Anderson Books
 

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Ava pushed the door to Anderson Books open with her shoulder, the familiar bell chiming overhead in that soft, unmistakable way that always made her feel about twelve again.

She had a purpose today.

A bulk order—stacked, tagged, waiting behind the counter—for her next assignment. Too many titles to carry comfortably, too expensive not to pick up in person. She got a better deal this way anyway. Small-town perks. Long memory perks. The kind you earn when you’ve been walking these aisles since childhood, when your dad used to bring you here on Saturday mornings and let you pick one book if you promised to actually read it.

Miles stepped in with her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed as the door swung shut behind them. He didn’t rush ahead or hang back—just matched her pace naturally, taking in the space the way someone does when they know it matters to the person they’re with.

She didn’t head straight to the counter.

She never did.

Instead, she slowed her pace instinctively, fingers drifting out to trail along the spines as she passed the first aisle. Paperbacks. Hardcovers. Familiar fonts. Worn corners. New dust jackets still stiff from the printer. Her touch was light, reverent—like she was checking in with old friends before getting down to business.

Miles stayed beside her, hands in his pockets, eyes moving over the shelves and then back to her—watching the way her expression softened, the way her shoulders relaxed like she’d stepped into a different version of herself here.

“Morning, Ava.”

She looked up immediately, her face breaking into a smile.

“Hi, Mr. Anderson.”

He was behind the counter, same as always—glasses low on his nose, cardigan slung over the back of the chair like it might be needed later. He’d known her dad longer than she’d been alive. Had watched her grow from picture books to chapter books to whatever she was pretending she didn’t love now.

“I’m here for the bulk order,” she added, lifting her tote a little. “But I wanted to look around first.”

Mr. Anderson’s gaze flicked briefly to Miles—curious, warm, assessing in that gentle, small-town way—before settling back on Ava with a knowing smile.

“Take your time,” he said. “It’s not going anywhere.”

Ava nodded, already turning back toward the shelves.

Miles followed without comment.

They drifted deeper into the store together, the narrow aisles closing in just enough to feel private without being cramped. The floorboards creaked softly beneath their steps—familiar sounds, comforting ones—and the air smelled like paper, dust, and that faint hint of coffee that always lingered near the counter.

Ava slowed again as they turned down the next aisle, her fingers brushing the spines with a little more intention now. This section was older—classics mixed with well-loved paperbacks, some titles doubled up where replacements had been slid in beside originals that refused to be retired. She tilted her head, scanning, her mouth curving slightly like she was mentally cataloging everything at once.

Miles stayed close, close enough that she was aware of him without having to look. Their steps synced without effort, and when she stopped, he did too—no questions, no impatience. Just presence.

She paused midway down the aisle, fingertips resting briefly on a worn hardcover before moving on. Another step. Another brush of her hand. There was something grounding about it—the quiet ritual of browsing, the way her shoulders loosened as the outside world fell away.

Ava leaned a little closer to the shelves as she spoke, her voice dropping automatically, like the books themselves demanded it.

“Okay,” she murmured, fingers brushing a spine again, slower now. “I have… layers.”

She tipped her head, reading a title, then smiled faintly.

“I’ll fully admit it—I’m a sucker for hockey romances. Something about a man who can fight on ice but turns into a golden retriever when he falls in love? Embarrassing. Effective. I don’t ask questions.”

She slid that book back into place with exaggerated care, like she was hiding evidence.

“And these,” she added, moving a step down, tapping a glossy cover with her knuckle. “The ones where the prince falls for the completely ordinary girl who absolutely does not want to be queen? Every time. Especially if there’s a ballroom scene and he’s already ruined for anyone else.”

Her smile softened as her hand drifted farther along, landing on heavier paperbacks now. Older. Worn.

“But then,” she said quietly, almost reverently, “these are the ones I’ll defend in court.”

She pulled one out just enough to show the cracked spine.

“Persuasion. Because longing is underrated. Jane Eyre—obviously. And anything where the love story is happening while life is being… difficult. I like when people choose each other anyway.”

She slid the book back, fingertips lingering a second longer than necessary.

Ava glanced sideways then—not fully at him, just enough to acknowledge his presence—her voice warm, a little self-aware.

“I promise I read nonfiction too,” she added under her breath. “But these are the ones that stick.”

Miles hadn’t said a word since they stepped inside.

Didn’t need to.

His silence wasn’t distance—it was attention. A quiet, almost reverent kind. The kind that watched the way her fingers moved over titles like they meant something, like she was greeting old friends, like her body softened in this space without even realizing it. The kind that didn’t interrupt a moment already perfect on its own.

He trailed after her with the kind of ease that came from knowing when to lead and when to follow. She wasn’t putting on a show. She wasn’t telling him about this place to impress him. She just was—completely—and that did more to knock the breath out of him than anything rehearsed ever could.

He let her talk, let her touch, let her let him in. And maybe that was what made it dangerous. Or beautiful. Or both.

He looked at her now, standing half in profile, one hand still resting on a worn copy of Persuasion like it held a secret only she could decode. Her voice was quieter in here. Not shy—just respectful. Like she understood the hush bookstores required and honored it.

Miles felt his hands slide deeper into his pockets, like anchoring himself physically might help steady something else. Because the truth was: she was doing something to him.

Not just the way she looked, though yeah, that too. But the way she meant things. The way she lingered. The way she didn’t flinch from her own sentimentality. It made something unfamiliar rise in his chest—something quiet, but potent. Something like want, but shaped differently than usual.

He found his voice—low, a little hoarse with how long he’d been silent.

“I haven’t read a novel in a while.”

Ava glanced at him, a teasing smile already forming like she was about to give him a hard time, but he shook his head, preempting her.

“Not because I don’t want to,” he added, eyes warm, steady. “I just… I’ve been reading scripts. Film reviews. Notes. Stuff with margins, mostly.”

Her smile softened. Less teasing now. Curious.

“But the last thing I read for me—” he paused, looking toward the shelves before back at her “—was this behind-the-scenes deep dive on how they filmed The English Patient. Not the most exciting pick, but the way it talked about building atmosphere? The kind that lingers in silence and in glances instead of dialogue…”

He trailed off.

And then looked at her.

And didn’t look away.

“I think that’s what I’m doing now,” he said quietly. “Learning how to notice those things. The silences. The glances. You.”

He shrugged like he was playing it off, but the corners of his mouth pulled upward—soft, genuine, a little sheepish.

“I might need a copy of Persuasion, though,” he added, gently. “You make it sound like something I’d feel even if I didn’t want to.”

And then—just because he couldn’t help it—he reached out, fingers brushing the book where she’d left it half-out of place. But his eyes were still on her.

Not the book. Not the shelf.

Her.

Like he already knew she was the story that was going to stick.

Ava didn’t answer right away.

She watched him for a second instead—really watched him—the way he stood there a little unsure of where to put his weight now that he’d said something honest out loud. The way his hand hovered near the book like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want it yet. It made something warm and steady settle in her chest.

She slid the copy of Persuasion the rest of the way off the shelf and turned it in her hands once, thumb smoothing over the worn spine like a habit she’d had since childhood.

Then she held it out to him.

“Here,” she said softly, like they were exchanging something more delicate than paper. “This one’s a good place to start.”

Her smile tilted—fond, a little knowing.

“And if you ask nicely,” she added in a quieter, conspiratorial tone, “Mr. Anderson will absolutely give you a deal. He’s known my family forever. Thinks it’s a personal failure if a book leaves here at full price.”

She glanced toward the front counter where the owner was half-hidden behind a stack of returns, then back to Miles, amused.

“But you didn’t hear that from me.”

