Lena wiped her hands on a dishtowel as the front door creaked open. Walker stepped in, looking like he'd just stepped out of a magazine spread—rolled-up sleeves, loosened tie, suit jacket draped casually over one arm. He carried a white bakery box in the other hand and flashed a lopsided grin.
"You brought dessert?" she asked, arching a brow.
"Call it peace offering," he said. "It's from a patisserie near the office. Figured you'd want to judge their croissants."
Lena took the box, already suspicious. "You really want me to tear apart someone else's pastries?"
"I trust your palate," he said, leaning against the counter. "Besides, I need to know how the competition stacks up."
She opened the box, revealing two picture-perfect croissants, glossy and golden. "They're cute," she said. "Too perfect, maybe."
"They taste like ambition and overpriced rent," Walker said, biting into one with exaggerated skepticism.
She laughed, taking a bite from the other. "Flaky. Not bad. But yeah—soulless."
"I knew you'd say that." He watched her carefully. "Yours have heart."
The compliment landed heavier than she expected. Her chest tightened a little. Having Walker around—even just temporarily—was starting to wear on her defenses. He'd been staying in her guest room "for a few days," but it had stretched into something undefined. He cooked eggs in the morning, left his tie on her counter, and filled the house with his presence like it belonged to him.
But he didn't live here. He wasn't hers. And soon, he'd return to his sleek penthouse and boardrooms and whatever future his father expected him to carry.
"You settling back into CEO life okay?" she asked, retreating a little into safer ground.
Walker shrugged. "It's weird. Being back in the building feels like putting on an old suit. It fits, but it doesn't feel like me anymore."
"You're still the same person," she said gently.
"Maybe. Or maybe staying here… with you… reminded me that I want something different."
Lena's hands froze where she was folding the pastry box closed. She looked up, but his expression gave nothing away. "Don't do that," she said softly.
"Do what?"
"Say things like that when we both know you're not staying."
He crossed to her slowly, lowering his voice. "Who says I'm not?"
She looked away. "You have a penthouse in the city, a billion-dollar company to run, and a father who probably tracks your every move."
"And yet I'm still here."
"Temporary," she reminded him.
He didn't argue. Instead, he reached for her hand, fingers brushing hers, warm and unspoken. "For now," he agreed.
The room pulsed with something quiet but unrelenting. He didn't kiss her. He didn't need to. The heat simmered between them, unspoken but undeniable.
Later, when Lena returned from the laundry room, she found his tie still slung over the back of a chair.
And she didn't move it.
She wandered back into the kitchen, the silence of the house now feeling fuller, like it echoed with his presence even when he wasn't in the room. It scared her, how easy it was getting to rely on him being there—to expect his voice in the morning, his shoes by the door, his jacket hanging from the chair like it belonged. Every day he stayed blurred the lines she worked so hard to redraw.
In her bedroom later that night, she heard him shifting in the guest room, the faint creak of the bed, the soft murmur of a late-night phone call. She lay still, heart aching with a truth she didn't want to admit: his staying felt too natural, too easy. And she was starting to wish it didn't have to end.