"Flour storage needs to be six inches from the wall." The words came automatically as he moved toward the shelf.
"Don't."
He froze, hands already reaching to shift the bags. Old habit. Automatic as breathing.
"That's not your job anymore." Her voice cracked on the last word.
Jake's fingers curled into fists. "Hannah?—"
The bell above the door chimed.
An elderly woman stood in the doorway—Eleanor Matthews, who had ordered the same apple Danish every Thursday for longer than Jake had been alive.
Hannah lit up. Not just a professional smile—a real one, bright and warm and unguarded in a way Jake hadn't seen in weeks.
"Mrs. Matthews!" she said, stepping around the counter. "It's so good to see you! I—" She hesitated, suddenly self-conscious, then smoothed her apron. "I've missed you."
Eleanor's fingers twisted around the strap of her purse, but she smiled, small and hesitant. "I know. I—I've been... well, thegrocery store has pastries, but..." Her voice dropped. "They're not the same."
Jake felt the shift in Hannah before he saw it.
Her eyes softened, relief flickering across her face like sunlight through clouds. "Then let's fix that," she said, already reaching for the tongs. "Your usual?"
Eleanor nodded, but then—she glanced toward the window.
Jake saw the exact second Hannah realized something was wrong.
"Could you..." Eleanor's voice dropped lower. "Could I have it in a plain bag?"
Silence.
The request sliced through the moment like a blade.
For a fraction of a second, Hannah didn't move. Her hand, halfway to the display case, faltered.
Then, as if a switch had flipped, her expression smoothed over—too smooth. She reached for a blank paper bag. Only Jake saw the slight tremble.
"Of course." Her voice was light, effortless. As if this didn't gut her. As if she hadn't just been reminded, yet again, that she was still an outcast.
He knew her.
God help him, he still knew every tell, every micro-expression, every shadow that crossed her face.
Eleanor took the Danish, set exact change on the counter, and hesitated near the door.
"It really wasn't the same," she murmured.
Then she was gone, leaving only the chime of bells in her wake.
Jake's chest ached.
Hannah's hands were still pressed flat against the counter—white-knuckled now. But when she spoke, her voice was perfectly even.
"Are we done here?"
She didn't look at him. Didn't let him see her face.
But Jake saw her reflection in the glass case—just for a second, before she forced herself to breathe.
