Chapter 21 Jake
Jake
Jake stood frozen, Hannah's words still hanging in the air like smoke from a backdraft.
I don't want you.
His chest felt hollow. She had meant it.
Around him, the firehouse was dead silent. He felt the stares of his crew, felt their curiosity, their unease. But he couldn't move.
Couldn't chase after her.
Couldn't force her to understand that helping her wasn't about fixing things—it was about giving her a goddamn chance to stand on her own.
Peterson cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "So, uh… I'm guessing that didn't go well."
Jake let out a slow, measured breath, clenching his fists at his sides. "Not now, Pete."
He turned, grabbed his turnout jacket from the rack, and shouldered past the others.
Miller's voice stopped him before he reached the door.
"Cooper."
Jake turned.
The chief was watching him, eyes unreadable, arms crossed.
"You planning on making a habit of pissing off half the town?"
Jake forced a tight, humorless smirk. "Already done that."
Miller studied him a second longer, then sighed. "Just don't bring personal baggage into my firehouse."
Too late for that.
Jake stepped outside, the crisp air a punch to his overheated skin.
Hannah was already gone, already turned the corner back to her bakery.
Jake thought about the unpaid invoices, the regulars who had abandoned her, the broken window. The fire.
Jake felt something colder than regret.
He felt the distinct, bone-deep certainty that something was coming.
And that this time, he wouldn't be able to stop it.
The safety inspection form felt heavy in Jake's hands as he approached Sugar & Spice. Morning sunlight caught on the copper wind chimes Hannah's mother had hung years ago—the ones he'd fixed last spring when the mounting came loose.
Stop. Focus on the job.
But muscle memory betrayed him the moment he stepped inside. His eyes automatically checked the window frame he'd replaced, the counter he'd reinforced, the shelf he'd built for holiday displays.
Hannah stood behind the counter, spine straight as steel. She'd tied her hair back severely, no loose strands around her face like usual. Her fingers were arranging things with that precise, measured care she only used when she was barely holding it together.
"Fire safety inspection." His voice came out rougher than intended.
"Fine." She didn't look at him as she moved into the kitchen. "Let's get this over with."
The professional distance lasted exactly three minutes.
Then he caught himself reaching for the fire extinguisher without asking where it was. Because he knew. Because he'd mounted the bracket himself.
Hannah's breath hitched.
"Upper cabinet near the sink," she said tightly. "But you already knew that."
Jake forced his hands to his sides. "Sorry. I—"
"Just do your job."
Right. His job. Check the extinguisher. Test the suppression system. Document everything with clinical precision.
But he couldn't stop noticing things.
The way she was organizing sugar containers by size instead of type—something she only did when anxious. The dark circles under her eyes that makeup couldn't quite hide.
"Flour storage needs to be six inches from the wall." The words came automatically as he moved toward the shelf.
"Don't."
He froze, hands already reaching to shift the bags. Old habit. Automatic as breathing.
"That's not your job anymore." Her voice cracked on the last word.
Jake's fingers curled into fists. "Hannah—"
The bell above the door chimed.
An elderly woman stood in the doorway—Eleanor Matthews, who had ordered the same apple Danish every Thursday for longer than Jake had been alive.
Hannah lit up. Not just a professional smile—a real one, bright and warm and unguarded in a way Jake hadn't seen in weeks.
"Mrs. Matthews!" she said, stepping around the counter. "It's so good to see you! I—" She hesitated, suddenly self-conscious, then smoothed her apron. "I've missed you."
Eleanor's fingers twisted around the strap of her purse, but she smiled, small and hesitant. "I know. I—I've been... well, the grocery store has pastries, but..." Her voice dropped. "They're not the same."
Jake felt the shift in Hannah before he saw it.
Her eyes softened, relief flickering across her face like sunlight through clouds. "Then let's fix that," she said, already reaching for the tongs. "Your usual?"
Eleanor nodded, but then—she glanced toward the window.
Jake saw the exact second Hannah realized something was wrong.
"Could you..." Eleanor's voice dropped lower. "Could I have it in a plain bag?"
Silence.
The request sliced through the moment like a blade.
For a fraction of a second, Hannah didn't move. Her hand, halfway to the display case, faltered.
Then, as if a switch had flipped, her expression smoothed over—too smooth. She reached for a blank paper bag. Only Jake saw the slight tremble.
"Of course." Her voice was light, effortless. As if this didn't gut her. As if she hadn't just been reminded, yet again, that she was still an outcast.
He knew her.
God help him, he still knew every tell, every micro-expression, every shadow that crossed her face.
Eleanor took the Danish, set exact change on the counter, and hesitated near the door.
"It really wasn't the same," she murmured.
Then she was gone, leaving only the chime of bells in her wake.
Jake's chest ached.
Hannah's hands were still pressed flat against the counter—white-knuckled now. But when she spoke, her voice was perfectly even.
"Are we done here?"
She didn't look at him. Didn't let him see her face.
But Jake saw her reflection in the glass case—just for a second, before she forced herself to breathe.
And in that second, he saw the truth.
It had wrecked her.
And there wasn't a damn thing he could do to fix it.
Because this wasn't his place anymore.
Because she wouldn't let it be.
Because he was the one who had helped break her.
He'd been a damn fool.