“Hey,” Mia’s voice cuts in gently. “Why don’t you go in the back for a bit? I’ve got things covered out here.”
I blink at her, startled. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not,” she says, kind but firm. “And it’s okay to not be.”
For a second, I want to argue. Want to keep pretending I’ve got this whole mask thing down to an art. But the words don’t come.
So I nod. “Just for a minute.”
She smiles and shoos me off with a flick of her wrist.
I slip into the back room, the one I usually use for ordering and inventory, and sink into the little armchair in the corner. It smells like old paper and cedar oil and something warm that reminds me of Elijah.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a message from him.
Daddy:You okay, baby?
My throat tightens. My fingers hover over the keys.
Me:Trying. Bookstore’s quiet. Mia’s keeping an eye out.
A pause. Then:
Daddy:I’ll swing by later. Don’t worry, just grabbing a coffee ??
That little emoji undoes me.
Because we both know it won’t bejustcoffee.
It’ll be his eyes on me like I’m the only thing in the room. His hand brushing mine in the quiet space between customers. His kiss, just behind the counter, when no one’s looking.
It’ll be safety. Steady and sure.
And until then, I just have to breathe through the fear and pretend the world hasn’t started tilting under my feet.
***
I don’t tell him right away.
I think about it every time I see his name light up my phone, every time he touches me with those sure hands and soft words, every time he brings me coffee and presses a kiss to my temple like I’m breakable and he’s careful. I want to tell him. I do. But something inside me freezes.
Because this one’s different.
The first note was just words. The flowers felt like a bad joke, at worst. But the photo—this photo—feels like a violation. Not just of my safety. Ofus.
It’s hidden in the zippered side pocket of my bag. Tucked away like a sin. But I can feel it pulsing there, heavy and hot, like it knows it doesn’t belong.
It’s Friday night and the bookstore is quiet. Mia’s long gone. I locked the door twenty minutes ago, but I haven’t turned off the lights. I’m sitting on the floor behind the counter, knees pulled to my chest, hands wrapped around a mug I haven’t sipped from in ages.
The front door creaks open, soft and slow. I don’t flinch. I don’t even have to look—I know the way Elijah moves, the weight of him in a room.
“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, crouching down so we’re eye level. “You didn’t answer my text.”
I swallow. “I didn’t know what to say.”
His gaze sharpens, but he stays gentle. “Come here.”
I let him pull me into his lap. I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in—ink and cedar and something warm I’ve started thinking of ashome.
