The Next Chapter

The rental car’s GPS had cheerfully announced her arrival five minutes ago, but as far as Hannah Mitchell was concerned, she was arriving in the middle of nowhere. Cedar Falls, Colorado. The name itself sounded sleepy, a place for naps and dusty antiques. The jagged peaks of the Rockies, meant to be majestic, felt like a cage, walling her in. The silence was the worst part. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a yoga retreat; it was a dead, unnerving stillness that made the ringing in her ears, a phantom souvenir from her last all-night marketing pitch, seem deafening.

Her knuckles were white on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Every mile deeper into the mountains had felt like a step backward in time, away from the thrumming, intoxicating pulse of New York. Away from the life she had meticulously constructed, a life that was currently imploding in a spectacular, burnout-fueled flameout. A forced sabbatical, her boss had called it. A pink slip in disguise, she knew. And now this. A death. A will. An inheritance she wanted like a hole in the head.

Grandma Eleanor. The funeral two weeks ago had been a blur of casseroles and well-meaning, crinkle-faced strangers patting her hand and telling her what a ‘special woman’ Eleanor had been. Hannah had nodded and smiled her perfectly polished corporate smile, feeling nothing but the hollow ache of exhaustion and a simmering resentment for being dragged into this provincial drama. She loved her grandmother, or at least, she’d loved the idea of her—the kind, bookish woman who sent quirky postcards and smelled of lavender and paper. But this town, this life Eleanor had stubbornly clung to, felt like a personal affront to Hannah’s own ambitions.

She finally turned onto Main Street, if you could call it that. It was more of a suggestion of a street. A slow-moving pickup truck, its bed filled with hay bales and a grinning golden retriever, forced her to crawl at a pace that made her teeth ache. People on the sidewalks—actual people, just walking, not rushing—waved at the driver. He waved back. The sheer, unironic pleasantness of it all was nauseating.

Hannah pulled the sleek black sedan into a parking spot in front of a building labeled ‘Town Hall & Notary Public.’ It looked like a gingerbread house someone had taken far too seriously. She cut the engine, and the silence crashed in again, absolute this time. Her phone, for the first time in a decade, had no signal. No emails pinging, no Slack notifications, no urgent texts from her team. It was like a phantom limb. She felt its absence as a physical pang of anxiety.

Taking a deep, bracing breath of air that was offensively clean and crisp with the scent of pine, she checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her sharp, black blazer and silk shell top looked absurd here. Her makeup was a mask of urban armor. Good. She needed armor. The plan was simple: meet the lawyer, get the keys, sign whatever was necessary to list the property with a realtor, and be on the first flight out of Denver by the weekend. Fast, efficient, clean. No lingering. No getting bogged down in memories or, God forbid, feelings. She was here to liquidate an asset, not take a nostalgic trip down memory lane. With a final, steely glance at the impossibly blue sky, Hannah Mitchell opened the car door and stepped into the town she had spent the last fifteen years trying to forget.

The lawyer’s office was, predictably, right next to the town hall. But as Hannah’s heels clicked with sharp, alien taps on the cracked sidewalk, her eyes were drawn two doors down. A faded, swinging sign, shaped like an open book, creaked softly in the breeze. The gold-leaf lettering was flaking away, but the words were still legible: The Reading Nook.

A cold knot formed in her stomach. She hadn't expected it to be right here, on the main drag, a public monument to her grandmother's slow decline. From a distance, it might have possessed a certain rustic charm. Up close, it was just sad. The deep forest-green paint on the window frames was peeling in long, curling strips, revealing the sun-bleached wood beneath. The large bay window, which she vaguely remembered being filled with festive displays and new releases, was now grimy with a film of dust, the glass so cloudy it was nearly opaque. A few sun-faded paperbacks with curled covers were propped up inside, looking less like an invitation and more like an afterthought. A notice for a bake sale from two years ago was still taped to the door.

This wasn't a charming, quirky small-town bookstore. This was a fire hazard. A money pit. A tangible representation of everything she’d run from: stagnation, neglect, the slow surrender to time. Her resolve, already firm, hardened into granite. Sell. Sell it fast. Raze it to the ground for all she cared.

The lawyer, a man whose jowls seemed to be in a race to his collar, was efficient enough. He droned on about probate and titles, his voice a monotonous buzz that Hannah tuned out, nodding at what she hoped were the appropriate intervals. She left his office twenty minutes later with a thick manila envelope and a single, ornate iron key that felt heavy and ancient in her palm.

Instead of getting back in her car, she found herself walking back toward the bookstore, drawn by a morbid curiosity. The key slid into the lock with a grating shriek of metal on metal, the sound echoing in the quiet street. She had to put her shoulder into the heavy wooden door to get it to budge, and when it finally groaned open, a wave of stale air washed over her. It was the smell of decay, not of death, but of life left untended—the scent of dust mites, silverfish, and the slow, inexorable rot of paper.