She shifted closer to him as they stood there, shoulder nearly brushing his, her voice lowering again—not secretive, just intimate.

“The English Patient, though,” she said thoughtfully. “That makes sense. You notice atmosphere. You sit in it instead of trying to rush through it.”

Her eyes lifted to his, curious in a way that felt intentional, inviting.

“What kind of scripts?” she asked gently. “Not the elevator pitch—just… the parts you actually care about.”

She tucked her hands loosely into the pockets of her coat, posture relaxed, completely unhurried.

“I like knowing what people choose to spend their time on,” she added, softer now. “Especially when it’s something they don’t have to share.”

Her gaze stayed on him—open, steady.

Like she wasn’t asking to be impressed.

Just to understand.

Ava eased past him first, giving the narrow aisle a little more space, her shoulder brushing his just briefly as she moved—unintentional enough to feel natural, intentional enough to linger.

She walked slowly, the way she always did in here. Fingers trailing along spines, pausing every few steps like the shelves were speaking in a language she understood without effort. A habit. A comfort. The faint smell of paper and dust and old wood settling around them like a held breath.

She stopped near the end of the aisle and turned back toward him, leaning her hip lightly against the shelf, Persuasion still tucked under his arm like it already belonged there.

“So,” she said quietly, a small smile playing at her mouth, “besides scripts and behind-the-scenes books that feel like homework but aren’t…”

Her eyes flicked briefly to the shelf beside her—literature, classics, a few dog-eared paperbacks with handwritten recommendation cards taped to the front—before returning to him.

“What do you actually like to read?”

Not challenging. Not testing.

Just curious.

“Do you go for things that make you think,” she continued softly, “or things that let you disappear for a while?”

She reached out and straightened a book someone had shoved back crookedly, the motion easy, familiar.

“Or,” she added, glancing up at him again, amused, “are you secretly a fantasy guy and just afraid I’ll judge you?”

Her smile widened a fraction—gentle, teasing, warm.

“I promise,” she said, lowering her voice like a vow, “I’m very non-judgmental about reading habits.”

Miles let the book rest under his arm, fingers brushing the worn spine once before letting it settle there like it belonged.

His gaze followed her—not just her words, but the way she said them. The way her hand moved instinctively to straighten that book, the way she lingered like the shelves were speaking to her. Like the whole store had bent slightly around her presence and not the other way around.

He didn’t smile right away.

Just looked at her.

Then, in that low, effortless voice of his—measured, smooth, just a little amused—he answered her question like he’d been waiting to be asked.

“Depends on the day,” he said, his weight shifting slightly as he leaned back against the opposite shelf. “Sometimes I want to think. Break something down. Figure out why it works. Or why it doesn’t. That’s where most of the film books come in—lighting theory, camera blocking, scene pacing. The kind of stuff that’d bore most people at parties.”

His smile curved a little deeper now. Not cocky—just honest. Comfortable.

“But sometimes…” he paused, eyes still on her, “I just want to disappear into a story that feels like it knows me better than I know myself.”

He let that sit for a second.

No rush. No flinch.

Then:

“I think that’s why I got into film in the first place. I don’t need the spotlight. I just wanted to be part of making something people could feel. Something that could hit someone at the right moment and change how they look at the world. Even if it’s just for a couple hours.”

His hand lifted, absently brushing over the edge of a nearby shelf, like the motion helped him stay grounded.

“I’m working remotely for a small production group right now. Mostly script coverage, early-stage development. Giving notes, flagging red flags, figuring out what has legs and what doesn’t.” He glanced at her, smile edging playful now. “Not exactly glamorous, but it keeps me close to the process. Helps me learn what not to do.”

His voice dipped subtly.

“And I’m writing one, too. My own script.”

He didn’t elaborate. Not because he was hiding it—just because it wasn’t polished yet. But the way he said it—quiet, sure, with a flicker of something more behind his eyes—made it clear how much it meant to him.

Then, finally, he gave her what she’d asked for in the first place.

“The last time I picked a book just to read—like, for fun? I think it was Holes. Or maybe The Lightning Thief. I was twelve. Used to get completely lost in those. Stay up too late with a flashlight, convinced I could finish one more chapter.”

His smile softened. His voice did too.

“I liked the way those stories made me feel like there was something big just under the surface of regular life. Like maybe magic wasn’t so far off if you knew where to look.”

He looked at her like she might be that magic now.

And then—more casual now, with the kind of self-aware confidence he didn’t always let show—he added, “Fantasy’s not off the table, by the way. I can absolutely be convinced. Especially if there’s a prince who falls hard and ruins his entire royal bloodline over one girl.”

His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the Persuasion copy still under his arm, then back to her. His mouth quirked.

“Though I’m starting to think longing might be more effective than I gave it credit for.”

He shifted slightly, his tone quieter again.

“But I like the way you talk about books,” he said. “Like they’re people you’ve known forever. Like they matter.”

He hesitated, then said it plain.

“It makes me want to read more.”

Not to impress her.

Not because he needed to catch up.

But because she made things feel worth it.

And if there was a quiet kind of love language, that might’ve been his.

Ava didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t know what to say—because she was listening. Fully. The way she did with her students when they surprised her. The way she did when something mattered.

She shifted the book in her hands, thumb smoothing the edge of the page without realizing it, eyes still on him. There was something in her expression now—soft, open, a little thoughtful—like she was cataloging everything he’d just offered her and treating it with care.

“That actually makes a lot of sense,” she said quietly, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “The way you described it. Wanting to understand how something works… but also wanting to disappear into it.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him—not in a scrutinizing way, but in that observant, gentle way that came naturally to her. Like she was already seeing how all the pieces fit together.

“I think that’s why I love teaching literature,” she added. “It’s not just the story. It’s the why. Why this line hits. Why this character stays with you. Why something written a hundred years ago still finds a way to sit right in your chest.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to the book tucked under his arm, then back to his face.

“And script coverage,” she went on, genuinely curious. “That’s… a lot of responsibility. Being one of the first people to decide what has potential.” She smiled, warm and encouraging. “It sounds like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, honestly. Even if it doesn’t look glamorous from the outside.”

She hesitated then—just a beat. A very Ava beat. Thoughtful. Careful.

“And… the script you’re writing,” she said softly, lowering her voice instinctively, like the shelves themselves might be listening. “You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to. Really. I mean that.” She offered a reassuring smile. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything. You don’t.”

Her hand lifted slightly, then dropped back to her side, grounding herself.

“But—” she added, just as gently, “if you do want to share… I’d love to hear whatever you’re willing to tell me. Even if it’s just what it feels like to be writing it. Not the details.”

Her eyes softened again, earnest and kind.

“And for what it’s worth,” she said, a hint of quiet humor slipping in, “anyone who grew up staying up too late with a flashlight and a book was always going to turn out interesting. That’s basically a requirement.”

She glanced down the aisle, then back to him, her smile returning—easy, inviting.

She looked down at the book in her hands, fingers resting against the cover as if it anchored her there, and when she spoke again her voice was lower—still warm, but edged with nostalgia.

“My dad’s the reason I love books,” she said simply.

She let out a small, almost amused breath through her nose, shaking her head just a little.

“He used to read to me every night. Like—every night. Didn’t matter how tired he was, or how late it was. He’d sit on the edge of my bed with whatever we were in the middle of and just… commit.”

Her eyes lifted briefly, unfocused now, like she was seeing something else entirely.

“And he did the voices,” she added, a quiet laugh slipping out. “All of them. Bad accents, ridiculous inflections, the whole thing. Princes were always overly dramatic, villains were way too serious, and any animal character had no business sounding the way he made them sound.”

She smiled at the memory, genuine and fond.

