The walk back to Amelia's home was quieter than usual, but it wasn't the heavy kind of silence.
It was soft… warm… the kind that settles between two people who are slowly learning the shape of each other's presence.
Ethan walked beside her, hands in his pockets, matching her pace as the cool evening breeze brushed through the streets. The sky was a deepening blue, the first stars appearing one by one like shy lights.
Amelia glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
He wasn't looking at her.
He wasn't trying to read her expression.
He was simply there—close enough to feel, far enough to breathe.
For a moment, she felt something unfamiliar and startling: comfort without tension.
She spoke first.
"Thank you for today."
Ethan turned his head slightly. "For what part?"
Amelia hesitated, then smiled softly.
"All of it."
Ethan's lips lifted into that quiet, gentle smile that always made her chest warm.
> "Then the day was worth it," he said.
They passed the bakery, the warm scent of bread drifting into the air. A few people greeted Ethan as they walked—Willow Bay never forgot a face—but he always returned the greetings calmly, never breaking the steady rhythm of their walk.
Amelia liked that about him.
He was part of the community, but never loud about it.
When they reached her street, Amelia slowed.
The moment always came too soon.
Ethan noticed—but didn't comment. He simply slowed with her, letting her choose the pace.
When they reached her door, Amelia turned to face him. The porch light cast a soft glow on his features, making him look even gentler than the man she'd walked with all evening.
Ethan spoke first this time.
> "Are you feeling okay?"
His voice was low, careful.
Amelia nodded. "I am. More than I expected."
"Good," he said, and the relief in his voice was subtle but real.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her heartbeat fluttering like wings.
"Ethan…"
He looked up immediately, attentive.
> "I like spending time with you."
Ethan froze—not dramatically, but in that quiet way a man does when words hit somewhere deep.
His voice softened.
> "I like spending time with you too."
Amelia swallowed.
"Sometimes," she admitted softly, "I feel like I'm taking more from you than I'm giving."
Ethan stepped slightly closer—slow, gentle.
> "You're not taking anything," he murmured. "You're sharing yourself. Do you realize how rare that is for you?"
Her breath trembled.
"And you're patient with me. All the time."
"I'm patient," he said, "because I care."
His eyes moved over her face, careful and tender.
> "You don't owe me more than what you're ready for."
A warmth spread through Amelia's chest—painfully soft, deeply welcome.
She stepped forward, stopping just close enough to feel the warmth of his body in the cool night air.
"Can I…"
She hesitated, cheeks warming.
Ethan didn't move.
"Can I give you something small?" she whispered.
His voice dropped.
> "Anything."
Amelia lifted her hand—light, trembling—and gently touched his chest. Just her fingertips, just for a moment.
She felt the quiet rise and fall of his breath beneath her touch.
Then she lowered her hand again.
"That's all I have today."
Ethan's eyes softened with something almost reverent.
> "Then today is perfect," he said again, his voice barely above a whisper.
She looked down, shy and warm, before meeting his eyes once more.
"Goodnight, Ethan."
He stepped back slowly, giving her space again.
> "Goodnight, Amelia. I'll see you tomorrow?"
Her answer was immediate, gentle.
"Yes."
Ethan's smile deepened—small, but full.
> "Then I'll look forward to tomorrow."
He turned and walked away, hands back in his pockets, his steps unhurried.
Amelia watched him go—
and for the first time in a long time,
her heart didn't feel like something heavy she had to carry.
It felt like something waking up.
Something blooming.