The next morning, Amelia woke with a sense of lightness she hadn't felt in years.
Not relief.
Not certainty.
But something softer—
like her heart was finally breathing again.
She touched her fingers instinctively, remembering how they'd curled around Ethan's last night on the bridge. How natural it had felt. How terrifying. How beautiful.
A warmth spread through her as she got ready for the day.
Maybe she wasn't falling out of control.
Maybe she was learning how to land.
---
When she walked into Petal & Bloom, the first thing she noticed was a small paper bag sitting on the counter.
She froze.
A note was attached to it, written in familiar handwriting.
> For Amelia.
Breakfast, in case you forgot to eat again.
—E.
Her breath caught.
Inside was a warm croissant, a small container of berries, and a cup of herbal tea still steaming faintly.
Her hand trembled around the note.
He had remembered.
He had paid attention.
He had thought of her.
Not as a responsibility.
Not as a burden.
Just… her.
Before she could stop herself, a tiny smile tugged at her lips—the kind she didn't realize she still had.
---
Later, she made her way to the library. Sunlight filtered through soft clouds, turning the morning into a haze of gold and silver.
Ethan was waiting in the courtyard.
He looked up the moment she stepped inside, and the way his expression lifted—
as if seeing her was the best part of his day—
sent a warm ache through her chest.
> "Morning," he said, voice gentle.
"Morning," she replied softly.
Ethan nodded toward her bag.
> "You got the breakfast?"
She held up the note, teasing lightly, "Trying to feed me now?"
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.
> "You forget to eat when you're anxious. Yesterday felt… big. I didn't want you starting the day with an empty stomach."
Amelia blinked, surprised.
"How did you know that?"
"I notice things," he said simply.
> "Especially when it comes to you."
Her stomach fluttered.
A soft, dangerously warm silence stretched between them. Amelia stepped closer—small, hesitant—but closer.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "It meant a lot."
Ethan's eyes softened with that deep tenderness she was beginning to recognize.
> "I'm glad."
He reached for a toolbox on the bench, but his movements were slower, almost careful.
> "I have something I'd like to show you," he said.
Amelia frowned. "Another surprise?"
He chuckled.
> "Kind of. But… only if you want to see it."
"I do."
He led her inside the library, past the main hall, through a doorway she hadn't noticed before. Dust motes floated in the beams of sunlight.
They entered a small room—empty, quiet, walls bare except for the faint outlines of old shelves.
Ethan turned to her.
> "This is the room the community wants to turn into a reading space," he said. "Somewhere warm. Calm. Safe."
Amelia touched the dusty window frame, her fingers brushing soft light.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
Ethan watched her carefully.
> "I wanted you to see it first."
She froze. "Why?"
"Because…"
He hesitated, searching for the right words.
> "This place feels like you."
Her breath caught.
He stepped closer—slow, respectful, careful.
> "Quiet. Warm. Waiting for someone to bring it back to life."
Her throat tightened painfully.
"Ethan…" she whispered.
He didn't touch her.
He didn't reach for her.
But his presence wrapped around her like soft sunlight through a window.
> "You don't have to say anything today," he murmured. "Or tomorrow. I just want you to know… I see you. All of you. And nothing about you scares me."
Amelia's eyes glistened.
For the first time, she didn't fight the emotion rising inside her.
She stepped forward—tiny, trembling—and let her forehead rest gently against his chest.
Ethan froze, breath catching.
Then, slowly, carefully, he lifted a hand and let it settle lightly between her shoulder blades.
Not pulling her closer.
Just being there.
Present.
Steady.
Safe.
Amelia closed her eyes, letting the quiet settle.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
For the first time, she let herself lean.
Just a little.
And Ethan held that moment as if it was the most fragile, precious thing he'd ever been given.