"Agreed." He takes a step back, finally giving me some breathing room. The sudden distance should be a relief, butinstead the space between us feels strangely empty. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to reclaim some sense of control in my own doorway.
"Truce?" he asks.
I eye him suspiciously, searching his face for any hint of mockery or manipulation. But his expression is surprisingly earnest, even if he looks like he's been caught in a snowstorm. "What are the terms?"
"I'll move my early morning equipment use to after seven AM."
"Eight," I counter immediately, not willing to give an inch without a fight.
"Seven-thirty."
I hesitate, weighing my options. It's more than I expected him to concede, honestly. "Fine. And absolutely no more meat gifts."
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe—but he nods. "No more meat gifts."
"And you'll fix my security window frame. Your arm bent it."
He glances back at the window in question, where the frame is indeed slightly warped from his forced entry. "I'll fix it."
"Today."
"Today," he agrees. "Anything else?"
I should leave it there. Should accept the truce and move on with my life. Instead, I hear myself say, "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why me? Why the steak? There are dozens of other businesses on this street. Why pick a fight with the bakery next door?"
His expression shifts again, and for the first time since he crashed into my shop, he looks almost uncertain. "I didn't pick a fight."
"Then what did you do?"
"I noticed you."
I have absolutely no idea what to do with them. He noticed me. Past tense. Deliberate. Like it was a specific moment, a conscious choice.
"Oh," I manage.
"Yeah." He runs a hand through his flour-covered hair, sending up a small white cloud. "I'll get the window fixed."
Then he turns and walks out of my bakery, leaving me standing in the doorway covered in white powder, holding a bag of my own questions with no idea how to unpack any of them.
The wedding cake needs finishing.
I have work to do.
But for a long moment, I just stand there and watch the space where Lanek was, trying to figure out exactly when this stopped being simple neighbor warfare and turned into something significantly more complicated.
CHAPTER 4
LANEK
Ifix the window frame first thing that same afternoon, using my own tools and a level I keep in the truck for exactly this kind of precision work. The metal bent easier than I expected under my grip earlier, and now I take my time reshaping it properly, making sure the mechanism slides smooth and secure. Quinn watches me from behind her counter with those sharp blue eyes, pretending to organize her display case for the third time in twenty minutes.
She doesn't say anything while I work, but I feel her attention tracking every movement. It's distracting in a way I'm not used to. Normally when I'm focused on a task, the rest of the world falls away. But I'm hyperaware of every shift in her breathing, every small sound she makes as she rearranges pastries that were already perfectly arranged.
"There," I say finally, testing the window's motion. "Good as new. Better, actually."
