Chapter 5
Avery
By afternoon, Avery’s entire body ached.
Her arms throbbed from scrubbing. Her back protested every time she bent. Dust clung to her hair, her clothes, her eyelashes. She’d wiped down counters, swept floors, washed windows, and reorganized half the front room.
And still, Sweet Treats looked like a place time had forgotten.
But at least now she could see the floor. At least now the sunlight reached the back wall. At least now it felt like a bakery instead of a tomb.
She grabbed a rag and moved toward the front windows, wiping a streak through the grime. The glass squeaked under her hand, the sound sharp in the quiet.
Avery paused, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool pane. She was tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that made her thoughts slow and her emotions too close to the surface.
Outside, the street was mostly empty. A few cars. A couple walking a dog. The wind pushing leaves across the pavement.
But then, a flicker of movement across the street.
Avery straightened, heart giving a startled jump.
A man stood near the corner, half-turned away, hood up, hands in his pockets. Not moving. Not walking. Just… there.
Watching?
She blinked hard, trying to clear the grime from the inside of the glass. When she looked again, the man was gone. The sidewalk empty.
Avery exhaled slowly.
You’re exhausted, she told herself. You’re seeing things. It’s nothing.
Still, a faint chill crawled up her spine.
She stepped back from the window, rubbing her arms. The bakery suddenly felt too quiet again. Too still. Like the walls were holding their breath.
Trying to shake it off, Avery moved toward the stack of boxes she hadn’t touched yet. She pushed a heavy one aside, coughing as a cloud of dust puffed up.
Something handwritten on the lid caught her eye.
Clara Brooks — Recipes
Her breath hitched.
She sank to her knees, fingers trembling as she lifted the lid. Inside were dozens of index cards, some yellowed with age, some stained with vanilla or butter or chocolate. Aunt Clara’s looping handwriting filled every one.
Lemon cream scones. Chocolate swirl muffins. Caramel apple turnovers. Sweet Treats signature cinnamon rolls.
Avery pressed a hand to her mouth, tears burning behind her eyes.
She could almost hear Aunt Clara humming. Almost smell warm sugar and cinnamon. Almost feel Noah sitting across from her, teasing her about her terrible math skills.
Her throat tightened painfully.
Avery pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to steady her breathing, but the ache in her chest only tightened. The recipe cards blurred through her tears, Aunt Clara’s handwriting swimming in and out of focus.
And then, without warning, another memory rose, soft at the edges, warm and painful all at once.
Sweet Treats had always been her refuge, the place she ran when home felt too loud or too tense. And staring at Aunt Clara’s handwriting now pulled her straight back to one of those nights.
She was twelve again.
The bakery lights were dim, the CLOSED sign flipped, the scent of cinnamon still lingering in the air.
Avery had locked herself in the tiny bathroom, sitting on the floor with her knees pulled to her chest, trying to muffle her sobs.
Her parents had fought again — loud, ugly, the kind of fight that made her feel like she was made of glass and every word was another crack.
She’d run here. To Sweet Treats. To the place that always felt quieter than home when her parents’ voices got too sharp.
A soft knock sounded on the bathroom door.
“Aves?” Noah’s voice. Younger. Softer. Still carrying that quiet steadiness he never seemed to lose. “You okay?”
She’d tried to swallow the sound of her crying, but it came out anyway, a broken little hiccup she couldn’t hide.
Noah didn’t push the door. Didn’t try to open it. He just slid down the wall on the other side, sitting on the floor so their backs were pressed against the same door.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I’m here.”
Avery buried her face in her hands. “I don’t… I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“I’m not seeing anything,” he said gently. “Just hearing you breathe.”
She let out a shaky laugh, even though it hurt. “That’s worse.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”
Silence settled between them, not heavy, not awkward. Just… steady. Safe. Noah’s presence seeped through the door like warmth, like a blanket she didn’t have to ask for.
After a long moment, he spoke again. “Your parents fighting doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.”
Avery’s throat tightened. “I know.”
“You don’t sound like you know.”
She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I just… I hate when they yell.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I hate it too.”
Another beat of silence.
Then, softly: “Aves? Can you open the door?”
She hesitated. Her eyes were red. Her face blotchy. She felt small and stupid and fragile.