“I remember being little and thinking, this is magic. Like the world could get bigger just by opening a book.” Her thumb traced the edge of the page again. “I didn’t know then that he was teaching me how to pay attention. How to listen. How to imagine myself into other people’s lives.”

Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug, affectionate rather than sad.

“Even now, if I reread something from when I was a kid, I still hear his voice in my head sometimes. Especially the funny parts.” She glanced at Miles then, eyes bright but calm. “I think that’s why I’m such a sucker for stories that feel… lived-in. Like someone cared enough to make them feel real.”

She paused, then smiled softly, almost self-conscious.

“He still asks what I’m reading whenever we see each other. And he actually waits for the answer.” A beat. “Which might be the most romantic thing a parent can do, honestly.”

Her gaze held his again—open, unguarded.

“So yeah,” she said quietly. “Books feel like home to me. Always have.”

And then, just to lighten it—because that was also very Ava—she added with a faint grin:

“Which is probably why I get overly attached to fictional people and argue about them like they’re real.”

Miles listened the way he always did when something mattered—quietly, completely—but this time there was no distance in it. No careful remove. He was in it with her, standing in that narrow aisle, the book tucked under his arm forgotten, his attention fully claimed by the way she spoke like stories were living things.

Her words landed gently and then stayed.

When she talked about teaching, about why lines hit and characters linger, something in him eased. Not because it was new—but because it felt understood. Like she was circling the same truth he’d been orbiting for years from a different angle.

He didn’t interrupt her. Didn’t rush to respond. Just watched her thumb trace the edge of the page, the way her gaze softened when she talked about her dad, about voices and bedtime and magic. He could picture it—too clearly. The kind of childhood moment that didn’t fade, just grew more meaningful with time.

By the time she finished, his chest felt a little tight. Not in a bad way. In a this matters way.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. Steadier. Less performative than he’d ever learned to be.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That tracks.”

She looked at him again, open and patient, and he felt that familiar instinct to deflect—to keep things light, to stay just vague enough to protect what mattered most.

But something about the way she’d said you don’t owe me anything loosened that instinct.

So he gave her a piece. Just a piece.

“The script…” He exhaled softly, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s been around for a while. Longer than I like to admit.”

He shifted slightly, leaning his shoulder against the shelf across from her, casual on the outside. Inside, his pulse kicked up anyway.

“It’s not something I talk about much. A couple people know it exists. No one really knows what it is.” A pause. “Not because it’s precious—well, okay, maybe a little—but because I want it to be… ready. Or closer to it.”

He shrugged, easy, but there was weight behind it.

“It’s character-driven. Quiet. Not a lot of spectacle. It’s about people who keep missing each other until they don’t.” His mouth curved faintly. “I’ve been stuck on it for a while, honestly. I kept rewriting the same scenes, like if I changed the angle enough it would finally click.”

His eyes lifted to hers then.

“And then,” he added, softer, “it started moving again. Recently.”

He didn’t say because of you.
He didn’t have to.

Something shifted in his expression—less guarded now, more open. He seemed to realize, mid-thought, that he was standing in a bookstore with a woman who listened like this and somehow that mattered more than the words themselves.

Her story about her dad stayed with him. The voices. The care. The way she talked about attention like it was a gift you gave deliberately.

“That kind of thing sticks,” he said, quietly. “Someone taking the time. Making it feel real.” His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to her. “It explains a lot about you.”

He smiled then—not teasing, not smooth. Just warm.

“And I get the arguing-with-fictional-people thing,” he added, lighter now. “I do that with characters I didn’t even write. I’ll watch something and think, that choice was wrong, and then spend the next hour rewriting it in my head.”

He paused, then admitted, almost sheepish:

“I think that’s why I like being around you so much.”

There it was. Simple. Unadorned.

“You don’t skim,” Miles said. “You actually read.”

His attention stayed on her after that—on the way she stood, the way the bookstore seemed to soften around her, the way he felt unexpectedly steady just being there.

He glanced at Persuasion again, then back to her.

“Books feel like home to you,” he said. “I think… films were that for me. Same idea. Just a different language.”

And then, because he couldn’t help it—because he was thoroughly, quietly beguiled—he added with a small, knowing smile:

“And if you ever feel like arguing about fictional people,” he said, voice low and fond, “I’m very good at listening. And surprisingly stubborn about my takes.”

He didn’t move closer.

He didn’t need to.

His focus stayed exactly where it was—on her—like the rest of the world could wait its turn.

Ava didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t know what to say—but because she was busy feeling the way his words had landed. The way they hadn’t rushed her. Hadn’t tried to impress. Had simply… arrived. Honest and careful and unexpectedly tender.

She shifted her weight slightly, one shoulder brushing the shelf beside her, fingers still curled around the book she hadn’t put back yet. Her thumb traced the corner of the cover once, absently, grounding herself before she looked up at him again.

And when she did, there was no teasing in her smile this time. Just warmth. Curiosity. Something quietly moved.

“I don’t skim,” she repeated softly, like she was testing the phrase. Then she smiled, small and real. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”

She met his gaze fully now—steady, open, not searching for an escape hatch.

“I think people forget that paying attention is a choice,” she went on, voice low enough to belong to the space they were in. “It takes effort. And time. And patience. But when someone does it for you—really does it—it changes the way you move through the world.”

Her eyes softened when he talked about the script. The way he’d said it had been careful, not defensive. Protective in a way she recognized immediately.

“You don’t talk about it because it matters,” she said gently, not as a question. “And because you don’t want it misunderstood.”

She smiled a little at that, fond rather than amused.

“I get that. I do the same thing with lesson plans that aren’t ready yet. I won’t even show them to my department chair until I know what they’re trying to be.” A pause. “Some things don’t need opinions too early. They just need space.”

She tilted her head slightly, listening as much as speaking now.

“Quiet, character-driven. People missing each other until they don’t.” Her mouth curved. “That sounds like exactly the kind of thing that sneaks up on you. The kind that doesn’t shout to be remembered.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to the book tucked under his arm, then back to his face.

“And the fact that it’s moving again?” she added, softer. “That’s not an accident.”

When he talked about her dad, about attention and making things feel real, her chest warmed in that familiar, tender way—like someone had recognized something she’d carried quietly her whole life.

“Yeah,” she said, barely above a murmur. “It sticks. Because it teaches you that being seen isn’t loud. It’s intentional.”

She laughed softly when he admitted to rewriting other people’s characters in his head, the sound quick and genuine.

“Oh, I knew it,” she said, a spark of playful triumph flashing through her eyes. “That’s exactly the kind of stubborn I was picturing.”

Then she sobered just a little—not pulling back, just settling.

“I like that films were home for you,” Ava said. “It makes sense. You talk about them the way I talk about books.” She hesitated, then added honestly, “Like they saved you a little. Or at least showed you where you could land.”

Her gaze lingered on his for a long beat. No rush. No nerves.

“And for the record,” she said, voice warm, quietly sure, “you can tell me as much or as little about your script as you want. I won’t push. I won’t pry. You don’t owe me access to something just because I’m curious.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth.

“But if you ever want to talk about it—really talk about it—I’m very good at listening. And I ask annoying questions.”

She shifted just a step closer—not closing the space entirely, but acknowledging it.

“And arguing about fictional people?” she added lightly. “That’s basically foreplay for English teachers.”

Her eyes flicked up to his again, bright now, playful but sincere.

“So… fair warning.”

Then she glanced down the aisle, gesturing gently with the book in her hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s keep walking. You can tell me what kind of characters you always root for. I feel like that says a lot about a person.”

And she waited—patient, open—for him to join her.

Ava fell into step beside him as they moved down the aisle, the narrow space forcing a closeness that felt easy instead of awkward. Her fingers skimmed the spines again out of habit—slow, reverent—before she glanced over at him, curiosity lighting her face.

