Lila Thompson stood in the middle of her bakery, hands dusted with flour, humming a tune that had no name. The smell of freshly baked bread and warm cinnamon filled the air, wrapping around her like a familiar hug. Outside, the rain pattered against the windows, turning Maple Street into a blur of cobblestone and puddles.
It was a quiet Tuesday, the kind of day where the world felt small and safe. Lila liked it that way. The little bell above the door had rung only twice all morning—once for Mrs. Finch, who picked up her usual cranberry scones, and once for a teenager desperate for a hot chocolate before school. Now, the shop was hers again, peaceful and warm, just as she liked it.
She was rolling out dough for her famous strawberry shortcake when the bell jingled unexpectedly. Startled, she looked up.
He was tall, with rain dripping from his dark hair and a camera slung over his shoulder. His jacket was soaked through, and his boots left small puddles on the tiled floor. He glanced around the bakery as if he'd just wandered into a completely different world.
"Sorry," he said, his voice low and slightly raspy. "I didn't mean to track water everywhere."
Lila blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the stranger's appearance. Most of her customers were familiar faces, people she'd known for years. But this man was new, and something about the way he stood—half-apologetic, half-lost—made her heart skip a beat.
"It's fine," she said, brushing her hands on her apron. "You look like you could use something warm. Coffee? Tea?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "Coffee would be great. Black, if you have it."
"Coming right up."
Lila moved to the counter, aware of his eyes following her as she worked. She could feel the weight of his gaze, not intrusive, but curious.
"You're not from around here," she said, breaking the silence.
He chuckled softly. "That obvious?"
"Small town," she replied with a shrug. "We tend to notice new faces."
"I'm just passing through," he said. "Working on a photography project. Thought this town might have some charm worth capturing."
"Maple Street Bakery definitely qualifies as charming," Lila said, setting the steaming mug in front of him. "I might be biased, though."
His lips quirked into a small smile, the first she'd seen from him. "I'll be the judge of that," he said, lifting the mug to his lips.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Lila busied herself arranging the counter, but her mind kept wandering back to him. There was something about his quiet presence that intrigued her. He wasn't like the tourists who came through town in summer, all chatter and energy. He seemed… grounded, but with a hint of something restless beneath the surface.
The rain outside picked up, a steady rhythm against the glass.
"You bake all this yourself?" he asked, gesturing to the display case filled with cakes, pies, and pastries.
"Every morning," she said. "It's just me and Biscuit—my cat. He's not much help, though."
His smile widened. "Biscuit the cat. Sounds like the perfect bakery mascot."
Lila laughed, a soft, genuine sound that seemed to surprise them both. "He'd agree with you, as long as you feed him."
The conversation flowed easily after that, surprising Lila. He told her his name was Ethan, that he'd been on the road for months, searching for places that felt authentic. She told him about the bakery, how she'd opened it five years ago after leaving the city. They talked about nothing and everything, the kind of conversation that felt like it had been waiting to happen.
Eventually, the rain began to ease. Ethan glanced at the door, then back at Lila.
"Thanks for the coffee," he said, standing. "And the company."
"Anytime," she said, trying not to sound too hopeful.
He hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, then nodded and walked out into the damp afternoon.
Lila watched him go, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. She didn't know why, but something told her that this wasn't the last she'd see of Ethan Carter.