Lena was wiping down the counter when she heard the front door open, the familiar chime signaling his arrival. She looked up just in time to see Walker walk in with two pizza boxes and a bag of something from the bakery downtown that she loved. He was still in his suit—tie loosened, hair slightly tousled—but his eyes lit up the moment he saw her.
"I come bearing gifts," he announced, holding the boxes like a trophy.
"You may enter," she said, grinning as she untied her apron.
He set the food down on the counter and leaned over to press a kiss to her cheek. "How was the day?"
"Busy. Sold out of almost everything before two. People are starting to call ahead to reserve the lemon tarts." She rolled her eyes, but there was pride in her voice. "You?"
"Board meetings, emails, putting out fires. The usual." He pulled out plates like he'd done it a hundred times before, and the ease of it made her chest tighten.
They sat across from each other at the island, laughing between bites, teasing each other about the chaos of their respective days. For a while, it felt like the outside world didn't exist—just the two of them, pizza, and the kind of comfort that only came with being truly seen.
After dinner, she poured them both a glass of wine, and they moved to the couch. The bakery lights were off, the house quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the soft buzz of the city beyond the window.
Walker stretched an arm across the back of the couch, letting his fingers brush against her shoulder. She leaned into the touch without thinking, the familiar warmth of him seeping into her skin.
"I missed this," he said quietly.
"You mean dinner?"
"I mean this," he replied, looking at her. "You. Here. Just being together."
Lena's heart thudded. She hadn't let herself overanalyze what was happening between them. He was staying here temporarily—she reminded herself of that often—but moments like this made it harder to pretend that was all it was.
"I'm glad you came back tonight," she said, her voice soft.
He turned toward her, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I hate leaving in the mornings," he admitted. "The office is… what I love. But it's quieter now. Colder. I think about you more than I should."
She looked up at him, eyes catching on the curve of his mouth, the way his gaze softened as it dropped to hers. The space between them pulsed with something electric—hot and heavy and almost impossible to ignore.
He leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
His mouth brushed hers, tentative at first. Then again, deeper. Her fingers found the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric as she kissed him back. It was sweet and slow, building heat between them like rising dough in a warm kitchen.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, he pressed his forehead to hers.
"Lena Hart," he murmured, "you're starting to ruin me."