The morning unfolded slowly.
There were no alarms, no urgent emails or meetings, just the hum of Elden Bridge waking up—a town that seemed to rise like bread dough, soft and warm and unhurried.
Violet stretched beneath the quilt, blinking at the sunbeam slicing through the bedroom window. The cat—still nameless—was curled at her feet, tail twitching in his sleep. She turned to Adam, whose hair was a halo of messy curls on the pillow. His breathing was even, peaceful. She could've stayed in that moment forever.
And for once, she let herself try.
"Hey," she whispered, not to wake him, but just to say it.
He stirred anyway, eyes opening slowly. "Morning already?"
"Barely. But I missed you."
"You were sleeping next to me."
"I know. Doesn't matter."
He smiled, still half-asleep. "I like when you say that."
---
After coffee and toast, Violet wandered downstairs to The Hushed Hour, unlocking the door with one hand while balancing the now wide-awake cat on her shoulder. The bell chimed like a yawn.
She flipped the sign to OPEN.
It was Saturday, and the rhythm of town was predictably charming—Mrs. Fletcher came in for her large-print romance novels, the poetry club left bookmarks tucked into random titles, and a tourist couple spent half an hour taking pictures of the exposed brick wall.
Violet loved the small moments the most. The way someone whispered thank you like it meant more than a transaction. The way kids pointed out books they'd "already read twice!" as if conquering pages were a badge of honor.
Around noon, Adam arrived with a brown paper bag of sandwiches and two chilled bottles of lemonade. He leaned against the counter.
"Got us lunch."
"I love you."
"Because I fed you?"
"Because you always do the little things."
He slid her sandwich across the counter. "You're easy to feed."
"And you're easy to stay in love with."
He blushed like it was still new.
---
They spent the afternoon working side by side.
Violet reorganized the front table—moving the "Start Again" section next to a display of memoirs about healing. Adam hung a new string of photos above the counter: candids of bookstore regulars, community events, snapshots from the garden day, and a particularly sweet one of Violet, laughing mid-eye-roll.
By late afternoon, the air grew thick with spring warmth and stories being lived quietly.
Tessa popped in with her usual dramatic flair. "I have huge news."
Grace followed behind her. "She means slightly interesting news."
"I signed up for the town's summer play," Tessa said proudly. "They needed a last-minute Juliet. Naturally, I volunteered."
"You hate Shakespeare," Violet reminded her.
"Yes, but I love drama. And attention."
Grace rolled her eyes. "She's got both in spades."
They stayed long enough to steal Adam's last cookie and leave behind chaos in the form of flower clippings and a flyer for the play audition.
After they left, Violet looked at Adam. "You should audition."
He blinked. "For a Shakespeare play?"
"You took drama in college."
"Yeah, because I thought it'd help me flirt."
"Did it?"
He grinned. "Eventually."
---
That evening, they sat on the bookstore rooftop again, a ritual now. Wrapped in mismatched blankets, sipping from chipped mugs of tea, they watched the town below.
Children played in the street. Someone strummed a guitar two houses over. The local bakery's neon sign buzzed to life as dusk painted the sky a deep purple.
"I got a letter from my mom today," Violet said, fingers tracing the rim of her mug.
Adam turned to her, attentive.
"She's thinking of visiting. For real this time. She said she wants to see the bookstore... and maybe talk."
He didn't rush to speak. Just waited.
"I don't know if I'm ready," Violet admitted.
"You don't have to be ready," he said. "You just have to be honest."
She looked at him, eyes shimmering. "What if I say something wrong?"
"Then you try again. You get to rewrite things now."
---
They didn't say much more that night. But silence between them wasn't empty—it was comfortable, like the final note of a good song echoing long after it's ended.
Before bed, Violet opened her journal and wrote:
"Healing doesn't feel like fireworks. It feels like planting strawberries, and watching them grow. Like laughing in a bookstore. Like admitting you're scared—and being loved anyway."
She left the journal open on her nightstand, the cat batting at the ribbon bookmark.
---
The next morning, they walked to the community garden again.
Violet carried their new strawberry plants in a basket. Adam had brought homemade plant markers labeled in his handwriting: Hope, Try Again, Home.
They knelt side by side in the soil. Their hands got dirty. They argued playfully over spacing. They laughed when the cat tried to climb the fence and failed.
As they pressed the roots into the ground, Violet whispered, "Stay."
Adam glanced at her.
She clarified, smiling, "The strawberries. But also you."
He leaned in and kissed her, earthy and soft. "Always."
---