"The town's right to hate me." She stared at the files, at all the evidence of lives destroyed. "I was part of it. Even if I didn't know?—"
"You were a victim too."
"Was I?" She turned finally, meeting his eyes. "Or was I just willfully blind? So desperate to believe in fairy tales that I missed what was right in front of me?"
Jake's other hand came up, cupping her face. His thumb brushed away tears she hadn't realized were falling.
"You see the best in people," he said softly. "That's not a weakness, Hannah. It's what makes you..." He trailed off, swallowing hard.
"A fool?"
"Beautiful." The word seemed torn from him. "It makes you beautiful."
Hannah closed her eyes, letting herself lean into his touch for just a moment. Let herself remember how it felt to believe in him. In anything.
Then she stepped back, his hands falling away.
"Thank you for checking on me." Her voice was steady now. Professional. "But I need to finish this."
Jake nodded once, jaw tight. He turned to leave, hand brushing against the door handle—then hesitated.
His voice was quiet but firm. "Lock up after me."
Hannah glanced up, surprised.
His eyes flickered toward the window, toward the darkness pressing against the glass. He didn't elaborate. Didn't have to.
Then, softer—like he needed her to hear it, even if she wouldn't believe it.
"You're not your father's crimes, Hannah."
She swallowed hard, but before she could find words—before she could push him away or pull him closer—he was already gone. The door clicked shut behind him, the bell chiming softly in his wake.
Hannah sat there for a long moment, listening to the rain tap against the windows, the silence stretching heavy around her.
Then she stood. Turned the lock.
And went back to the evidence of lives destroyed, of trust betrayed, of a legacy she couldn't escape.
And if her skin still tingled where he'd touched her, if her heart still ached with the memory of believing in him?—
Well, that was just another lesson she needed to learn.
Trust was a fairy tale.
Love was a lie.
And she was done believing in either.
The storm rolled in fast,sweeping across Crystal Lake with a fury that rattled the bakery's windows. Rain lashed against the glass, thunder rumbling deep in the distance. The streetlights flickered, then cut out entirely, leaving the bakery bathed in an eerie half-darkness.
Hannah exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the edges of a flour-dusted recipe card. It was silly to be afraid of storms.
But she always had been. Ever since she was a kid, the crash of thunder and the howl of wind unsettled her in a way she could never quite shake.
Jake had figured that out early on. And somehow, without ever saying a word about it, he'd always seemed to turn up when the weather was bad. Distracting her. Holding her.
Hannah's fingers tightened around the edges of her grandmother's recipe card, the familiar scrawl of¼ tsp more vanilla for Mrs. Matthews—she likes it warm and richblurring as her eyes stung.
