Amelia walked slowly through the library, her fingers brushing the spines of the newly restored books. Everything felt different—brighter, fuller, alive in a way the place hadn't been in years.
Ethan followed a step behind her, watching her with a quiet tenderness he didn't bother hiding anymore.
> "You really did all this?" she whispered.
"Not alone," he said. "But… I wanted it to feel like a place you'd want to stay."
Her breath faltered.
There it was again—
that gentle way he spoke,
the way his words always landed warmer than she expected,
the way he made her feel like she mattered in ways she wasn't used to.
Amelia paused beside a tall window, light spilling across her face. Ethan stopped too, hands in his pockets, waiting.
She turned to him.
"Why do you keep doing that?"
He blinked. "Doing what?"
"Being so…" She searched for the right word. "So good to me."
Ethan held her gaze, steady and open.
> "Because I care about you."
The truth in his voice made her heart clench.
"But you don't even know everything about me."
> "I don't need to know everything," he said softly. "I can see enough."
Her stomach fluttered, a nervous warmth spreading through her.
She looked away, but Ethan stepped a little closer—slow, patient, giving her room to pull back.
She didn't.
> "Amelia," he murmured, "you don't have to pretend with me."
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
Not yet.
Suddenly, the faint sound of rain began tapping against the windows—a light drizzle, soft and familiar. Amelia turned toward the sound instinctively, drawn by memories of storms and quiet mornings and everything she'd lost.
Ethan's eyes followed her gaze.
> "It's starting again," he said lightly.
She exhaled. "The rain always comes back."
"Maybe that's a good thing," he said. "Some things return because they're meant to."
Amelia looked at him quickly—too quickly.
The meaning behind his words pressed gently against her heart.
A beat of silence.
Then Ethan shifted slightly, reaching into his pocket.
> "I have something for you," he said.
Her brows lifted. "For me?"
He handed her a small folded piece of paper.
Amelia unfolded it slowly.
It was a sketch.
A soft pencil drawing of the library courtyard—the garden, the trellis they built together, the flowers she planted. But at the center of it all was a figure kneeling in the soil…
Her.
Amelia's breath trembled.
"You drew this?"
Ethan looked suddenly shy.
> "I've always sketched. It helps me slow down. Helps me see things."
She traced the lines with her fingertip, her voice barely a whisper.
"I… don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything."
She looked up at him, eyes wide, heart unsteady.
This wasn't small.
This wasn't casual.
This was someone seeing her more deeply than she wanted to admit.
She swallowed. "Ethan… you can't keep doing things like this."
He studied her face.
"Does it bother you?"
"No," she said quietly. "That's the problem."
Ethan's expression softened—like something inside him loosened in relief.
He took a slow step closer.
Just one.
> "Then let me keep doing them," he whispered.
Her breath hitched.
Their closeness was warm.
Quiet.
Almost trembling.
Amelia's fingers curled around the sketch, holding it to her chest.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
Ethan nodded. "I know."
"And I don't trust easily."
"I know that too."
"And I don't want to break."
His voice steadied, gentle but sure.
> "I'm not here to break you."
Something in her chest cracked open—small, but real.
She didn't move away.
And for the first time, she let him see the fear and the hope tangled inside her.
The rain outside grew steadier, whispering against the glass.
Soft. Persistent. Familiar.
Ethan lifted a hand slowly—giving her time, giving her space.
He brushed a finger along her wrist.
Barely a touch.
But it was enough to make her breath falter.
> "When you're ready," he murmured, "I'll be here."
Amelia's eyes glistened.
"Ethan…"
Her voice broke.
And he smiled gently.
No pressure.
No rush.
Just presence.
And in that moment—wrapped in soft rainlight, with his hand near hers and her heart trembling—
she realized something she could no longer deny:
This wasn't just a slow fall.
It was the beginning of something she had been afraid to hope for.
Something true.