Chapter 18
Hannah
The kitchen still smelled like smoke and scorched butter. The fire had been small—contained, insignificant—but the scent clung to the air, settling deep in the walls, in the floor, in her skin.
Hannah scrubbed harder at the counter, her hands working on pure instinct. The rest of her felt numb.
The bakery was fine. She kept telling herself that. The flames hadn't touched anything vital. It could have been worse.
And yet, when she closed her eyes, she saw the fire growing, spreading, consuming everything.
Her grandmother's legacy.
Her last safe place.
Her life.
A quiet breath shuddered out of her. She turned, moving on autopilot, opening the cabinet near the back of the kitchen.
Her fingers brushed the old wooden box before she even registered what she was doing.
It sat there, unchanged—the same one her grandmother had kept for decades, its corners worn smooth from years of handling.
Hannah pulled it down carefully, lifting the lid.
Inside, hundreds of recipe cards—each one written in her grandmother's familiar, looping script.
She ran her fingers over them, the weight of memories pressing into her chest.
The bakery had always been more than just flour and sugar.
More than just profit margins and expenses.
It was stories.
It was her grandmother's hands, dusted with flour, pressing a cookie cutter into soft dough. It was the way her mother had hummed while piping frosting onto birthday cakes.
It was people.
Mr. Wilson's card had a note in the corner: prefers extra cinnamon in his scones
Mary Peterson's: light on the sugar, her husband was diabetic
There were dozens of these little notes, tiny pieces of history woven into the recipes themselves.
Hannah swallowed the lump in her throat.
This was what mattered.
Not the building.
Not the sign in the window.
This.
The bell over the door chimed softly.
Hannah's body tensed automatically. The fire crew had left, but—
Jake.
She didn't turn. She couldn't. She wasn't ready to face him again.
The floor creaked as he stepped inside. He didn't speak at first. Just stood there, letting the silence stretch.
She hated him for that. For not forcing words into the space, for letting her feel every inch of the weight pressing on her chest.
She closed the recipe box carefully, her hands trembling.
"You should go," she said, voice hollow.
"Hannah—"
She turned then, finally meeting his gaze.
He looked… wrecked. The soot on his uniform, the way his shoulders were tight with something unreadable.
But which version of Jake was standing in front of her now?
The contractor who'd held her close on quiet mornings?
The FBI agent who'd lied to her face? The firefighter who kept showing up, like he still had a right to?
How many identities did he have? And which one was real?
But she didn't care.
She couldn't.
"You don't get to be here," she said. "Not after everything."
Jake's jaw ticked. "I stayed." His voice was rough. "The crew left. I didn't."
She wanted to throw that back at him. Wanted to tell him she didn't care.
But her throat burned.
Her chest ached.
And suddenly, the words were pouring out before she could stop them.
"This place is everything, Jake."
She wasn't talking to Agent Cooper right now. She was talking to the man who had helped her repaint these cabinets in the summer because the original color was fading.
The man who had built the wooden display shelf because she wanted something special for holiday pastries.
The man who had sat at this very counter, stealing bits of cookie dough while she baked.
Her voice broke.
"It's the only thing I have left now."
Jake inhaled sharply. "That's not true."
She let out a hollow laugh. "Tell me, what else do I have, Jake?"
His eyes darkened.
"You still have me."
Silence fell.
For a second, she thought she might shatter completely.
Because there was something about the way he said it.
Not a desperate plea. Not an apology.
Just truth.
Raw. Unshakable.
A declaration he had no right to make.
A promise she wanted so badly to believe.
Her fingers tightened around the recipe box.
She shook her head.
"I can't do this."
Jake's jaw clenched. But he nodded.
And then, slowly, carefully, he turned and walked away.
Leaving her alone in the kitchen, with nothing but the scent of smoke and the ghosts of everything they used to be.