We don’t say anything else for a while. Mia doesn’t push. She never does, and maybe that’s why I trust her with the mess I can’t even sort out in my own head.
Eventually, she goes back to shelving, and I stay seated, thumb brushing against the edge of my phone screen like it might reveal the future if I touch it just right.
Elijah isn’t on these apps. He’s not out there looking for someone else.
And he’s not walking away. At least… not yet.
But I know myself. I know I’m at a crossroads. I can either keep dancing around this ache in my chest, pretending it’ll go away, or I can face it.
It’s terrifying. Because loving Elijah is easy. But accepting that he might love me back, that I might be worthy of it, is the hard part.
I bite my lip, then open the dating app again. A message notification pops up already from someone namedJake. It’s probably just a hey or a bad pun. I don’t even open it. Instead, I go straight to the profile settings and… hit pause.
Not delete. Not yet. Just pause.
Because maybe I need space but not from him, but from the noise in my own head.
And maybe, just maybe, if tomorrow is Friday… and he shows up with takeout and that stubborn glint in his eye like he always does… maybe I’ll find the courage to tell him that I don’t need anyone else.
Just him. Even if it terrifies me.
Chapter six
Elijah
Thesepastfewweekshave been hell.
Not loud, fiery hell. No. This is the quiet kind. The kind that creeps in and settles behind your ribs like a weight you can’t shake. A dull ache that lingers from morning ‘til night. I miss her.
Not just the touch. It’s not even about that. It’s her voice. Her laugh. Just… being near her. Existing in the same space, breathing the same air.
But I told myself I’d give her space. She needs it.
Even if it’s the last thing I want.
Since that kiss—Fuck, that kiss—I haven’t let myself look at her for too long. Because if I do, I’ll break my own promise.
And I meant it when I said I wouldn’t cross that line again unless she was the one to pull me over.
Because I love her. Not the flowery, poetic kind of love people write about. This is the gritty kind. The one that lives in the small things. Like knowing exactly how she takes her coffee. Like repainting her store in the middle of the night because she was too exhausted to do it and too stubborn to ask. Like staying away when all I want is to be close.
She’s been pushed enough in this life. By people who only saw the surface. Who didn’t see her. Who didn't bother to see her and let her be herself without any conditions or expectations.
But I do. And I’ll see her always—even if she never chooses me. So I stay away. Work late. Pretend I’m not listening when Asher talks about her.
Walk past Books & Beans at night like a ghost, just to see if she left a light on. Sometimes she does.
She forgets to turn it off. Burns herself out trying to carry everything on her own.
Every time I almost go in… Every time I almost knock on that door and tell her I’m still here—still hers, if she wants me—I hear her voice from that night. Torn. Worried. Afraid.
So I don’t go in. I don’t knock. I don’t push, I just wait. Because that’s what love looks like sometimes.
Letting go of what you want, so she has the space to figure out what she needs. Even if it tears you in two.
I tell myself it’s fine. That this space—this silence—is necessary.
That it’s helping her, even if it’s killing me. But then I see her.