But Noah didn’t rush her. He didn’t coax. He just waited.
And somehow, that made her want to open it more than anything.
Avery reached up with trembling fingers and unlocked the door.
Noah didn’t push it open. He let her do it.
When she finally cracked it, he was sitting there on the floor, knees bent, hands resting loosely on them. His eyes lifted to hers, warm, steady, full of something she didn’t understand yet.
He didn’t touch her. He didn’t pull her into a hug. He just said, “Hey.”
And for the first time that night, she could breathe.
The memory faded slowly, leaving her kneeling on the bakery floor, Aunt Clara’s recipe box in her lap, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
Noah had always been like that. Quiet. Steady. Showing up without being asked. Staying without being told.
And losing that — losing him — had hurt more than she’d ever let herself admit.
The bell over the front door jingled.
Avery startled, wiping her face quickly.
Noah stepped inside. Except he wasn’t alone.
Two prospects followed him, both young, both eager, both trying too hard to look tough. One was tall and lanky with sandy hair and a nervous smile. The other was stockier, dark-haired, with a restless energy that made him shift from foot to foot.
Noah didn’t bother with greetings.
“Start with the tables,” he told the prospects. “Then the floors.”
Both nodded immediately. “Yes, sir.”
Avery blinked. “Sir?”
Noah ignored her, moving toward the front door. He pulled a small toolkit from his back pocket and knelt to inspect the lock.
Avery stood, brushing dust from her jeans. “Noah, what are you doing?”
“Replacing this,” he said without looking up. “It’s useless.”
She crossed her arms. “You can’t just…”
“Ma’am?” the sandy-haired prospect asked gently. “Where do you want these tables?”
Avery opened her mouth to answer, then froze when the other prospect called out: “Rook, you want us to move the display case too?”
The room shifted around her. Avery’s heart slammed against her ribs.
Her gaze snapped to Noah.
He went still. Completely still.
The wrench in his hand tightened. His jaw clenched. His shoulders rose, then fell in a slow, controlled breath.
Avery’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “Rook?”
Noah didn’t look at her. “Yeah, Vandal,” he told the prospect. “And keep working.”
But she wasn’t letting it go.
“That’s your name now?” she asked, stepping closer. “Rook?”
“It’s a road name,” he said flatly.
“It’s not your name.”
“It is to them.”
“And to you?”
He finally looked at her.
And the force of it nearly knocked her back.
His eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, storm gray and guarded, furious and hurting.
“You don’t get to ask me that,” he said quietly.
Avery’s throat tightened. “I’m just trying to understand.”
“No,” he snapped. “You’re trying to walk back into my life like you didn’t disappear from it.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” He laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You left, Aves. You didn’t look back. You didn’t call. You didn’t write. You didn’t give a damn.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
She stepped closer, anger and heartbreak tangling in her chest. “You didn’t fight for me.”
His jaw flexed. “I didn’t think I had the right to.”
The words hit her like a blow.
Silence stretched between them. Thick. Suffocating. Electric.
The prospects kept cleaning, eyes down, pretending they weren’t listening. But their shoulders were tense. Their movements careful. They knew better than to interrupt.
Avery swallowed hard. “I didn’t know you hated me.”
Noah’s expression cracked, just for a second. A flicker of pain. Regret. Something raw.
Then he shut it down.
“I don’t hate you,” he said. “I just don’t know what to do about you.”
Her voice trembled. “I didn’t come back to hurt you.”
“Too late.”
He grabbed his toolkit, shoved it into his pocket, and headed for the door.
“Noah…”
He didn’t stop.
He didn’t look back.
He just walked out into the fading light, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.
Avery stood frozen for a moment.
Then the tears came.
Quiet at first. Then harder. Then unstoppable.
She turned away from the prospects, moving toward the back of the bakery, pressing a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.
Avery sank to the floor behind the counter, shoulders shaking, Aunt Clara’s recipe box clutched to her chest.
She didn’t see the door Noah had fixed or the new lock he’d installed. She didn’t notice how the prospects worked twice as hard after he left.
All she felt was the ache of old wounds ripped open.
All she knew was that Noah Carter was hurting.
And so was she.