When I arrive at the store, it’s not even time to open yet. Everything looks normal—so normal it almost feels like the last three weeks never happened. As if my beloved bookstore hadn’t been torn apart by a lunatic with a grudge. I have to admit, the team Elijah hired did an exceptional job. If it weren’t for the buzz still circulating in the neighborhood, no one would ever suspect what happened.
Everything is pristine. The shelves are perfectly aligned, the windows spotless, the scent of fresh paint and lemon cleaner still lingering faintly in the air. The decorators and cleaning crew worked magic, but I still see the differences—subtle, almost invisible to anyone else, but undeniable to me. Something’s shifted.
Still, as soon as I walk through the door and hear Mia’s cheerful greeting from behind the counter, I feel a flicker of comfort. Just for a moment, it feels like everything is the way it was before—the way it should be. Before the stalker. Before the fear. Before the creeping feeling that someone is always watching from the shadows.
The morning rush is calm. Familiar. The hum of conversation, the soft ding of the register, the rustle of pages being flipped—it’s the kind of rhythm that makes my bones feel settled again.
Mia teases me as she wipes down the counter.
“Someone’s glowing,” she says with a knowing grin, one brow raised like she’s already halfway convinced of her own theory.
Sophia, who dropped by to deliver a handmade candle wrapped in kraft paper and twine, arches a brow as she sets the gift down. “You finally let yourself be taken care of?”
“Something like that,” I say, a smile pulling at my lips before I can stop it.
Mia leans on her elbows, chin in hand, practically buzzing. “That smile says a lot more than ‘something like that.’” She nudges the gift toward herself and starts unwrapping it. “Don’t think I won’t pry.”
I shrug, but I can feel the warmth creeping up my neck. It’s not embarrassment, not exactly. It’s that kind of vulnerable, glowing joy that still feels so new, so fragile in its realness.
Sophia gives me a softer look now, more thoughtful. “It’s good, you know. Letting someone hold space for you. You deserve that.”
I don’t answer right away. I just breathe it in—the comfort of routine, the scent of coffee and old books, the steady murmur of people coming and going. And underneath it all, the echo of Elijah’s voice from the night before still lingers in my chest like a heartbeat:I’m here. Now, forever.
“I’m learning,” I finally say.
Mia smiles as she sniffs her new candle—lavender and something woodsy. “Well, you’re clearly doing something right. You’re glowing and you didn’t even threaten to bite anyone this morning.”
“Yet,” I mutter, and they both laugh.
For a moment, everything really does feel okay. Not just okay—hopeful.
After a while, Sophia goes back to her office, and Mia begins helping the first wave of morning customers. With the front under control, I slip quietly into my small office in the back. It still smells faintly like fresh paint and coffee beans, and for a brief second, I pretend this is just another normal Tuesday.
I gather the folders and receipts I’ll need to finish the month-end paperwork from home. It’s not much, but I can’t justify staying here longer than necessary. Elijah made it clear—insisted—that I shouldn’t be in the store like before. Not until we know who’s behind all of this. Who’s watching. Who sent the threats. Who trashed the place like it was nothing.
I wasn’t supposed to leave the apartment without him or someone from Keller’s team. But this morning, when I woke up and saw him sleeping—actuallysleeping, not just pretending for my benefit—I couldn’t bring myself to wake him. He looked so peaceful, for once not carrying the weight of worry in his shoulders or the tightness around his mouth. He needs rest. Real rest. And lately, he's barely gotten any.
So I left a note. Just a short one. Told him I was okay, that I’d be quick. That I wouldn’t be alone.
I didn’t call Keller. I didn’t ask someone to come get me.
I know I should have. I know this isn't what trust looks like—at least not in the way Elijah is asking for it. But I'm not used to this. To needing security just to go to my own store. I don’t know how to be someone who needs protecting. And Ihatethat I might have to learn.
I clutch the folder a little tighter and glance toward the hallway, where I can hear Mia’s voice floating through the shop. Light. Steady. Grounding.
The store feels like home again, and yet I can’t shake the sense that something still lingers in the air. Like the last page of a mystery I haven't read yet. Like a shadow I haven’t quite turned to face.
I exhale slowly and take a step toward the back office door.
Then—movement. Quick, sharp. A flicker in the corner of my vision.
I barely have time to register it before an arm snakes around my waist and yanks me back. A hand presses over my mouth.
My scream dies before it leaves my throat.
Then I feel a sharp prick on my neck, an acrid taste hits me immediately. Chemical. Wrong.
I struggle—fighting, kicking, elbowing—but everything tilts sideways. The folders in my hand scatter across the floor. My legs go weak.