The interior was even worse than she’d imagined. It was chaos. Books weren’t just on the shelves; they were stacked in teetering pillars on the floor, spilling from cardboard boxes, crammed into every available corner. The air was thick with floating dust motes, illuminated like tiny galaxies in the slivers of light that managed to pierce the grimy windows. A fine layer of grey grit covered every surface. In the center of the room, a threadbare armchair, Eleanor’s reading chair, was half-buried under a landslide of magazines and mail.

Hannah stood frozen in the doorway, the key still in her hand. This wasn't a business; it was a hoarder's den disguised as a bookstore. The sheer scale of the cleanup, the sorting, the sheer work involved, made her feel physically ill. Her clean, minimalist New York apartment, with its stark white walls and precise, uncluttered surfaces, felt a million miles away. This was a nightmare. All her frustration, her grief-tinged anger, and her bone-deep exhaustion coalesced into a single, sharp point of clarity. She wasn't just going to sell this place. She was going to eradicate it from her life. She took a tentative step inside, her expensive leather boot crunching on something on the floor, and surveyed the wreckage that was her inheritance.

“Jesus,” she muttered, the single word a small, sharp puff of air in the thick silence. She nudged a precarious stack of paperbacks with the toe of her boot, and the whole column swayed like a drunk before collapsing in a soft, papery sigh across the floorboards. The dust it kicked up made her nose itch. This was impossible. She’d need a hazmat team and a dumpster, maybe two. Her perfectly structured plan to list the property by Friday was dissolving into a fantasy.

“Figured I might find you in here.”

The voice, a low, warm rumble from the doorway, made her jump and spin around, her heart hammering against her ribs. A man was standing there, silhouetted against the bright afternoon sun, his broad frame filling the entrance. For a split second, her city-honed instincts screamed threat, but as her eyes adjusted, the silhouette resolved into a face she hadn't seen outside of old photographs in fifteen years.

It was Ethan Cooper, but the lanky, slightly awkward boy she’d left behind had been completely replaced by the man in front of her. He was tall, with the easy, grounded stance of someone comfortable in his own skin. A worn blue flannel shirt was open over a plain grey t-shirt that stretched across a solid chest, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned forearms dusted with fine, sun-bleached hair. His jeans were faded and softened with wear, hugging muscular thighs and ending in a pair of scuffed work boots.

But it was his face that held her. The boyish freckles were gone, but the kindness in his eyes was the same—a warm, steady hazel that seemed to see right through the expensive, defensive shell she’d so carefully constructed. His hair was a little longer, a dark brown that curled slightly at the collar, and there were faint lines around his eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there before. They were laugh lines. Life had been good to him. The realization landed with a strange, unwelcome pang in her chest.

“Ethan?” The name felt foreign on her tongue.

A slow smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of those hazel eyes. “In the flesh. I saw the door was open. Welcome home, Han.”

Home. The word was so casually offered, so genuine, that it caught her completely off guard. No one had called her Han in years. The warmth in his greeting was a physical thing, a stark contrast to the stale, neglected air of the bookstore. It seeped past her defenses before she could reinforce them.

“I’m… I’m not home,” she corrected, her voice coming out sharper than she intended. “I’m just here to… settle the estate.”

His smile didn’t falter, but a flicker of understanding—or maybe pity—passed through his eyes. “Right. Of course.” He took a step inside, his presence seeming to shrink the cluttered room even further. “I was so sorry to hear about Eleanor. The whole town was. She was…” He paused, looking around the disastrous shop with an expression of fond sadness. “She was the heart of this place for a long time.”

His sincerity was disarming. The condolences she’d received at the funeral had been a blur of platitudes, but Ethan’s felt different. Real. It made the carefully constructed wall around her emotions feel brittle.

“Thank you,” she managed, crossing her arms over her chest in a defensive posture. “As you can see, she, uh, left quite a project behind.” She gestured vaguely at the chaos, the sweep of her arm meant to convey a sense of hopeless, business-like assessment.

Ethan’s gaze followed hers, but there was no judgment in it, only a quiet empathy that pricked at her conscience. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She loved her books. Every single one.” His eyes met hers again, and for a moment, the fifteen years between them vanished. She was a girl with scraped knees and a head full of dreams, and he was the quiet, steady boy who always knew how to make her laugh. The memory was so vivid, so unwelcome, it felt like a punch to the gut. She had no time for this, no room for him.

