Page 130 of Dough & Devotion

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“She’ll show up,” I say. “Out of spite.”

Leo laughs quietly. “I kind of want to see it.”

“You’re not allowed to heckle her,” I warn.

Leo holds up a hand. “I would never.”

I look at him.

He adds quickly, “Ok, I would. But softly. Respectfully.”

I snort.

He turns his head toward me with a small smile. “Are you ok?”

It’s a simple question. But it isn’t. Not really.

Being “ok” has layers now. The co-op paperwork. The foundation board. The apprentices. The press still sniffing around, though less aggressively. The quiet fear that one day I’ll wake up and realize I made a mistake letting him back into the bakery, letting him into my life.

But I can’t deny what’s real.

He’s here. He’s working. He’s letting the work change him instead of trying to change the work.

I swallow a bite of cinnamon roll and look at him.

“I’m… better,” I say honestly.

Leo’s expression shifts. Hope flares, then he reins it in, careful not to grab at it.

“Good,” he says softly. “I’m glad.”

We sit in silence for a while. The faint scent of butter lingering in the air. The warmth of the kitchen floor under us.

He doesn’t reach for my hand. I do. I slip my fingers into his. His hand tightens gently, like he’s holding something important.

Leo leans in slowly, and I meet him halfway. The kiss is soft. Warm. Intentional.

When we pull back, he rests his forehead against mine for a second, grounding himself in the fact that this is real, happening, his.

Mine.

Ours.

Next door, the training kitchen sits full of potential, full of noise, waiting for tomorrow.

The smell stays the same: yeast, butter, sugar.

But the sound?

The sound is new.

It’s laughter.

It’s teenagers learning.

It’s Gwen cursing the sport of ice hockey.

It’s Leo getting thwacked by Maya’s rolling pin and apologizing like the dough has feelings.

It’s a bakery that didn’t lose its soul when it grew.

It’s a place that learned how to multiply without breaking.

And for the first time in a long time, when I lock the door at night, it doesn’t feel like fear.

It feels like ownership.

It feels like home.

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