Lena Hart hadn't been back in Willow Creek in ten years. When she stepped off the bus, the scent of pine trees, freshly cut grass, and bread from the old bakery swept over her like a memory frozen in time. Her father had passed just six weeks ago, and now she was back to take over what he'd built—Hart's Breads & Bakes.
The town hadn't changed much. Quaint storefronts lined Main Street, flower baskets hung from every lamppost, and kids still zipped around on bikes, laughing like it was summer break every day of the year. She paused at the bakery, its windows dusty and the sign faded. Her heart gave a dull ache. The last time she stood here, she was eighteen, heartbroken, and desperate to leave.
The key stuck in the lock, just like always. Some things, apparently, never changed. With a grunt and a twist, the door creaked open. The air inside was thick with dust, flour, and memory. It smelled like yeast, cinnamon, and a trace of her father's cologne. She stepped behind the counter, ran her hand across the scarred wood, and sighed.
She'd come home for the bakery, not the memories.
The door jingled open.
"Need help with that?" a familiar voice asked.
Her breath hitched. Slowly, she turned.
Ethan Walker stood in the doorway. Ten years had only refined him—same ice-blue eyes, same confident stance, but the boy she once knew had been replaced by a man. He wore a navy suit jacket, no tie, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows. CEO written all over him.
"Ethan," she said, surprised at how neutral her voice sounded.
"Lena," he replied with a smile that was just a little too easy. "Back for good?"
"Looks that way," she said, reaching for her suitcase.
"You need help getting the place up and running?"
"I've got it handled," she said, fiddling with the light switch. Nothing happened. She frowned.
Ethan stepped beside her without waiting for permission. One quick look, one flick of the fuse box, and the lights buzzed to life.
"Still stubborn," he teased.
"Still nosy," she shot back.
For a second, silence hung between them.
"I heard about your dad," he said finally. "I'm sorry."
Her defenses dipped. "Thanks. He was… everything."
"He taught me how to knead dough," Ethan said, almost sheepishly. "Said I was terrible at it."
Lena chuckled. "He probably said that to make you try harder."
"It worked. I nearly sprained my wrist."
She looked at him then, really looked. Something in his eyes had changed. Or maybe she had.
He stepped back, nodding toward the street. "Well, I should let you settle in. Just wanted to say welcome home."
As he turned to leave, she blurted, "Ethan?"
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Thanks—for stopping by."
He smiled again, softer this time. "Anytime."
When he left, Lena stood still for a moment, heart pounding. She'd buried her feelings for Ethan a decade ago—deep and far away. She had no intention of digging them up.
But that night, in her childhood bedroom with the creaky floorboards and peeling wallpaper, his face slipped into her thoughts.
She told herself it didn't mean anything.
But deep down, something fragile stirred—something she wasn't ready to name.