Monday came like a jolt, snapping Walker back into the rhythm of his CEO life. He stood in front of the full-length mirror in his closet, adjusting his cufflinks, the sharp lines of his suit a contrast to the comfort of the weekend. He wasn't resentful of the work—he liked the power, the challenge—but as he checked the time, his thoughts drifted to Lena, still curled under the covers in his bed.
He wasn't used to the ache that came with leaving her.
Downstairs, she sipped coffee by the window, wrapped in one of his button-down shirts, her hair a loose mess that somehow made her even more beautiful. When he leaned down to kiss her goodbye, her fingers caught his tie and pulled him back for one more kiss—longer, slower, the kind that lingered.
"Don't charm me before I go into battle," he murmured.
"Then stop looking like a magazine spread," she teased.
Work hit him the moment he stepped out of the elevator. His assistant bombarded him with updates: a delayed shipment from Shanghai, a board member requesting an urgent call, and a new investor proposal waiting for his review. He slipped easily into his role—confident, commanding—but the echo of her kiss followed him like a shadow through the halls of Coleridge Corp.
By noon, Walker was in the middle of a tense budget meeting when his phone vibrated with a photo—Lena, flour on her nose, holding up a tray of raspberry danishes. Test batch for Valentine's week. Taste later? it read.
His jaw twitched as he fought a smile, his colleagues oblivious to the warmth threading through his chest. He typed back a quick: Clear my schedule at 6. I'll bring wine.
Back at the bakery, Lena wiped her hands on a towel and tried not to overthink how easily they'd fallen into this rhythm. But she wasn't naive. The bakery demanded more of her every day—new orders, supplier negotiations, and now, a city permit delay that threatened her upcoming renovation. She was tired. Stretched. And very aware of how temporary this season with Walker might be.
Still, when he walked through the back entrance that evening, sleeves rolled up and wine in hand, she couldn't help but melt a little.
They shared the danishes on the prep counter, glasses of cabernet between them. Walker licked a smear of raspberry filling off his thumb, eyes dark with suggestion. "I think you've just made me fall in love with pastries."
Lena smirked. "Careful. That kind of talk gets you a lifetime supply."
He stepped closer, the air crackling. "Only if it comes with the baker."
Their kiss was slow and indulgent, mouths sweet with sugar and wine. She gripped his shirt, pulling him into her warmth. The oven ticked behind them, its residual heat matching the slow burn building between their bodies. There, in the space between fire and flour, they let the world fade.
Later, as they cleaned up in comfortable silence, Lena watched Walker dry the dishes, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his usual polished veneer softened by the intimacy of domestic routine. It struck her how seamlessly he fit into her space, how natural it felt to have him here—even though she knew it couldn't last forever. He wasn't hers to keep, not yet. And her bakery, her life, still needed her full attention.
As they locked up the kitchen and walked out into the cool night, his arm around her shoulders, she leaned into him. For now, it was enough—this moment, this closeness. But beneath her quiet smile, the questions stirred again. How long could they keep this balance between their two demanding worlds? And when the weight of real choices came crashing in, would they still be walking in the same direction?