The bakery had always been more than just flour and sugar.
More than just profit margins and expenses.
It was stories.
It was her grandmother's hands, dusted with flour, pressing a cookie cutter into soft dough. It was the way her mother had hummed while piping frosting onto birthday cakes.
It was people.
Mr. Wilson's card had a note in the corner:prefers extra cinnamon in his scones
Mary Peterson's:light on the sugar, her husband was diabetic
There were dozens of these little notes, tiny pieces of history woven into the recipes themselves.
Hannah swallowed the lump in her throat.
This was what mattered.
Not the building.
Not the sign in the window.
This.
The bell over the door chimed softly.
Hannah's body tensed automatically. The fire crew had left, but?—
Jake.
She didn't turn. She couldn't. She wasn't ready to face him again.
The floor creaked as he stepped inside. He didn't speak at first. Just stood there, letting the silence stretch.
She hated him for that. For not forcing words into the space, for letting her feel every inch of the weight pressing on her chest.
She closed the recipe box carefully, her hands trembling.
"You should go," she said, voice hollow.
"Hannah—"
She turned then, finally meeting his gaze. He looked… wrecked. The soot on his uniform, the way his shoulders were tight with something unreadable. But which version of Jake was standing in front of her now? The contractor who'd held her close on quiet mornings? The FBI agent who'd lied to her face? The firefighter who kept showing up, like he still had a right to? How many identities did he have? And which one was real?
But she didn't care.
She couldn't.
"You don't get to be here," she said. "Not after everything."
Jake's jaw ticked. "I stayed." His voice was rough. "The crew left. I didn't."
She wanted to throw that back at him. Wanted to tell him she didn't care.
But her throat burned.
Her chest ached.