“So,” she said quietly, like they were sharing a secret the shelves didn’t need to hear, “favorite films. Not the ones you’re supposed to say. The ones that actually stuck.”

She smiled, already anticipating the answer, then added before he could respond—because she absolutely had an opinion.

“And if you say a remake, I’m going to have questions,” she warned gently, eyes dancing. “Because I truly do not understand the obsession with remaking something that was already great. Like—if it worked the first time, why are we touching it again?”

She stopped walking for a second, turning slightly toward him, one finger lifting as if she were lecturing a classroom full of very invested teenagers.

“Especially when the remake just… sandpapers all the sharp edges off,” she continued. “They over-explain everything, modernize the soul right out of it, and suddenly the thing that made it meaningful is gone.” A beat. “It’s like rewriting a love letter to make it more efficient.”

She shook her head, amused but firm.

“Don’t even get me started on book adaptations,” Ava added, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “If you’re going to adapt a book, you have to respect it. I don’t need it to be word-for-word, but I need it to understand what the book was actually about.”

Her hand rested briefly on a nearby shelf as she spoke, grounding herself.

“If they miss the emotional core—if they turn a quiet character into a spectacle, or flatten a slow burn into a montage—I’m out,” she said simply. “I’d rather reread the book and be disappointed alone than watch something misunderstand it publicly.”

She glanced back at him then, smile softening, curiosity genuine rather than combative.

“But you,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “you seem like someone who’d care about that. About getting it right. So I’m curious—what movies do you keep coming back to? The ones you’d defend even if everyone else rolled their eyes.”

Her smile turned just a little playful.

“And don’t worry,” she added. “I promise not to judge. Much.”

Miles walked beside her like it was something he’d always known how to do. Like the shelves and the silence and the soft scrape of her fingers along the spines were things he’d been waiting to match pace with.

He didn’t fill the quiet immediately.

Didn’t rush to impress her with an answer.

Because the truth was—he wanted to get it right. Not the answer itself, but the moment. The space she’d given him. The attention. He felt it the way he felt a good scene blooming from silence. And he didn’t want to miss a single second of it.

When she stopped to give her impromptu monologue on remakes—hands animated, voice low and charged—Miles felt something curl and expand in his chest. Not amusement, though he was definitely smiling. It was deeper than that. Admiration maybe. The kind that made his pulse thrum a little harder because it wasn’t about her being right, even though she was. It was about how much she meant it.

“That…” he said, when she finished, his voice warm and a little stunned, “was the most attractive thing I’ve heard all week.”

His mouth tugged into a slow smile, eyes still on her. “Rewriting a love letter to make it more efficient? That’s brutal. And perfect.”

He shifted slightly so they could walk again, keeping close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

“I’ve got a love-hate relationship with remakes,” he admitted. “I get the impulse—sometimes you want to reframe a story for a new audience. But it’s like you said. If you sand down all the texture, all the weird little splinters that made it human in the first place, you’re just left with something… sterile. Polished. Pretty, but forgettable.”

He glanced at her, his voice dipping slightly.

“I like things that leave a mark. Even if it’s messy.”

They reached the end of the aisle and turned the corner, the soft rhythm of their steps echoing faintly in the quiet.

“My favorite movies?” he said, exhaling like he needed a second to choose from too many. “Alright, no judgment—”

He tilted his head, expression mock-serious for a beat before softening again.

"Dead Poets Society. Because it wrecked me in the best way when I was sixteen and made me want to understand what it meant to really care about something. Good Will Hunting, because two people breaking open in real time is sometimes the bravest thing a movie can show. The Iron Giant, because it’s not afraid to be earnest and that takes guts. And Almost Famous, because it’s about loving something—music, in that case—so much it hurts. But also… finding your people inside that chaos.”

He glanced over at her again, a little sheepish now, but unguarded.

“I guess I’m a sucker for stories that don’t rush. The kind that trust you to pay attention.”

Then, softer still—

“Which probably explains why I’m standing in a bookstore, walking slow, trying to memorize the way you talk about stories like they’re sacred.”

He let the words sit there. Didn’t take them back.

Then, with a subtle lift of his brows, he added, “Your turn.”

His eyes sparkled just a little, but the invitation in his voice was real.

“Books, movies, poems scrawled in the margins of a notebook—whatever it is you come back to when you need to feel like yourself again. I want to know.”

And he meant it.

Not because it was the polite thing to say.

Because it was her. And because he knew, even if she didn’t say a word, he’d already be watching the way her expression changed, the way her voice shifted with affection or memory. He’d pay attention the way she deserved.

Because paying attention to Ava felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Ava laughed before she could stop herself—soft and a little breathy, like his answer had caught her off guard in the best way. She ducked her head for half a second, the smile lingering even as she looked back up at him.

“Well,” she said, mock-solemn, “I’m glad my very strong feelings about cinematic crimes are finally being appreciated.”

She started walking again, slower this time, letting her shoulder bump his just barely—accidental enough to be plausible, intentional enough to mean something. Her fingers drifted back to the shelves, but now it was more out of habit than searching.

“Okay,” she said, drawing the word out like she was bracing herself. “First of all—excellent list. No notes. Dead Poets Society is basically a personality trait, and The Iron Giant still makes me cry in a way I refuse to unpack.”

She glanced at him sideways.
“Also, if someone doesn’t like Almost Famous, I immediately don’t trust their opinions on anything. Including food.”

They turned another corner, the light shifting slightly, dust motes floating in the air like the bookstore was leaning in to listen.

“As for me…” Ava tilted her head, thinking, lips pursed in concentration. “Books first, obviously. I come back to Jane Austen when I need to feel grounded—Persuasion especially. It’s quiet and restrained and devastating, which is basically my brand.”

She smiled to herself.

“I love Little Women, but not in a Pinterest-quote way. In a ‘family is complicated and love is work and people grow unevenly’ way. And I reread Harry Potter about once a year like it’s a medical necessity. I don’t make the rules.”

Her tone shifted then, gentler.

“And poetry,” she added. “Mary Oliver when I need to breathe again. Emily Dickinson when I need to feel understood by someone who absolutely would not want to be perceived.”

She glanced at him again, eyes bright with humor.

“Movies—listen, I agree with you about the slow ones. Before Sunrise? Ruined me. Pride & Prejudice—the Keira Knightley one, obviously. The tension? Illegal.” She paused, then grinned. “And I will defend The Princess Diaries with my whole chest. Anne Hathaway learns confidence and Julie Andrews wears incredible coats. That’s cinema.”

She stopped walking then, turning fully toward him in the aisle, the shelves framing them like a private corridor.

“I think,” she said, softer now but still smiling, “I like stories where people see each other. Even if it takes them a while. Especially if it takes them a while.”

Her eyes flicked down for a second, then back up—open, easy.

“And for the record,” she added lightly, “if you ever want to argue about adaptations, I will come prepared. With examples. And possibly footnotes.”

She leaned in just a touch, playful and sincere all at once.

“So congratulations,” Ava finished. “You’ve officially passed the vibe check. And you’re dangerously close to being someone I loan books to.”

Which, coming from her, was basically a declaration of trust.

Ava didn’t even realize they’d drifted that far until the shelves changed.

The spines got brighter. Shorter. Softer around the edges. There were hand-painted signs and a low display table instead of towering shelves, little stools tucked into corners like someone expected kids to wander in at any second.

She slowed without meaning to.

“Oh,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Her eyes caught on it immediately—the familiar green cover, the simple line drawing she could’ve recognized anywhere. The display was small and intentional, a quiet feature near the endcap, like the store knew exactly what kind of gravity it carried.

