The rest of the week passed in a blur of flour, early mornings, and long nights. Business was picking up faster than Lena expected, and she barely had time to think about Walker—or Madeline.
But every now and then, she'd catch herself glancing at the door around eight, half-hoping he'd show up again.
He didn't.
On Friday morning, just after sunrise, Lena stood at the worktable kneading dough. Music played softly from a little speaker in the corner—some old jazz tune her dad used to hum. The rhythm helped her focus. The repetition was comforting.
She was elbow-deep in flour when the bell over the door rang.
"Sorry, we're not open for another hour—" she began, but stopped when she looked up.
It wasn't a customer. It was Walker.
And he didn't look like the usual coffee-craving version of himself. Today, he wore no suit, no pressed shirt. Just jeans, a hoodie, and a sheepish smile.
"I come bearing gifts," he said, holding up a large to-go cup and a brown paper bag.
Lena blinked. "What is this?"
"A peace offering," he said, stepping closer. "I figured I owed you one after the awkward latte showdown the other day."
She raised a brow but wiped her hands and took the bag.
Inside was a perfectly wrapped breakfast sandwich and a muffin—blueberry, her favorite.
"You remembered," she said, surprised.
"Of course I did."
She handed him a clean apron. "Then you can earn points by helping with the cinnamon rolls."
He gave her a playful grimace. "That's a lot of pressure for someone who still kneads dough like he's starting a bar fight."
She laughed and tossed him a second ball of dough. "I'll guide you."
For the next hour, they worked side by side, laughing over his lumpy roll attempts and the flour he accidentally dusted all over himself. It was the first time in days Lena felt completely at ease.
As the rolls baked, filling the room with warm sugar and spice, Walker leaned against the counter.
"I needed this," he said quietly. "It's been… a rough week."
Lena glanced over. "Business?"
He nodded. "Board's breathing down my neck. They want expansion, acquisitions, numbers. It's a lot."
"You could always come knead dough full time," she joked.
"I'm seriously considering it," he said, only half-kidding. "There's something peaceful about this place. And about you."
Her eyes flicked to his. "Walker…"
"I know," he said quickly, straightening. "I'm not trying to mess with anything. I just… being around you again feels different. Familiar. But new."
She felt her heart skip, confused and exhilarated at once.
Before she could respond, the timer dinged.
She turned to the oven, grateful for the distraction. As she pulled the golden, sticky rolls from the tray, Walker came up beside her.
"These are magic," he said, inhaling deeply.
"Don't sweet-talk the rolls," she teased.
"I'm talking to the baker."
She looked up, startled by the softness in his tone.
Walker's hand brushed hers—light, hesitant.
Lena didn't move away.
But she didn't reach for him either.
Somewhere between the scent of cinnamon and the silence between them, a choice was being made.
And neither of them was ready to make it—yet.