The sky was heavy with clouds, the kind that didn't threaten rain but hung like secrets—soft, gray, waiting.
Lena stood inside the shop, hands busy with an unsorted stack of old poetry volumes, but her thoughts were far from alphabetized. Through the front window, she watched as Theo crossed the street from the café, camera slung around his neck, a book tucked beneath one arm.
He stepped into the shop just as the old bell chimed, carrying a gust of cool spring air with him.
"You always smell like wind," she said, almost without thinking.
He tilted his head, curious. "That good or bad?"
She shrugged, eyes on the books in her hands. "Depends what the wind carries."
He stepped closer. "Today it brought Neruda."
He set the book on the counter: Love Poems. Soft leather cover, worn edges.
"Bold choice," she murmured, lifting it carefully.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wood between them. "Thought I'd read you a few."
Her eyes lifted. "You're reading me poetry now?"
"Would you stop me?"
Lena hesitated, a thousand reasons to say no rising like old habits. But she didn't want to stop him.
"No," she whispered.
They moved to the armchairs near the front window. The town outside moved in quiet rhythms—footsteps on pavement, the far-off sound of waves. Inside, the shop felt suspended in a different time.
Theo opened the book and read softly. His voice was low and slow, like pouring honey.
"I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."
Lena exhaled, caught somewhere between laughter and ache.
Theo glanced up. "Too much?"
"No," she said quickly. "It's just... it's been a long time since someone read to me."
His gaze softened. "Then I'm glad it was me."
She didn't look away this time.
There was a pause. A long, stretching silence full of electric possibility.
Then, as if drawn by something neither of them could name, Theo leaned forward.
He didn't rush. He was all patience, all steady breath and storm-warmed air.
Lena felt the moment coming like a wave, like a tide rising inside her chest.
His hand brushed hers.
And then—just like that—the distance between them vanished.
The kiss was slow, uncertain at first. Not because it lacked feeling, but because it carried too much. It was a question and an answer. A letting go and a beginning.
Lena's hand curled against his shirt. Theo's fingers moved gently along her jaw.
When they finally pulled apart, the silence was no longer empty.
It was full. Thick with breath and something unnamed.
Lena rested her forehead against his, eyes still closed.
"I wasn't expecting that," she whispered.
"I've been wanting to do that since the fireplace," he murmured.
She laughed quietly, breathless. "That was weeks ago."
"I'm patient."
She pulled back just enough to look at him. "This can't be nothing, Theo."
He nodded, solemn. "I know."
"I've lost before."
"So have I."
"You're leaving."
"Maybe," he said. "But not yet. Not today."
And somehow, that was enough.
---
Later that evening, Mira burst through the back door of the shop with two paper bags of takeout and her usual flair.
"I brought food and judgment," she announced. "Mostly food."
She froze when she saw Theo at the counter, a dreamy dazed look on both his and Lena's faces.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Okay, which one of you finally kissed the other?"
Lena didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Mira whooped, nearly dropping the bag. "Took you long enough!"
Theo laughed, Lena blushed, and for the first time in what felt like years, the bookstore buzzed with something that wasn't sorrow or stillness.
It felt like life.
Like the start of something real.