Then he saw it.
An envelope on the counter, half-hidden under yesterday's receipts. The handwriting was familiar—precise, measured strokes that made his stomach clench.
Michael.
Hannah followed his gaze. Her hand shot out, snatching the envelope and shoving it into her apron pocket.
"What did he send?" Jake's voice came out rougher than intended.
"It doesn't matter." But her fingers trembled slightly as she picked up her tea.
"Hannah." He moved closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of sugar on her skin. "Please."
"Don't." She stepped back, putting the counter between them like a shield. "Just... Don't."
"You don't have to go through this alone."
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and the pain in her eyes nearly brought him to his knees.
"You don't get to decide that, Jake." Her voice cracked on his name.
"I know I hurt you." The words felt torn from his chest. "I know I destroyed your trust. But Hannah—" He swallowed hard, the truth rising in his throat like a tide he couldn't stop. "You're the woman I'm going to spend the rest of my life with."
Hannah went very still. For a moment, neither of them breathed.
Then her walls slammed back into place.
"No." She wrapped her arms around herself. "You don't get to say things like that."
"Hannah—"
"Get out." Her voice shook. "Please, just... get out."
Jake's hands clenched at his sides. "I don't know how to fix this."
"That's the problem, Jake." She turned away, but not before he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes. "Some things can't be fixed."
He stood there for a long moment, memorizing the curve of her spine, the way her hands gripped the counter like it was the only thing holding her up. Then he forced himself to move, to walk away, to leave her alone like she wanted.
The bell chimed behind him, final as a gunshot.
Through the window, he watched her shoulders shake once, twice. Watched her press her hand to her mouth like she was holding back a sob.
And for the first time since he'd quit the FBI, since he'd chosen her over everything else, Jake wondered if love really was enough.
If anything would ever be enough to heal what he'd broken.
Jake sat in his truck,engine off, watching Sugar & Spice through the windshield. The bakery's windows glowed like warm honey against the darkening sky, each one a snapshot of the lifehe'd destroyed. Hannah moved behind the counter, closing up for the night, her movements achingly familiar.
God, he remembered everything.
The way she used to dance while she worked, letting him pull her close when no customers were looking. The sound of her laugh echoing through these rooms. The taste of her skin in the darkness of her apartment upstairs.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.
He'd had no right to those memories. No right to touch her, to kiss her, to make her believe in him. He'd been living a lie and she'd given him everything—her trust, her body, her heart.
The nausea rose again, bitter as guilt in his throat.