Ava stepped closer.

She reached out before she thought better of it and picked the book up with both hands, thumbs resting along the worn edges like muscle memory. The Giving Tree.

For a second, she didn’t say anything. Just stood there, book cradled against her palms, gaze fixed on the cover like it might look back at her.

Then she let out a soft, shaky laugh that wasn’t really laughter at all.

“My dad read this to me when I was seven,” she said quietly. “And it completely destroyed me.”

She glanced up at Miles, eyes already a little glassy but smiling anyway, like she was embarrassed by how immediate it was.

“I remember sitting on the floor in my room, cross-legged, and being furious,” she went on, voice low, reverent in the way people get around sacred things. “Like—why does she give him everything? Why doesn’t anyone tell him to stop taking? I was sobbing and my dad was just sitting there like, yeah… that’s kind of the point.”

She looked back down at the book, thumb brushing the spine.

“I cry to this day,” she admitted. “Every time. Without fail. I tell myself I won’t—like I’m an adult now, I can handle it—and then suddenly I’m emotionally compromised by a cartoon tree.”

Her mouth curved into a fond, sad little smile.

“I think it was the first time a story made me realize love isn’t always fair,” she said. “That sometimes it’s beautiful and painful at the same time. And that giving doesn’t always mean being taken care of.”

She held the book a little closer to her chest now, not hiding—just grounding.

“My dad used to close it and say, ‘Okay, talk to me. What do you think?’ Like my opinion mattered.” She swallowed lightly. “I didn’t know it then, but he was teaching me how to feel things without being afraid of them.”

Ava exhaled slowly and glanced at Miles again, softer now, vulnerable but steady.

“I think that’s when stories stopped being entertainment for me,” she said. “And started being… tools. For empathy. For noticing. For staying tender in a world that kind of dares you not to.”

She gave a small, self-aware smile.

“Also,” she added gently, “if you ever want to see me cry in under five minutes, this is the fastest route.”

Her fingers tightened just a little around the book.

“But yeah,” Ava finished, quietly. “This one stayed with me.”

Miles didn’t move right away.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t reach for the book in her hands or pretend he wasn’t wrecked by the way she held it like it was a heartbeat.

Instead, he just stood there, quietly leveled by her.

Because the truth was—he’d known she was rare from the first moment she opened her mouth in that bar, turning conversation into something electric and unexpected. But this? This was something else.

This was watching someone peel back the layers in real time, not for performance or praise, but because the memory was still so alive inside her it didn’t know how not to come out.

Her voice, soft and sure. Her smile, fond and aching. Her eyes—glassy but not guarded, like the emotion wasn’t something she was afraid of, just something she’d learned to live beside.

And God, that was what undid him.

The way she didn’t apologize for feeling everything. The way she cradled a children’s book like it still had the power to rearrange her insides. Like she wanted it to.

“You’re kind of…” he began, and the words caught on his tongue before he could smooth them out into something polished.

His brows dipped slightly, not out of confusion—just wonder. A moment suspended.

He tried again, slower this time. Less like he was trying to say something impressive, more like he couldn’t not say it.

“You’re kind of extraordinary, you know that?”

The air between them felt thick with something soft—weightless and heavy all at once. His voice came out lower now, quieter, almost reverent.

“And I don’t mean that in the cinematic, wind-through-your-hair, spotlight-on-your-face way.” His mouth curved faintly, a flash of self-aware humor that didn’t quite reach his eyes—because he was feeling this too deeply to grin through it. “I mean in the way you carry things. In the way you remember. In the way you let things matter even when it would be easier not to.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the book in her hands, then found its way back to her.

“I think the world tries to make people feel ridiculous for that. For being too tender. Too attached. Like care is a weakness.”

He shook his head a little, his voice thick with something he didn’t usually let out around strangers—though she didn’t feel like one anymore.

“But it’s not,” he said simply. “It’s the opposite. It’s radical, actually. To keep showing up to your own feelings. To not flinch when something breaks you open.”

His eyes searched hers for a second, almost like he needed her to believe him.

“You do that,” he said. “And it’s… kind of impossible to look away.”

A beat passed.

Then, softer—almost like he was offering something sacred—he tilted his head toward the book. “Do you want it?”

His smile returned then, smaller, gentler. “The Giving Tree. We could add it to the stack.”

A pause, then a murmur of humor to warm the moment: “It’s basically first-round pick in the ‘emotionally wreck you in under five minutes’ draft.”

But even that didn’t chase away the quiet awe in his expression.

Because the truth was—he wasn’t really talking about the book anymore.

He was talking about her.

The way she lit up when she talked about her father’s bedtime voices. The way she stood in the middle of a children’s section like it was a chapel. The way her voice cracked just slightly when she said this one stayed with me, and didn’t try to hide it.

And the way she made it feel, somehow, like telling him all of that wasn’t a risk.

It was just a choice.

One she’d made.

And God help him, he didn’t want to let that go.

Ava felt it land—all of it.

Not like a compliment. Like recognition.

She didn’t rush to answer him. Didn’t deflect it with a joke right away, even though that instinct flickered for half a second, familiar and tempting. Instead, she stayed exactly where she was, the book still warm in her hands, the space between them quiet and safe enough to let something honest breathe.

Her throat tightened a little. Not in a fragile way. In a seen way.

She smiled—small at first, then steadier—and finally lifted her eyes to his.

“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she admitted softly. “And also the most accurate, which is… inconvenient.”

A faint laugh slipped out, gentle, grounding.

“I think I just never learned how to do it halfway,” she continued. “Feeling things, I mean. My parents didn’t really treat emotions like something to manage or minimize. They were just… information. Something you listened to. Sat with.”

She glanced down at the book again, thumb brushing the cover like she was smoothing a crease that wasn’t there.

“So when something hits me—when it matters—I don’t really know how to pretend it doesn’t,” she said. “And honestly? I don’t want to learn.”

Her gaze lifted back to him, quieter now, more intentional.

“I spent a long time thinking that made me too much. Too sentimental. Too earnest.” A small shrug. “But the older I get, the more I realize that’s actually the part of me I trust the most.”

She held his eyes when she said it.

“And the fact that you don’t make me feel ridiculous for that?” she added, voice warm, sincere. “That matters more than you probably realize.”

When he gestured toward the book—Do you want it?—she paused, then nodded once.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I think I do.”

She smiled again, this one lighter, affectionate, a little playful around the edges.

“But fair warning,” she added, tilting the book slightly like it was a confidential secret, “if we ever read it together, I will absolutely cry. No growth arc. No desensitization. Full emotional collapse.”

She stepped a little closer then—not dramatic, not rushed—just enough that the air shifted, that it felt intentional.

“And if you’re still standing after that,” Ava finished, eyes bright, steady, “I’d say you’re probably someone worth keeping around.”

She didn’t say thank you.

She didn’t have to.

The way she looked at him said it anyway.

Ava let out a slow breath and gently set The Giving Tree back into its place, her fingertips lingering for just a second on the cover like she was tucking something safely away. She stepped a little farther down the shelf, letting the moment soften instead of disappear.

Then she stopped.

Cinderella.

She smiled before she could help it—small, crooked, fond in that way that suggested she was fully aware of how cheesy this could sound and was choosing it anyway. She picked the book up, turning it once in her hands, skimming the familiar illustration like it was an old inside joke.

“Okay,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “This one’s a problem.”

She glanced back at Miles over her shoulder, eyes bright, a little nervous now but not retreating. The kind of nervous that meant something mattered.

“Because logically,” she went on, quietly amused, “I know it’s dated. Questionable messaging. Magical solutions to systemic problems.” A beat. “And yet.”

