“That’s all I ever wanted, baby. For you to have people you can talk to when you need to.”
I pull back to look at him fully. “You already know the worst of me, and you still look at me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“That’s because you are.”
He kisses my forehead and then my lips, slow and lingering.
And in that moment, I finally understand something.
I’m not broken. I was just waiting for someone who wouldn’t flinch when he saw every sharp edge.
Chapter thirty-five
Ava
It’sbeentwoweekssince someone vandalized my shop.
Two weeks since I stepped onto that sidewalk and saw the shattered glass, the slashed shelves, and those blood-red words screaming from the wall.
I still see it when I close my eyes—YOU DON’T BELONG TO HIM.
I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Who did this? Who hates me enough to break something I’ve poured my heart into? Someone with a grudge? A ghost from the past? Or worse—someone I don’t even know?
The shop looks almost normal now, thanks to Elijah.
He didn’t just show up for me—hestayed. Every day. Every night. He brought in the team and hired professionals to clean up the mess, replace the door, repaint the walls. The books that could be salvaged were carefully sorted and re-shelved. The others… Well, I still can’t talk about those without my throat tightening.
Eventually, we had to report it. The police came, asked their questions, filled out their forms—detached, clinical. It wasn’t enough to catch whoever did it, but it satisfied the insurance company. Of course, we left out the most important detail: the stalker.
That part is being handled by the Kingston brothers.
They don’t talk about what they’re doing, not in front of me. But I know they’re pulling every string they have behind the scenes. I see the looks they exchange when I’m in the room. The tension in Elijah’s shoulders when his phone lights up with one of their names.
And through it all, Elijah has been... Elijah.
If it’s even possible, he’s been more devoted, more protective, more tender. It’s like this whole thing pulled something fierce out of him—something primal. He hasn’t let me sleep alone once. He texts every few hours when we’re apart. And every night, when we fall asleep in his bed, I feel like the only safe place left in the world is wrapped in his arms.
I know he’s worried it might be someone from his past. He hasn’t said it outright, but I can feel it.
There’s guilt in his silence sometimes. A flicker in his eyes when he thinks I’m not watching.
But I don’t believe it.
We’ve been friends for four years. We’ve shared coffees and sarcasm, grief and laughter. In all that time, I never once felt unsafe around him or because of him. Whatever this is—it’s not abouthispast.
It 's aboutme.
And whoever it is, they’re not finished. Not yet.
In all this time, I’ve only been back to the store a handful of times. Just enough to make sure the space is still standing, to feel the pulse of it under my fingertips—even if it’s quieter now. Mia has taken care of everything else. The day-to-day, the customers, the deliveries. She stepped in without hesitation, without waiting to be asked.
I’m so lucky to have her. Honestly, I’m lucky with all my friends.
They’ve become family in the truest sense. They’re there when I need them—and sometimes even when I don’t realize I do. It’s like they can see right through me, through the “I’m fine” smiles and the silent panic behind my eyes. They help because theywantto. Not because they’re keeping score. Not because they expect anything in return.
I still remember the first time my mom met Mia.
God.
