Chapter 23 Hannah
Hannah
The pre-dawn smelled like damp pavement and distant rain, the storm that had rattled through town earlier leaving behind a quiet, eerie stillness. Hannah stood in the bakery doorway, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the bundle of dead flowers resting on her welcome mat.
Her stomach curled into a tight, sick knot.
The bouquet was old—roses shriveled, petals blackened and brittle, the stems bound together with twine. Not fresh, not some well-intentioned, misplaced offering. This was a message. A warning.
A funeral gift.
She swallowed, pulse thudding in her throat as she crouched down, hesitating before touching it. A faint metallic scent clung to the petals—coppery, wrong. Dread curled up her spine as she lifted the bouquet and found the slip of paper tucked underneath.
THIEF
Her breath left her in a shudder.
Her fingers tightened around the bouquet as she stood, forcing her legs to move. She took it inside, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click that sounded far too loud in the empty bakery.
She was used to the town lashing out, angry and hurt.
This?
This felt like someone watching. Someone waiting.
The bakery suddenly felt too big. Too open. The walls, once her sanctuary, felt like they were closing in.
She moved on autopilot, dumping the dead bouquet into the trash, but the scent still lingered, acrid and cloying.
She grabbed the mop from the back room, filling a bucket with soapy water.
Her hands were steady as she wrung out the mop, as she knelt to scrub the faint dirt smudges where the flowers had been.
Steady.
Until they weren't.
Until she realized she was shaking.
Her breath caught, chest tightening.
She wasn't afraid. She refused to be.
But she was tired.
So goddamn tired.
Of fighting. Of proving herself. Of trying to stand on her own when it felt like the world kept kicking her legs out from under her.
Her fingers fumbled with the mop handle.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Before she could think better of it, her phone was in her hands.
She shouldn't. She shouldn't.
But her hands moved on their own, pulling up the only number she trusted when everything felt like it was falling apart.
The line rang once.
Twice.
"Hannah?"
Jake's voice, rough with feeling, sent a full-body shudder through her.
She gripped the phone tighter. Say it. Tell him to come.
But she couldn't.
Instead, she swallowed and forced her voice into something even, something controlled. "Did I wake you?"
A rustle on the other end, like he was sitting up. "Doesn't matter. What's wrong?"
She clenched her jaw. "Nothing."
"Hannah."
She could hear it in his tone—the knowing. The way he always seemed to read between the lines, no matter how carefully she tried to weave them together.
Her fingers curled around the mop handle.
"Someone left something outside the bakery."
Silence. Heavy, thick, stretching between them like a taut wire.
Then, his voice, low and sharp. "What was it?"
She hesitated. "Flowers."
His inhale was sharp, almost violent. "Explain."
Her throat ached. "A dead bouquet. And… a note."
"Jesus, Hannah." The sound of movement, of keys jingling.
"It's flowers, Jake."
"It's a threat." His voice was a low growl. "I'm coming over."
"No." She pinched her eyes shut. "Jake—"
"I'm already in my truck."
She let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to her forehead. "I shouldn't have called."
"Yeah, well, you did."
Hannah exhaled sharply, and ended the call, dropping the phone onto the counter with a quiet thud.
She should be mad. Should be annoyed at his overprotectiveness, his inability to listen to what she wanted.
But she wasn't.
Because the truth was, she did want him here.
And that terrified her more than the flowers, more than the shadows pressing against the windows, more than the feeling of being watched.
Because every time she let him in, every time she let herself lean on him, she forgot the most important thing.
Jake Cooper had broken her once.
And she was a fool for letting herself believe he wouldn't do it again.
The rumble of Jake's truck was loud in the stillness of the dawn.
Hannah stood in the bakery's doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest as he parked haphazardly in front, climbing out before the engine had fully stopped.
His eyes raked over her, sharp and assessing, like he was scanning for damage.
And then he was in front of her, too close, smelling like soap and sleep and Jake.
"What the fuck, Hannah." His voice was low and furious. "What were you thinking, dealing with this alone?"
"I was dealing with it."
His jaw clenched. "You shouldn't have to."
Something in her chest twisted.
She stepped back, putting distance between them. "It's done. I'm fine."
Jake's gaze flickered to the trash can behind her. "Show me the flowers."
She hesitated, but there was no point in fighting. She turned and lifted the lid to the bin, revealing the wilted bouquet, the crumpled slip of paper.
His entire body went rigid. He reached in, plucking the note between two fingers. The moment he saw the word written there, something dark flashed across his face.
"Michael," he muttered.
She looked away. "You don't know that."
He let out a sharp laugh, humorless. "You really think this was some random vandal?"
"I think…" She swallowed hard. "I think I can handle it."
Jake's expression hardened. "You shouldn't have to handle it."
He reached out, brushing his fingers against her arm. The touch was featherlight, but it sent a violent shiver through her.
"I need you to let me protect you, Hannah." His voice was quiet now, raw with something she didn't want to name.
She shook her head. "I don't need you."
"Then why did you call me?"
The question stole the air from her lungs.
Because she had. Despite everything. Despite the walls she'd tried to rebuild.
Her throat worked around a response, but nothing came.
Jake exhaled sharply, stepping back like he could feel the shift between them, like he knew she was seconds away from breaking.
His voice was rough, his words barely more than a whisper.
"Hannah, if you don't want me here, I'll go." His eyes searched hers. "But if you have to tell me to go, I won't leave otherwise."
She clenched her jaw, her chest tightening.
She couldn't say it.
"It's a threat, Hannah," he said softly. "I can't just walk away."
Her lips parted, the argument dying on her tongue.
Because deep down, she knew he was right.
So she let him stay. Let him lock the doors behind them before they sat in silence, listening to the sound of the rain against the windows.
Jake didn't leave.
Not even once her hands stopped shaking.