By the end of the week, Lena had managed to clean, stock, and breathe new life into the bakery. The walls had a fresh coat of soft cream paint, and the display cases gleamed like they had something to prove. The ovens were humming again, and Lena felt like she could finally see her father's dream still alive in the walls.
What she hadn't expected was how often Walker Harper stopped by.
Twice for coffee, once to "check the lights," and this morning—again—just as she was sliding cinnamon rolls into the oven.
"I swear you have a sixth sense for when I'm baking," she said, smirking as she caught him leaning casually against the doorframe.
"It's a gift," he said, holding up a coffee of his own this time. "Didn't want to show up empty-handed today."
Lena arched a brow. "You do realize this is a bakery, right? I make the coffee."
"Right. But yours doesn't come with a lid that says 'You deserve this.'"
She chuckled despite herself and returned to her baking station. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're avoiding asking me why I'm really here."
She paused, hands resting on the counter. "Fine. Why are you here, Walker?"
He stepped inside, this time with purpose. "Because I remember what this place meant to your dad. And to you. I remember how every morning, before school, I'd sneak in here and you'd be behind the counter, trying to perfect your chocolate chip cookie recipe."
"That recipe was a disaster," she said, smiling softly.
"Yeah, but I still ate them. Every single one."
There was a pause. A tender silence neither of them quite knew what to do with.
"I don't want to make things complicated," she said finally.
"Who said anything about complicated?" he asked, eyes searching hers. "Maybe I just miss you."
Lena's chest tightened. "You didn't even notice me back then."
He stepped closer. "Maybe I didn't know how to."
The timer on the oven beeped, slicing through the moment. Lena quickly turned away, grabbing the mitts and opening the oven. The sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the room.
"Rolls are done," she said quietly.
Walker didn't move closer this time. He stood by the counter, respectful, observant. Maybe even unsure.
"I'm serious, Lena," he said after a moment. "I don't know what this is yet, or what you want from me—if anything—but I meant what I said the other day. I'm here. If you need help, advice… support… I'm not going anywhere."
She swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. Her hands busied themselves with plating the pastries, but her thoughts were tangled.
He started to leave, then stopped at the door. "You still make the best cinnamon rolls in the state, by the way."
Then he was gone.
Lena stood alone in the kitchen, tray in hand, heart racing. He hadn't touched her. He hadn't said anything overtly romantic.
And yet, everything about the way he looked at her felt different now.
This time, she thought, he sees me.
But seeing was one thing. Letting him in—that would be a whole other recipe entirely.