Chapter 12
Rook
Dawn found him the same way the lake had left him: restless, raw, and thinking of her. Rook showed up at Sweet Treats before the sun had fully cleared the treeline, the air still cool enough to sting his lungs.
He told himself the bakery needed work, that the place wasn’t secure, that he was just keeping watch. Nothing more.
He didn’t tell himself the truth.
The truth was standing inside the bakery with her hair twisted into a messy knot, wearing paint-splattered leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that slid off one shoulder like it had been doing that for years.
She looked exactly like the version of Avery he’d spent seven years trying not to remember: focused, determined, and somehow still soft around the edges.
Avery didn’t hear him come in. She was sanding one of the old wooden shelves, humming under her breath, sunlight catching the dust in the air around her like she was standing in her own halo. The sound of her — the quiet hum, the steady rhythm — hit him harder than he expected.
Rook leaned against the doorframe, watching her. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.
But he did.
Her movements were sure, practiced. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of sawdust across her cheek.
She didn’t notice.
He did. He always did.
He cleared his throat.
Avery startled, spinning around. “Seriously, Noah… warn a person.”
He stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t scare me,” she said, even though she clearly had been. “Just… surprised.”
He nodded toward the shelf. “You shouldn’t be doing that alone.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m capable.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“You implied it.”
He exhaled slowly. “Aves… I’m just trying to help.”
Her jaw tightened in irritation. “I’m fine. I just… don’t want you to see me screw this up.”
That one hit different. Not because she pushed him away, but because she was trying not to look small in front of him.
She handed him the sanding block anyway. “Fine. You can help. Just…don’t hover. Your hovering makes it hard to think straight.”
Their fingers brushed. A spark. A memory. A pull he felt all the way to his bones.
He stepped back anyway because she looked one breath away from bolting.
They worked in silence, Avery sanding the smaller pieces while Rook hauled out the heavy display cases, the metal shelving, and the cracked glass panels that had been shoved into the back room years ago.
Every time he lifted something, Avery’s eyes flicked toward him, quick and assessing, like she was checking he wasn’t overdoing it or maybe checking he was still there.
Every time she bent to reach something, his gaze drifted without permission, cataloging the changes in her and the pieces that hadn’t changed at all.
He hated how easy it was to fall back into old patterns. He hated how much he didn’t hate it.
After an hour, Avery wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “You know, you don’t have to do all the heavy lifting.”
He shot her a look. “You weigh, what, a hundred pounds? You’d snap in half trying to move this stuff.”
Her eyes narrowed. “One thirty-five.”
He smirked. “Still too small.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m not small.”
“You’re stubborn,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Her glare sharpened. “I’m not stubborn. I’m self-sufficient.”
“Same thing when you refuse help just to prove a point.”
She bristled. “I’ve been doing things on my own for a long time, Noah. I don’t need someone swooping in to fix everything.”
“I’m not swooping in.”
“You are. You always do.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “Aves, I’m literally just moving a shelf.”
“Yeah? And next you’ll be telling me how to run the place.”
He stared at her. “I’m trying to keep you from getting hurt.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“I never said you were.”
“You implied it.”
He let out a humorless breath. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re overbearing.”
They stood there, breathing hard, caught somewhere between who they’d been and who they didn’t quite know how to be now.
She turned away, grabbing a paintbrush. “I’m going to start on the trim.”
He followed her without meaning to. “Aves…”
“Don’t,” she said, voice tight.
He stopped. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t hover.”
He swallowed. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
He stepped closer, frustration and something else twisting in his chest. “I’m trying to help. That’s all.”
“Then let me do things my way.”
His expression tightened, a small shift but enough to betray something he didn’t say.
She saw it. Softened. Stepped closer.
“Noah,” she whispered. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”
He looked down at her — at the paint on her wrist, the dust in her hair, the stubborn hope in her eyes.
“I don’t want to fight either,” he said.
They stood there, inches apart, breathing the same air, tension thick enough to touch.
Avery’s gaze flicked to his mouth. Just long enough to undo him.
His hand rose, brushing her jaw, and she leaned in, drawn toward him like she couldn’t help it.
