that it doesn't." Miller picked up a report. "Because right now, you defending Hannah Everett isn't going to help her. It's just going to remind everyone why they shouldn't trust either of you."
The truth of it hit like a physical blow. Jake's protection would only hurt Hannah more—paint her as the criminal's daughter who'd been under surveillance by an FBI agent. Make people question if she'd been cleared because of their relationship rather than her innocence.
"Understood," Jake said finally.
Miller's expression softened slightly. "Look, son. I'm giving you a chance here because I believe people can change. Can make things right. But you've got to let her fight her own battles."
Jake nodded stiffly and turned to leave.
"And Cooper?" Miller's voice stopped him at the door. "Next time Roberts runs his mouth, let him. Your reaction just proves to him he's getting to you."
Jake walked back to the equipment room, Miller's words echoing in his head. Let her fight her own battles. Don't defend her. Don't make it worse.
But God, it hurt. Every whispered comment, every suspicious glance, every casual cruelty aimed at Hannah felt like another betrayal. Because he'd helped cause this—helped destroy the town's trust in her, helped make her a target for their anger.
The alarm rang, cutting through his thoughts. Engine 12, medical response.
Jake moved automatically, pulling on his gear, falling into formation. He could do this. Could be professional. Could watch Hannah rebuild her life without him.
Even if every instinct screamed at him to protect her.
Even if staying silent felt like another kind of betrayal.
Even if his heart broke a little more every time he heard her name spoken with suspicion.
Some costs were worth paying.
Some silence was necessary.
Some pain just had to be endured.
For Hannah's sake, if nothing else.
Jake's handsmoved with practiced efficiency, measuring the replacement glass. He'd waited until after closing. This wouldn't take long—he'd fixed enough of Sugar & Spice's windows over the past seven months to do it in his sleep.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
A sound behind him made him freeze, tools halfway to the frame. Hannah stood in the bakery doorway, silhouetted by the security light, still in her baking clothes. Flour dusted her black tank top, and his fingers itched with the memory of brushing it from her skin.
"What are you doing?" Her voice was quiet. Dangerous.
Jake set down his tools carefully. "Fixing your window."
"I didn't ask you to."
"No." He straightened, turning to face her. "But the glass company can't come until Thursday."
Hannah's jaw tightened. She moved into the light, and he caught the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. She hadn't been sleeping. The knowledge hit him like a physical ache.
"I don't need your help." She wrapped her arms around herself, and he recognized the gesture—her way of holding herself together when everything was falling apart.
"I know." He picked up the measuring tape again, deliberately casual. "But it's supposed to rain tomorrow."
"Jake." His name was a warning.
He kept working, muscle memory taking over. "The moisture could warp the frame if?—"
"Stop." Hannah moved closer, close enough that he could smell vanilla and cinnamon on her skin. "Just stop trying to fix everything."
