The Wilson's anniversary cake. Every year for twenty years.
The hospital's weekly muffin delivery.
The Harrison family's favorite cookies.
Hannah's throat went tight.
She gathered the papers with trembling hands, carefully straightening them. Each order represented trust. Each cancellation marked its betrayal.
Movement caught her eye. Michael shifted in his window, his silhouette sharp against the pharmacy's darkness. Even from here, she could feel the weight of his stare.
Her skin prickled with awareness.
Then, almost against her will, her eyes found Jake's truck.
He was still there. Still watching. Still protecting her, even though she hadn't asked him to. Even though she didn't want him to.
Except... her body didn't seem to know that. Didn't seem to understand that his protection was just another lie, that his feelings had been part of his cover, that everything she'd felt—everything she still felt—had been real for her and pretend for him.
The pencil snapped in her grip.
Hannah set it down carefully, pressing her palms flat against the desk. The wood was smooth beneath her hands, worn from years of use. Real. Solid. Unlike everything else in her life.
Across the street, Michael's shadow moved away from the window. Hannah's shoulders relaxed fractionally.
The sound of Jake's engine turning over carried through the quiet. He was leaving too—probably heading to his next shift at the station.
She should feel relieved.
Should feel safer without their eyes on her.
Should be glad to finally be truly alone.
Instead, her chest felt tight. Because even now—even knowing what Jake had done, even hating him for it—her body still recognized his presence as safety. Still knew him as shelter. Still wanted to run to him every time Michael's shadow crossed her path.
Hannah picked up another pencil, forcing her hand steady as she returned to the books.
The numbers didn't lie.
They told the story plain as day.
But they couldn't tell her why her heart still raced every time Jake was near.
Couldn't explain why her body still trusted him.
Couldn't make sense of how something so false had felt so real.
She worked, letting the familiar rhythm of accounting drown out the memory of Jake's engine fading into the night.
Some trust lingered in your blood.
Some lies felt real, even when you should know better.
Hannah staredat the too-full display case, her stomach twisting. She'd baked everything fresh this morning—habit, routine, the rhythm of a lifetime spent in this kitchen. But as the morning stretched on with barely a customer, each perfect pastry felt like an accusation.
The bell above the door chimed.
Jake stood in the doorway, still in his fire department uniform, his expression carefully neutral. "The guys at the station wanted?—"