She lifted the book slightly, giving it a tiny, helpless shrug.

“I grew up loving the idea that someone could really see you—before the dress, before the transformation, before all of it—and choose you anyway.”

Her gaze held his. No joking now. Just honest warmth.

Then, softer—like she was testing the words in the air first—she asked:

“Would it be premature to say you might be my Prince Charming?”

She didn’t rush to explain it away. Didn’t laugh it off immediately.

Just stood there in the children’s section, Cinderella in her hands, her expression open and hopeful and brave in that quiet Ava way—ready to accept whatever came next, because she’d meant it when she said it.

And if he teased her for it?

She’d survive.

But if he didn’t—

Well.

That would mean something.

He didn’t tease her.

Not even a little.

Miles looked at her like she’d just rewired the gravity in the room—like of course this was happening here, now, between them, in a children’s section, under soft lights and dust motes and the lingering heartbeat of a book she’d almost cried over.

Cinderella in her hands.

Honesty on her face.

And that voice—clear, warm, unflinching.

Would it be premature to say you might be my Prince Charming?

He should’ve laughed. Should’ve smirked, tossed back some easy line about glass slippers or royal titles or how bad he probably was at horseback riding.

But all he could do was feel it.

Not like a joke. Not even like a compliment.

Like permission.

He stepped forward—just one measured, deliberate step—and watched her eyes lift to meet his, no flinch, no retreat. Just that brave, earnest way she had of staying.

“Not premature,” he said, quiet but certain.

There was the barest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth—something crooked, reverent, like the words had caught on the edge of wonder. Like he couldn’t believe she’d said it, and couldn’t believe how much he didn’t want to let it go.

His hand came up slowly—no rush, no performance—just a gentle lift like he was asking rather than taking. Fingers brushed her cheek, then settled lightly at the side of her neck, his thumb ghosting along the curve just below her jaw. He didn’t pull her in.

She was already there.

Close enough that he could feel the soft warmth of her breath.

Close enough that he could see the way her eyes searched his, like she was still waiting for the catch—but hoping it wouldn’t come.

Miles leaned in.

No smirk. No bravado.

Just awe.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t fast. It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t made for a movie screen.

It was soft.

Intentional.

Like everything she’d said had landed somewhere in him and rooted, and this was what it looked like to let it grow.

His lips found hers with the kind of quiet care that didn’t need to prove anything—just feel it. The heat of her mouth, the tilt of her chin, the way the air caught between them before it gave way to something warmer, deeper.

He let it linger.

Let himself stay.

And when he finally pulled back, just enough to see her face again, he didn’t step away. His hand was still there, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw like punctuation.

Miles looked at her the way he might look at a film still he knew he’d remember for the rest of his life.

“I think the part that got me,” he murmured, voice a little rougher now, “wasn’t the dress. Or the ball. Or the prince.”

His forehead touched hers, barely.

“It was that she was kind,” he said. “Even when it cost her something. And someone finally saw that, and said—yeah. Her.”

His other hand found hers where it hung at her side—fingers curling around hers like a promise, not a possession.

“And if that makes me your Prince Charming,” he added, quieter now, “then you’re gonna have to get used to the idea of me sticking around.”

He didn’t say you’re worth it.

He didn’t have to.

Every inch of him already was.

Ava didn’t pull away.

She stayed right there, close enough that the space between them felt intentional—chosen. The Cinderella book was still tucked against her chest, but her fingers had loosened around it, like it had done its job and could rest now.

For a second, she just breathed.

Then she smiled—not the teasing one, not the careful one. The kind that came from somewhere deep and soft and a little stunned. The kind that only showed up when something landed exactly where it was meant to.

“Well,” she said quietly, voice warm and a little unsteady in the best way, “that was… significantly better than the worst-case scenario I had prepared for.”

Her eyes searched his face, not nervously, just thoroughly. Like she was cataloging him in this moment the way she did with books she knew she’d reread. Her hand lifted—hesitant only for a beat—then rested lightly against his wrist, right where his thumb still brushed her jaw.

“I should probably tell you,” she went on, a soft laugh threading through her words, “that I don’t actually need a prince. I’m very good at rescuing myself. Glass slippers sound wildly impractical, and I hate being late.”

A pause. Her thumb traced a small, absent-minded arc against his skin.

“But,” she added, quieter now, eyes steady on his, “I do believe in choosing someone. In seeing someone and saying—yes. You. On purpose.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to where his hand held hers, fingers laced like it was the most natural thing in the world, then back to his eyes.

“And I like the idea,” she admitted, voice gentle but sure, “of someone who stays. Who listens. Who doesn’t rush the story just to get to the ending.”

She tipped her forehead back to his, just enough to feel him there again. Not kissing this time. Just close. Anchored.

Ava let the silence stretch—on purpose.

Not because she didn’t have more to say, but because this felt like one of those moments you didn’t rush past just to prove you could keep going. She rested her forehead against his for a beat longer, eyes closed, breathing him in like she was bookmarking the feeling.

Then she opened her eyes.

Her smile was softer now. Real. Settled.

“I should also warn you,” she said quietly, thumb brushing once against his knuckles, grounding herself in the contact, “that I tend to fall a little hard for things that feel… intentional. People who show up. Moments that don’t need to be louder to matter.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying his face like she was already learning it—where the seriousness lived, where the warmth slipped in, where she suspected the stubbornness hid.

“And I overthink,” she added, a self-aware little huff of a laugh escaping her. “I make lists for comfort. I reread passages until I’m sure I didn’t miss anything important. I get attached to places and rituals and the idea that stories mean something because they do.”

Her fingers slid more confidently into his hand now, lacing without hesitation.

“So if you’re sticking around,” Ava went on, voice steady but gentle, “you’re going to catch me on nights when I’m grading papers too late, or arguing with a book like it personally betrayed me, or crying over a children’s story in a bookstore aisle like it’s completely reasonable.”

She glanced down at the Cinderella book, then back up at him, eyes bright with quiet certainty.

“And I won’t pretend I’m not hoping this is one of those stories I come back to,” she said. “The kind that starts small. Slow. The kind that grows because both people keep choosing it.”

A beat.

Her smile turned a little playful again—still warm, but lighter now.

“No pressure,” she added. “Just… honesty.”

She squeezed his hand once, gentle but sure.

“And for the record,” Ava murmured, leaning in just enough to brush her nose against his cheek, “if this were a book, this would be the part where I dog-ear the page. Just in case.”

Miles didn’t move right away.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t try to fill the silence she’d left him like it was something that needed fixing.

He just stood there, forehead still resting lightly against hers, her words echoing in the quiet, settling somewhere deep in his chest—soft and certain and real in a way that didn’t need underlining.

Her hand was in his now—fully. No hesitation. No apology. Just fingers laced like a decision.

And that did something to him.

Not something dramatic. Something grounding. Like gravity realigning itself around a truth he hadn’t expected to hear this soon—but didn’t doubt for a second.

She was right there. And he could feel her choosing it. Choosing him.

It wrecked him a little.

The kind of wrecking that made you want to protect the moment instead of perform for it.

His free hand came up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of her hair like it was something he was still learning the weight of. His thumb moved gently near her temple, reverent but unintrusive. A quiet acknowledgment. A touch that didn’t demand anything back.

Just: I hear you.

He let his eyes fall closed for a second, letting her words replay in his head—intentional... people who show up... stories that grow.
God.

God.

She wasn’t just saying what he’d hoped to hear.

She was saying what he didn’t know he’d been waiting for.

When he opened his eyes again, he let the smallest smile slip through—barely there, but unmistakably his. A little crooked, a little shy, like he couldn’t quite believe she meant all of that for him, but he wasn’t going to let the moment pass without meeting it.

