The bell chimes again.
Jake steps inside, and for a heartbeat everything just folds—time, memory, the last seven years.He’s still tall, still lean, still does that thing where he slides a hand across his jaw when he’s nervous.But there’s something new in the set of his shoulders.
A tension that looks bone-deep.
Like he’s arrived ready for a fight he hasn’t admitted to himself.
He spots me immediately and walks over, sliding into the seat across from mine.
“Well,” he says, gesturing around the bakery with a smile that stays miles away from his eyes, “I’ve gotta hand it to you, Nora.When you want to torture someone, you really go all in.”
Right—the location.
The last time we sat here was also the last blowout before everything cracked.
“That’s not why I—” I say, matching his tone but trying to thread some warmth through it, “this place hasdozensof good memories too.And, let’s be honest, you can’t get cinnamon rolls half as good anywhere else.”
“At least we can agree on something.”
The silence that follows isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t hostile either.I study him—really study him.The new lines around his eyes.The way he’s sitting like he’s bracing for impact, like he’s already anticipating I’ll hurt him.
When did we end up here?
“How are you?”I ask quietly.
“Fine.”
“Jake.”I lean in, lowering my voice.“Come on.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it.Runs a hand over his jawline again and takes a breath in.
“I feel like I should be asking you that,” he murmurs.
“You can,” I say, and I smile a little because for a second it feels like us, “after you answer mine first.”
He looks at me like there’s a war happening behind his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, the words tumbling out.“There.That’s the truth.”
The honesty steals my breath and then, immediately, he realizes he’s exposed too much.His face shutters, his posture shifts back, like he’s clawing for distance.
“I hate that,” he mutters.
“Hate what?”
“How easily you get me to talk.Like we’re still…” He trails off but doesn’t have to finish.
“It’s my gift,” I tease softly.“Some people sing.Some people paint.I can make you tell me what you’re actually feeling.”
He huffs a laugh.“Lucky me.”
For a little while, the conversation just flows.Easy and somewhat familiar and for one thin, hopeful second, I think maybe we can find our way back.
That is until I step on a landmine.
“I saw the article,” I say gently.“About your dad’s expansion down there.”
The change is instant—and brutal.