Her elbow clipped the worktable, knocking a small tin of screws to the floor in a sharp rattle.
Avery jerked back, cheeks flushing as she dropped to a crouch, fumbling to gather the scattered screws with unsteady hands.
Rook stood frozen.
His breath caught somewhere between his ribs. His hand hovered uselessly in the air where her jaw had been a second earlier. His pulse thudded hard, not from the near-moment itself, but from the way she pulled away, fast, flustered, pretending nothing had happened.
He curled his fingers into a fist, grounding himself. His shoulders tightened, the urge to reach for her warring with the knowledge that she clearly needed space. He shifted his weight, jaw working, trying to steady the rush of emotion that had blindsided him.
Avery muttered, “Get it together,” scooping the last screws into her palm. She shoved them back into the tin, stood too quickly, and nearly dropped it again. Her movements were rushed, unfocused, a clear attempt to regain control.
Rook watched her, chest tight, every instinct telling him to step in, to help, to say something, but he didn’t. He stayed still, letting her have the room she was scrambling to reclaim.
She grabbed the paintbrush like it was a lifeline and turned toward the trim with forced concentration.
“I should… uh…this trim isn’t going to paint itself,” she said, her voice too bright, too quick.
The moment thinned out, fragile and trembling, like it wasn’t sure what it had almost become.
Rook let his hand fall, fingers curling against his palm. His jaw tightened, pulse still thudding in a way he couldn’t quite steady. He didn’t move toward her, didn’t say anything, just watched her pretend the trim needed her full attention while her hands shook the slightest bit.
He cleared his throat, the sound low and rough. “Right. Yeah.”
Avery kept her back to him, brush lifted but unmoving, shoulders held too stiff to be casual.
Rook opened his mouth — a word, an apology, something — but nothing came out. The moment was too raw, too close, and he wasn’t about to push her when she was already scrambling for distance.
He swallowed hard, let out a slow breath, and stepped closer instead of away.
“Here,” he said quietly, reaching past her for the second brush on the table. His voice was steadier than he felt. “You missed a spot.”
Avery hesitated, just for a heartbeat, then nodded without looking at him.
He dipped the brush into the paint and moved to the opposite end of the trim, giving her space while still helping. His strokes were slow, controlled, something to anchor himself with.
Behind him, Avery finally started painting again, her movements a little too careful, a little too quick.
The silence between them wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile either. Just charged. Unspoken. Fragile.
After a moment, Rook cleared his throat. “I’ll finish this side.”
“Okay,” she said softly.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t trust himself to.
For a while, the only sounds were the soft drag of brushes and the occasional scrape of a ladder shifting across the floor. The earlier heat between them didn’t vanish. It just settled, low and steady, threading through the quiet like something neither of them wanted to name.
Avery worked with her shoulders still a little tight, but her movements grew steadier as the minutes passed.
Rook kept to his side of the room, giving her space without stepping away entirely.
Every so often, he caught her glancing over, quick, almost guilty, before she snapped her attention back to the trim.
He almost said something once. Her name sat on his tongue, heavy and familiar. But when she paused, waiting, he swallowed it down and dipped his brush back into the paint instead.
They fell into a rhythm after that, not the easy one they used to have, but something new. Careful. Measured. A quiet understanding built in silence.
By the time the sun shifted across the floorboards, the trim was half-finished and the air smelled like sawdust and fresh paint. Avery stepped back to study her work, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist.
He slowed his own brushstroke, watching her from the corner of his eye. The quiet between them wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t sharp anymore either, just careful, like they were both trying not to step on something fragile.
Avery moved to the next section of trim, and he shifted with her, falling into a rhythm that felt new and familiar all at once. The scrape of sandpaper, the soft drag of bristles, and the muted thud of their footsteps blended together, forming a quiet, unspoken truce.
A vibration buzzed against his thigh; sharp in the quiet. He froze for half a second, jaw tightening. Another buzz followed.
Avery’s brush paused mid-stroke, but she didn’t turn.
Rook set his brush down and reached into his pocket.
The screen lit up with a string of messages — short, clipped, urgent. Club business. The kind that didn’t wait.