Rain tapped against the kitchen windows like a metronome, steady and soothing. Lena stood barefoot on the warm tile, her favorite oversized sweatshirt hanging just past her thighs. It was past midnight, but sleep had proven elusive. Her mind was stirring with contract clauses, cinnamon measurements, and the way Walker had said "I love you."
It kept replaying in her head. Over and over. Like the soft pulse of the rain.
She pulled a mug from the cabinet and poured the last of the hot chocolate from the stove. She added a splash of vanilla, a sprinkle of cayenne—her secret late-night comfort.
The creak of the hallway floor made her turn.
Walker emerged, shirtless, in gray sweatpants, rubbing the back of his neck. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, his voice husky.
Lena shook her head. "Too much in my head. Want some?"
He stepped into the kitchen and nodded. "Always."
She poured a second mug, handing it to him. Their fingers brushed, and the heat that passed between them had nothing to do with the stove.
"Thanks," he said quietly, but his eyes lingered. "You always make everything taste better."
She looked down at her mug, then back up at him. "You always say the exact thing that gets under my skin."
Walker took a sip and leaned against the counter beside her. "Maybe because I know you better than you think."
Lena exhaled, her chest tightening in that way it always did when the truth pressed too close. "You're good at making people feel safe. Even when everything's uncertain."
"I don't want to be just safe," he said. "I want to be real with you. Messy. Intense. The kind of thing that keeps you up at night."
Lena set her mug down.
The space between them evaporated.
He moved first, cupping her face gently, slowly—like asking for permission with his touch. She rose onto her toes, meeting him halfway. Their lips brushed once, then again, deeper, surer. She tasted chocolate and want and a week's worth of tension coiled into one electric kiss.
Walker pressed her against the counter, his hands sliding along her hips. Lena gasped softly, her fingers threading into his hair. His mouth trailed along her jaw to her throat, slow and reverent.
"This okay?" he whispered against her skin.
She nodded, breathless. "Yeah. More than okay."
Their kisses turned hungrier, unspoken emotion translating into touch. When he lifted her effortlessly onto the counter, her legs wrapped around his waist like they belonged there.
And for a moment—just one—there was no bakery. No contracts. No Harper Holdings or town gossip or legacy to maintain.
Just Lena and Walker. Wanting, needing, rediscovering each other in the quiet dark.
He pulled back only briefly, his eyes locked on hers. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
She kissed him hard. "Don't."
And with that, the tension that had simmered for weeks finally came to a boil.
They didn't rush. Every movement was deliberate, every touch a memory uncovered, rewritten, and made new. Lena clung to him, not just for the fire he sparked across her skin, but for the shelter he became in her arms. She had imagined this moment once, in the quiet ache of her teenage heart, but nothing compared to the reality of Walker holding her like she was everything he'd been searching for.
Later, tangled in the throw blanket from her couch, with his chest beneath her cheek and his fingers lazily tracing circles on her back, Lena felt a kind of calm settle over her that she hadn't known she'd been missing. No one said a word. There was no need. Because here, in the quiet aftermath, surrounded by the hum of rain and warmth of their shared breath, she knew: something had shifted. Something real had begun.