He leaned back just enough to see her fully. Not pulling away—just creating a frame, like she was a scene he didn’t want to rush.

And he looked at her.

Really looked.

At the book still pressed loosely to her chest. At the curve of her smile that was too honest to be casual. At the eyes that saw him like she was already making space for everything he hadn’t said yet.

And the most Miles thing about it?

He didn’t go for the big gesture.

He didn’t turn it into a moment for the story.

He just let it be.

“You make it really hard to keep pretending I’m the mysterious one,” he murmured, his voice low, roughened a little by the sheer effort it took to stay still in the face of something so quietly breathtaking.

He shifted their hands slightly, like he was adjusting the grip not for strength, but to hold it better. To say: I’m here. I get it.

“And just so you know,” he added, gaze steady now, warm with something that looked an awful lot like awe, “I don’t need you to make it easy. I just need you to mean it.”

A pause. Then, even softer:

“You do. So I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t press in again. Didn’t close the last inch of space between them.

He stayed right there—anchored, intentional, heart loud in his chest and steady in his hold.

And even without a kiss, it felt like something had landed.

Like a page had turned and both of them knew they were in the chapter that changed things.

He glanced down at the Cinderella book tucked under her arm and then back at her with the faintest quirk of his mouth.

“If you dog-eared it,” he said quietly, “I think I just underlined it.”

And this?

This wasn’t a promise made in a rush of feeling.

It was a beginning chosen on purpose.

Ava didn’t give herself time to overthink it.

If she did, she’d start cataloging the moment—where they were standing, how quiet it was, how much it mattered—and that wasn’t what this needed. This wasn’t a moment to analyze. It was one to choose.

So she leaned in.

Slowly at first, like she was checking in without words, her forehead brushing his again before her lips found his. The kiss was soft but certain, the kind that came from knowing exactly why you were doing it. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the book still clutched to her chest, knuckles pressing into the cover like it was anchoring her to herself.

Her other hand slid up, natural and unhurried, fingers finding the nape of his neck. She fit there easily, thumb brushing warm skin just beneath his hairline, holding him like she meant to stay.

When she pulled back just enough to breathe, her voice was steady—quiet, but sure in a way that surprised even her.

“I’ll choose you,” she said softly. Not dramatic. Not rehearsed. Just true. “Every day. Even on the hard ones.”

Her thumb traced a small, unconscious circle where her hand rested against him, grounding them both.

“I promise.”

She leaned back in then—not rushed, not urgent—letting the kiss linger a little longer this time. Not sealing anything. Not making it bigger than it was.

Just letting it exist.

When she finally rested her forehead against his again, her smile was small but unshakable. The kind that didn’t need a future mapped out to know it was standing in the right place.

And there, in the quiet of a bookstore aisle filled with children’s stories and old magic, Ava stayed exactly where she was—present, chosen, and choosing right back.

She stayed right there, close enough that she could still feel his warmth, her heart still a little unsteady in the best way. The Cinderella book was pressed lightly to her chest now, held there almost absentmindedly, like it had become part of the moment without her meaning for it to.

She looked down at the cover, then back up at him, her smile softening into something newer. Brighter. More present.

“I think I’m going to buy this one today,” she said quietly.

Not rushed. Not emotional in a way that needed saving.

Just certain.

She lifted the book a little, almost shyly, her fingers tightening around the spine.

“For the memories,” she added, meeting his eyes again. “For today.”

Her voice dipped, warm and honest.

“So I don’t forget how this felt. Standing here. With you. In the middle of a bookstore, talking about stories and choosing things on purpose.”

A small laugh slipped out of her, breathy and real.

“It feels very on brand for me,” she admitted, amused. “Buying a children’s book because I want to remember a feeling.”

Her thumb brushed the edge of the cover once more before she tucked it back against her chest, like a quiet keepsake.

“And someday,” she added softly, almost like she was thinking out loud now, “I’ll open it and think—yeah. That was the day everything shifted.”

She looked at him again then, eyes clear, steady, unguarded.

“And I’ll be really glad I kept it.”

No grand declaration.
No fairy-tale speech.

Just Ava—choosing to remember this moment, and him, exactly as it was.

Miles held her gaze like it was something precious.

Not fragile. Not breakable.

Important.

He could still feel the ghost of her kiss like an echo against his skin—soft, certain, entirely real. It hadn’t been cinematic. It hadn’t tried to impress. It had just been—intentional and warm and quietly staggering. The kind of moment you didn’t realize you were holding your breath for until it was over and your chest finally expanded again.

She was standing there now like she hadn’t meant to change anything—but had. Like the space between them was sacred somehow, even amid the rustle of pages and soft, distant clinks from the counter up front.

His hand was still wrapped around the gently worn paperback of Persuasion she’d handed him earlier, spine intact, corners crisp—clearly loved, but not carelessly. His thumb moved along the edge of the cover slowly, reverently, as though touching it helped him stay tethered to everything she’d just given him without asking for anything back.

She was still clutching the Cinderella book to her chest like it had earned a new kind of meaning, the glossy cover catching a slant of afternoon light through the bookstore window. Her fingers were curled tightly around it, knuckles soft but certain.

It made something in his chest ache in the best way.

He didn’t want to speak too soon and shatter the stillness of it, but he also didn’t want to let it pass without answering—not just in feeling, but in action.

So he stepped in a little closer, and offered her the one thing he could in this exact moment:

“I’ll get it,” he said gently, nodding toward the book in her hands. “Let me buy it for you.”

His voice was quiet but certain. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t about gestures.

It was about this.

The simplicity of marking a moment you knew mattered before life tried to convince you it didn’t.

“I want to,” he added, softer now, “for the same reason.”

His gaze drifted down to the book in his own hand. The Persuasion she’d passed to him without preamble. Without posturing. Just… because. Because she saw him. Because she knew.

“I’m keeping this one,” he said, a breath of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Because it reminds me of the first time you looked at me like you meant it.”

There was no rush in him. No lean-in. No demand for more.

Just presence. Steady and full of something new and undeniable.

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his forehead to hers—not in pursuit of another kiss, but just to feel her there again. Grounding. Anchored. Chosen.

“I don’t want either of us to forget this,” he murmured, eyes closing for a beat. “How it felt. Right here.”

His free hand lifted and settled lightly over hers where it gripped the Cinderella book. His thumb traced a slow, thoughtful path across the back of her hand, not possessive—reassuring. Like he could feel the weight of the moment too, and wasn’t planning to run from it.

“This isn’t just a good day,” he said, voice low but steady. “This is the day. And someday, when things are louder or harder or messier than this, I want us to have something that reminds us what it felt like to choose each other this clearly.”

The air between them felt almost suspended—like even the dust motes had paused to listen.

He looked at her then. Really looked. And for once, he didn’t try to fill the space with metaphor or cleverness or guarded charm.

Just honesty.

“I want to remember you. Like this. Right here. Before anything else got in the way.”

He stayed exactly where he was—book in hand, breath shallow, heart full—his touch gentle but unwavering, like the moment deserved to be held carefully. Like she did.

And even without saying another word, everything in him was already answering her promise the only way it knew how:

I’ll choose you too.

Ava’s eyes stayed on his for a long second after he spoke.

Not startled. Not overwhelmed.

Just… taking him in.

The offer didn’t make her smile right away. It made her exhale — slow, grounding — like something in her had settled instead of lifted.

She adjusted her grip on the Cinderella book, pressing it lightly to her chest, then looked back at him with that quiet certainty that never asked for permission.

“I know,” she said gently.

Not I know you want to.
Not I know why.

Just I know — like she felt the intention exactly as he meant it.

Her voice softened, but her posture stayed calm and sure.

