He hesitates. Not because he wants to lie to me, but because he’s weighing how much I need to know.
That’s how he is. Always protective. Always trying to carry the whole damn world so I don’t have to feel the weight.
“Elijah,” I whisper, resting my hand over his heart. “I’m not made of glass.”
He closes his eyes for a moment. Then sighs, like letting go of a breath he’s held all night.
“I went to the Kingstons’ last night. Talked to them about everything—George showing up, the notes, the flowers, the photo.”
I go still. “The photo?”
His hand brushes a strand of hair from my face. “We’re not ignoring this anymore, Ava. I’ve got people on it now. Real people. Not cops who’ll log it and forget it happened. The Kingston’s—they’re on our side. Whatever this is, whoever’s doing this, we’ll find them.”
A chill skates down my spine. “And George?”
“I don’t think he’s the one sending the notes,” Elijah says, eyes narrowing. “But Idothink he’s hiding something. That visit to the store wasn’t random.”
My mind spins, anxiety starting to stir. But Elijah leans in, his lips brushing mine—slow, grounding.
“I told them you’re mine,” he murmurs. “That you’re the only thing that matters. And they listened. They’ll help.”
He says it like a vow. Like a promise etched in steel.
And I believe him.
Still, I press closer to his chest, needing his heartbeat under my ear like a lifeline. “I don’t care about George. I care about you. Us.”
He wraps me tighter in his arms. “Then trust me when I say—nothing’s gonna touch you. Not while I’m breathing.”
I let myself sink into him, the silence settling again, heavier than before but wrapped in love instead of fear.
There’s something coming. I can feel it. But I’m not alone anymore.
***
I prop open the bookstore door at ten sharp, like I always do. The chime above it sings the same cheerful little tune it’s had since I bought the place, and the morning light spills across the floor like nothing in the world has changed.
Except everything has.
My hands move on autopilot—coffee brewed, register checked, display table adjusted just so—but there’s a buzz in my bones, a low hum of unease I can’t shake.
Mia arrives a few minutes later, cheeks pink from the wind and two lattes in hand. I try to smile when she sets mine beside me at the counter, but it feels stiff. Wrong.
“You okay?” she asks, studying me too closely.
“Fine,” I lied, and it’s not even a good one.
She gives me a look but doesn’t press. Just starts unboxing a new shipment, humming softly to herself. I’m grateful, more than I say.
I go through the motions: recommend a poetry collection to a shy college student, ring up a retired professor’s stack of historical fiction, even laugh—too brightly—at something one of the neighborhood moms says. But I can feel the weight of Elijah’s words pressing behind every interaction.
We’re not ignoring this anymore.
It’s the not-knowing that eats at me. Not knowing if George’s sudden visit was just a weird coincidence or something darker. Not knowing if the person who left that photo is watching me right now.
Not knowing who’s behind the notes that keep appearing like whispers I never asked to hear.
The last note is folded inside my bag still. I haven’t shown Elijah yet. Not because I’m keeping secrets—but because this one scared me differently. There were no words, no taunt or message this time. Just a photo. Taken through the office window at the tattoo studio. He’s lying on the couch, stretched out, and I’m… I’m riding his face, lost in the kind of intimacy that’s raw and reverent and just ours. My stomach churns—not because of what we were doing. God, no. That moment was beautiful, intense,and safe. It’s the fact that someone was watching us. That someone captured it. That a moment meant to be only mine and his now exists in someone else’s mind too.
