Lena hadn't meant to turn her kitchen into a laboratory—but by Tuesday evening, that's exactly what it looked like.
Flour dusted the countertops, three different batches of dough rested in various stages of rise, and at least two dozen miniature cakes lined the cooling racks. Walker leaned against the doorway, a smudge of powdered sugar on his cheek, looking both impressed and mildly alarmed.
"Is this what happens when you get inspired, or when you're secretly planning world domination through butter?" he asked.
"Both," Lena replied, not missing a beat.
She stood at the stove, carefully swirling dark chocolate into a saucepan of cream and espresso. The scent alone could melt resolve.
"I want the pilot location—if we move forward—to start with something new," she said. "Something that's ours, not just a repeat of what we already do here."
Walker crossed the kitchen, stealing a spoonful of ganache. "You mean yours."
She looked up at him, her brow softening. "No. I mean ours. If this bakery's going to grow, I want it to reflect us. This recipe is the first."
He smiled, quiet and a little stunned. "Lena, I—"
"Don't say anything yet," she interrupted, lifting a finger. "Wait until you taste it."
Twenty minutes later, they stood side by side at the butcher block island, each holding a fork and eyeing the finished product: a dark chocolate espresso cake with a cinnamon-sugar crunch and a hint of sea salt. Topped with whipped mascarpone and a coffee glaze, it was unlike anything Lena had made before.
They each took a bite.
Walker closed his eyes, letting the flavors unfold. He didn't speak for a full ten seconds.
Then: "You just ruined every other dessert for me."
Lena burst out laughing. "So… good?"
"It's not just good," he said. "It's a statement. It's bold. It's you."
Her smile faded into something softer. "You really think it could carry a brand?"
"I think you could carry a brand. This cake just proves the rest of us need to catch up."
She felt the compliment settle deep in her chest. For years, she'd created quietly—recipes passed down from her grandmother, tweaks she made in the stillness of early mornings. But never before had someone looked at her work like it was more than just delicious.
Walker saw it as a future.
She leaned back against the counter, watching him finish the slice with gusto.
"You didn't even ask what it's called," she said.
He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Hit me."
"Bittersweet."
He tilted his head. "Like the chocolate?"
"Like life," she said. "Like us."
Walker stepped closer, his expression turning serious. "I don't want 'bittersweet' to define us anymore, Lena."
"Then what?"
He reached for her hand, brushing his thumb over her fingers. "How about something slow? Steady? Something that starts in the kitchen and ends with a home?"
She blinked, heart fluttering.
It wasn't a proposal—not quite. But it was the most vulnerable truth he'd ever offered her.
Lena squeezed his hand. "Then let's keep baking."
And just like that, another layer of trust rose between them—warm, rich, and full of promise.