"You don't have to?—"
"I know." The same words from yesterday, spoken in the same way. "I want to."
And I don't know what to do with that. With this version of Connor who shows up before dawn bearing coffee and offers to help and looks at me like... like what? I'm not sure. All I know is it's different from before, and I'm afraid to trust it.
"The dough for the morning bread needs to be shaped," I finally say, gesturing toward the kitchen. "If you're serious about helping."
He pushes away from the counter. "Show me what to do."
I follow him into the kitchen, my heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with exertion. Is he just checking on me because he feels responsible? Or is this something more?
As he rolls up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair, I realize I'm afraid to find out.
ChapterSix
Connor
"Ithink that's the last customer," I say, flipping the sign on the door to 'Closed.' The sun is setting over Main Street, casting long shadows through the bakery windows.
It's been a week since the storm, since finding Sarah on that trail, since something shifted between us that I still can't name. I've been stopping by the bakery more often. Not just Tuesdays now, but almost daily. At first, I told myself it was just to check on her ankle. Then to help while she was on crutches. Today, I ran out of excuses and simply showed up.
Sarah looks up from wiping down the counter, a loose strand of hair falling across her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear, leaving a smudge of flour on her temple.
"Thanks," she says. "You really don't have to stay and help close up."
"I know." It's become our refrain over the past week. I know. I want to.
She moves with more confidence now, the limp barely noticeable. But I've caught her wincing when she thinks no one is looking, the long hours on her feet taking their toll.
"How's the ankle?" I ask, gathering empty plates from the last table.
"Better." She empties the register, counting bills with practiced efficiency. "Dr. Wagner says I can probably ditch the brace in another week."
I nod, secretly wondering what excuse I'll have to keep showing up once she's fully healed. The thought unsettles me. When did Sarah Miller become someone I look for reasons to see?
"Almost done," she says. "Just need to finish up the day's paperwork in the back, then we can lock up."
I follow her into the office behind the kitchen, a small space cramped with filing cabinets, a desk covered with papers, and a bulletin board plastered with recipes torn from magazines. It's organized chaos, much like her house. Everything in its own strange order that somehow makes sense to her.
"Can I get you anything before you go?" she asks, shifting a stack of papers to make room for the day's receipts. "There's half a loaf of sourdough left. Or some of those chocolate chip cookies you pretend not to like but always eat three of."
I laugh. "I don't pretend not to like them."
"Connor, every time I offer you one, you say 'maybe just one' and then eat at least three."
She knows my habits. The realization warms something in my chest.
"Fine. I'll take some cookies."
She smiles, that real smile that reaches her eyes, not the polite one she gives customers. "There are napkins on the shelf. Grab some and I'll wrap them up."
I reach for the napkins, my elbow catching the edge of a folder. It tips, sending papers cascading across the desk and onto the floor.
"Sorry," I mutter, crouching to gather them.
"Don't worry about it," she says, kneeling beside me despite her ankle.
That's when I see them. Photos. Not the digital prints most people have nowadays, but proper photographs, developed with care on high-quality paper. I pick one up. It’s of an elderly couple sitting on a bench in the town square, holding hands. The composition is perfect, the light catching the woman's silver hair like a halo. Another shows a child leaping through a puddle, suspended in mid-air, joy captured in motion.
