It had been four days since that night.
Four days since Micah whispered, "You were my second chance."
Four days since Alia kissed him like she wasn't afraid of the past anymore.
And in those four days, something shifted—not loudly, but gently, like the way tides retreat after finding home on the shore.
They became… something.
Not defined.
Not labeled.
But unmistakably together.
---
They moved like two people who had learned how to fit in each other's silences.
She made tea in the morning; he folded her blanket at night. She read poetry on the roof with her feet swinging off the edge; he wrote lines in his notebook that he never meant to share—but always did.
Their kisses were slow. Their conversations quieter now, less urgent.
Because what once felt like borrowed time had begun to feel real.
---
Then the letter came.
A white envelope slipped under the bookshop door.
To: Micah Whittaker
Re: Property Sale Inquiry — FINAL Notice
Micah found it while locking up that night.
He froze. The quiet in the shop deepened.
Alia was upstairs, brushing paint onto a blank canvas, humming under her breath.
Micah turned the envelope over in his hands. He already knew what it said. The property sale his uncle had tried to force months ago—before Alia—was back on the table.
Technically, Micah still owned Whittaker's Bookshop. But legally, he wasn't the only one with a say anymore.
He stuffed the letter in his coat pocket and went upstairs.
Alia looked up, smiling. "Hey."
He kissed her forehead.
Said nothing.
---
That Night
He couldn't sleep.
She stirred beside him once, then again. "Micah?"
"Yeah."
"You're quiet."
He hesitated. "I'm thinking."
She turned to him in the dark. "What about?"
He wanted to say: About how I could lose this place.
About how I might have to leave.
About how I finally let myself fall in love… and now time feels like a countdown again.
Instead, he said: "You."
And that was true too.
She curled into him, content.
But the weight in his chest didn't lift.
---
The Next Day
Micah disappeared for most of the morning.
Alia didn't question it—he said he was running errands. But he came back later than usual, distant, quiet.
That evening, she found the letter in the coat he'd draped over a chair.
She read it. Twice.
Then went to find him.