“And I really like that you want to remember today.”

She stepped a fraction closer, close enough that the space between them felt intentional again, not accidental. Her free hand brushed his wrist — not to take the book from him, not to stop him — just to anchor the moment.

“So yeah,” she said quietly. “You can buy it.”

Not because she needed it.
Not because it proved anything.

Because it felt shared.

Her mouth curved then — small, warm, unmistakably hers.

“And when I see it on my shelf later,” she added, eyes steady on his, “I won’t think about the book.”

She paused.

“I’ll think about this aisle. The dust in the air. You standing right here, holding Persuasion like it mattered.”

Her thumb brushed once, absentmindedly, along the edge of the Cinderella cover.

“That’s the memory I want.”

She didn’t rush the moment after that. Didn’t soften it further. Didn’t dress it up.

She just let the truth stand between them — chosen, not claimed.

Ava let the quiet stretch just long enough to honor it.

Then—because she was still herself, and moments like this didn’t make her forget how time worked—she tilted her head slightly and let out a soft, amused breath.

“We should probably get out of here,” she said gently.

Not reluctant. Just practical in that calm, grounded way of hers.

Her mouth curved into a small chuckle as she glanced down the aisle they’d just come from, then the next, and the next beyond that. Endless shelves. Endless stories.

“If we don’t,” she added, warm and lightly self-aware, “I can lose hours wandering these aisles. And then I’ll start pulling books just because I read them once when I was nine, and that’s a whole emotional detour neither of us needs right now.”

She handed the Cinderella book over to him, then reached out without really thinking about it—her fingers brushing his sleeve in a quiet, instinctive gesture before she turned toward the front of the store.

“Come on,” she said softly.

She walked ahead at an unhurried pace, familiar with the layout in a way that showed she’d been coming here her whole life. She nodded to Mr. Anderson behind the counter as they approached, exchanging a brief smile that carried years of recognition in it.

“My order’s ready,” she said easily, professional but warm. The teacher voice—steady, kind, organized.

As Mr. Anderson disappeared into the back to grab the stacked boxes, Ava set the Cinderella book down on the counter, careful, almost ceremonial. She glanced sideways then—just a flicker—to where Miles stood beside her, Persuasion still in his hand.

Her expression softened again, something quiet and knowing settling there.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need to.

This part—the counter, the register, the exchange of money for paper and ink—was just logistics.

What he was buying?

That was different.

That was the weight of a day that had landed exactly where it was supposed to.

And as Mr. Anderson returned with the neatly bundled stack of books for her class, Ava reached for them automatically—responsible, capable, exactly who she was—while beside her, Miles stepped forward to purchase something less tangible but no less real.

Their memories.

Chosen on purpose.

Right there at the counter of a small-town bookstore that had quietly, without ceremony, become the place where something important began.

Miles couldn’t stop looking at her.

Not because she was doing anything grand. Not because she was trying to hold his attention.

But because she already had it.

Completely. Entirely. Quietly.

The way she placed the Cinderella book on the counter with such care, like it meant something sacred now—he felt it like gravity in his chest. Not overwhelming, not dizzying. Just… real.

His fingers curled slightly around the copy of Persuasion still in his hand, smoothing over the clean cover like it was something fragile. He didn’t dog-ear books. He never would. But this one felt like it might bruise if he wasn’t careful—not because of the paper, but because of what it was starting to carry.

The memory of her choosing it for him. The way she’d looked when she said I’ll choose you.

He swallowed once and stepped forward, setting the Austen gently beside the Cinderella on the counter. The register light flickered faintly above them, casting a soft gold tint over the spines. For a moment, it all looked backlit—small-town magic painted in bookstore hush.

Mr. Anderson gave him a curious look—friendly, but knowing in the way small towns always were—and rang them up with the kind of patience that suggested he’d seen this before. The quiet start of something.

Miles didn’t say much as he paid. Just nodded, pulled out his wallet, and took the paper bag with both books inside as if it held something weightier than fiction.

He turned to Ava as she reached instinctively for the bundled stack of children’s books meant for her classroom—her other role, her other purpose. Of course she did. That was who she was: capable, efficient, the kind of woman who didn’t need help but never acted like it made her any less when it was offered.

And that was exactly why he offered.

Not out of obligation. Not because she looked like she couldn’t manage.

But because he was raised to show care where it was deserved—and she deserved it.

“Here,” he said softly, reaching for the stack in her arms. “Let me take those.”

His voice held no question, just quiet intention. A kind of reverence tucked into the ordinary.

She gave him a brief look—half protest, half affection—and he only smiled, that gentle, crooked kind of smile that said I know you can, but I want to anyway.

“Just these,” he added, nodding toward the larger bundle. “You hang onto the important ones.”

He pulled the paper bag from the counter and carefully offered it to her with both hands—like it wasn’t just books, but a moment they were agreeing to carry together. Persuasion and Cinderella, side by side. Memory and meaning.

“For the shelves,” he murmured. “For the days we want to remember how it started.”

He didn’t touch her again. Didn’t try to turn the gesture into something performative.

He just stood beside her, steady and present, the way he always promised to be.

And for the first time in a long time, Miles felt like maybe—just maybe—he didn’t need to write a story to feel like he was part of one.

Because standing next to Ava, in the warmth of an old bookstore that now held something new, he already was.

Ava watched him the way she always did when something landed deeper than she expected—quietly, with her whole attention, like she was letting the moment settle instead of rushing to respond to it.

When he reached for the stack of books, she did give that instinctive little look—half reflex, half habit—but it softened almost immediately. Not resistance. Just acknowledgment. She let him take them, her hands loosening without argument, because this didn’t feel like being taken over. It felt like being met.

She accepted the paper bag from him carefully, both hands wrapping around it as if she understood exactly what it held beyond paper and ink. Her fingers brushed his for a second longer than necessary, not accidental, not dramatic. Just real.

“For the shelves,” she repeated softly, like she was testing the weight of the words.

Her mouth curved—not big, not showy—but warm. Grounded.

“I like that,” she said. “Because I’m very good at remembering where things belong.”

She tucked the bag against her side, instinctively protective, then turned slightly toward him so the counter was no longer between them. The bustle of the shop faded again—Mr. Anderson’s movements, the quiet bell on the door, the creak of the floorboards—all of it becoming background to the way the air felt right here.

“You know,” she added, thoughtful now, that familiar carefulness in her tone, “I usually keep first editions of moments like this in my head. I replay them. Overthink them. File them away like I’m afraid I’ll misplace how they felt.”

She glanced down at the bag, then back up at him, eyes steady.

“But I think I like this better,” she said gently. “Something solid. Something I can hold and remember without worrying I’m rewriting it later.”

A pause. Then, because she couldn’t help herself—because this was also Ava—she smiled just a little wider.

“And I promise I won’t annotate Cinderella,” she added. “No notes in the margins about emotional growth or narrative sacrifice. I’ll let it be what it is.”

Her gaze softened again, more sincere now.

“Thank you,” she said. Not rushed. Not polite. Real. “For carrying things with me. For noticing what matters.”

She adjusted the scarf at her neck, a small grounding habit, then nodded toward the door.

“Come on,” she said lightly. “If we stay any longer, I’ll convince myself I need to reread half this store, and you’ll end up hauling boxes for the next three hours.”

But even as she turned to walk out, she didn’t move far.

She waited.

Just long enough to make sure he was right there beside her—matching her pace, matching the quiet certainty of what they’d just chosen.

And as they stepped out of the bookstore together, Ava felt something rare and steady settle into place.

Not a rush.

Not a fantasy.

Just the calm, unmistakable sense that this—this beginning, this shared weight, this unspoken understanding—was exactly where she was meant to be.