Lena hadn't meant to notice the way he smiled.
Or the way he read with his thumb gently brushing the edge of the page, like the words were fragile things.
The storm had passed by morning, but Theo Maddox was still in her mind, lingering like the scent of old books and sea air. She told herself it was nothing. Just a stranger passing through. Just one more face in a town that rarely changed.
But there was something about him—about the way he didn't fill the silence, but respected it—that stayed.
She unlocked the bookstore as she did every morning. The old brass key clicked into place, the bell over the door gave its familiar jingle, and the sleepy warmth of the shop wrapped around her like a quilt. She flicked on the lights one by one, then crossed to the counter and turned on the little radio she kept behind it. Low jazz hummed from the speakers. Soft, slow, unintrusive.
It was a ritual. Everything in Lena's life was.
The books had always been her sanctuary. Even before James. Even before loss. And now, with her days measured by stories and slow sips of coffee, they were her shield. Safe. Predictable.
She was re-shelving a stack of poetry books when the bell above the door rang again. She glanced up, expecting Mira with her morning gossip, or maybe Mr. Carrick with his daily crossword.
Instead, there he was.
Theo.
This time, dry. Windblown. And carrying a paper bag.
"Peace offering," he said, lifting it in one hand.
Lena blinked, caught off guard. "What for?"
"For drying your rug. And borrowing your fireplace without asking."
She folded her arms, but couldn't quite suppress the smile tugging at her lips. "What's in it?"
"Pastries from the corner café. Apple cinnamon and something suspiciously lemony. Also a bribe."
"A bribe."
"To let me hang around again," he said. "Just until I find a place to stay."
Lena's smile faded, replaced by caution. "You're not from here."
"Nope."
"You plan on staying long?"
He shrugged. "A few weeks. Maybe a little more. Depends on the light."
She raised an eyebrow. "The light?"
"I'm a photographer," he explained, setting the bag on the counter. "I follow good light and quiet places. Brindle Bay seemed to have both."
Lena hesitated. There was a flicker of something in her chest—a stir of warmth and risk. She wasn't sure she liked it.
"There's a cottage next door," she said slowly. "Vacant. Belonged to my aunt. Hasn't been lived in for a while, but it's clean."
Theo's brows lifted. "You're offering it to me?"
She nodded. "You said you needed a place."
He studied her for a moment, then smiled—not wide, but soft. Like he knew not to push too hard.
"That's kind of perfect," he said.
She handed him the spare key from the hook behind the counter, brushing his fingers as she did.
He stayed awhile. Sat by the window, sipping coffee, flipping through travel books. Lena went back to her shelving, though her eyes kept drifting toward him. There was a comfort in his presence—unexpected, quiet.
When he finally stood to leave, pastries in hand and camera bag slung over his shoulder, he paused at the door.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said.
Lena nodded once. "You know where to find me."
And with that, he stepped into the golden light of late morning.
She watched him walk next door through the glass, watched as he disappeared behind the cottage gate. Her chest ached with something unnameable. Not pain. Not quite hope. Just… something stirring.
Later, she stepped out into her backyard. The willow tree rustled above her, leaves dancing like they knew more than she did.
She ran a hand along the swing's rope, fingers pausing at the old knot James had tied.
It still held.
She closed her eyes and let the wind move around her.
He's just a stranger, she told herself.
But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true.
Not anymore.