She forced a brittle, professional smile. “It’s a project, all right. A teardown, most likely.” The words were cruel, a deliberate jab meant to push him away, to sever the sentimental connection he clearly still felt for the place—and for her grandmother.

Ethan’s smile tightened just a fraction, the only sign her barb had landed. “I don’t know about that. The bones of this place are solid. Your grandmother always said it had good bones.” He took another step inside, his boots making a soft, crunching sound on the debris-strewn floor. He gestured toward a towering, precariously leaning bookshelf in the back corner, a behemoth of dark wood groaning under the weight of hundreds of hardcovers. “That one, for instance. I helped her put it together. It’s solid oak. Just needs to be cleared off and re-anchored. I could come by after work tomorrow, give you a hand. We could get these main pathways cleared in a few hours.”

The offer was so simple, so practical, so Ethan. It was also the last thing she wanted. Accepting his help would be an admission that she couldn't do this alone. It would be an invitation, a crack in the wall she’d spent fifteen years building. It would be a link to a past she was determined to pave over.

“That’s a very kind offer, Ethan, but it’s not necessary,” she said, her tone clipped and final. “I’m hiring a professional cleaning and removal service. They’ll handle it.”

The lie was slick and easy, a product of years spent managing difficult clients and massaging unpleasant truths in the corporate world. It should have ended the conversation. But Ethan just stood there, his hazel eyes studying her with an unnerving stillness. He wasn't buying it.

“A service? In Cedar Falls?” He gave a small, disbelieving huff of a laugh. “Han, the closest thing we have to that is two guys with a pickup truck, and they’re booked solid hauling firewood until the first snow. Just let me help.”

“I can handle it myself,” she insisted, the words coming out sharper this time. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Why wasn't he leaving? Why was he looking at her like that, as if he could see the scared, overwhelmed girl hiding behind the tailored blazer and the sharp tongue?

“I know you can,” he said, his voice softening, which was somehow worse than if he’d argued. “You were always the most capable person I knew. But you don’t have to.”

His gentleness was a threat. It chipped away at her resolve, reminding her of long summer afternoons and shared secrets, of a time when leaning on someone else hadn't felt like a weakness. She couldn't afford that. Not now.

“Look, I appreciate the offer. Really,” she said, forcing a note of polite finality into her voice. “But I work better alone. I just need to make a plan, get organized. This is… a business transaction for me. That’s all.”

She saw the exact moment he gave up, the subtle shift in his posture as he accepted her wall for what it was. A flicker of disappointment, or maybe hurt, crossed his face before being replaced by a mask of friendly resignation. He took a half-step back, putting a more comfortable distance between them.

“Alright, Hannah,” he said, and the switch from ‘Han’ to her full name was as loud as a slamming door. “I get it. You’re busy.” He gestured toward the door. “Well, the offer stands. If your ‘service’ falls through, or you just need an extra pair of hands for the heavy stuff, you know where to find me. The clinic’s still next to the diner.”

He gave her one last, long look, his gaze sweeping over her face as if trying to commit it to memory, before turning and walking out of the bookstore. He didn't look back.

The square of bright sunlight in the doorway vanished as he moved out of the frame, plunging the store back into its dusty gloom. Hannah stood frozen, her own harsh words echoing in the sudden, profound silence. She was alone, just as she’d wanted. But the relief she expected didn’t come. Instead, a hollow ache spread through her chest. The air, which had felt charged and alive with his presence, was now just stale and heavy again. She looked at the mountains of books, the layers of grime, the overwhelming chaos of it all. Her inheritance. Her project. Her mess to clean up, all by herself.

For a long moment after he left, Hannah stood perfectly still, listening to the silence settle back into the room. It felt heavier now, weighted down by her own dismissive words. The brisk, efficient energy she’d tried to project had evaporated, leaving behind a familiar, bone-deep exhaustion. She was alone. It was what she’d insisted on. So why did it feel like a punishment?

With a sigh that seemed to stir up a fresh cloud of dust, she forced herself to move. A plan. She needed a plan. This was just a project, a logistical problem to be solved. She pulled her phone from her pocket, her thumb hovering over the notes app where she managed her entire life in neat, bulleted lists. Task 1: Clear out trash. Task 2: Box books for donation. Task 3: Find important documents. It seemed so simple on the screen.

She started with a stack of old newspapers near the door, their edges yellowed and brittle. As she lifted the pile, the paper disintegrated in her hands, showering her designer jeans with musty confetti. Beneath them was a half-eaten, fossilized muffin on a plate. It was hopeless. Every surface was a graveyard of good intentions—piles of books to be shelved, stacks of mail to be opened, a mug with a dried teabag still clinging to the side. This wasn’t a matter of simple cleaning; it was an archeological dig through the last decade of her grandmother’s life.

Frustration clawed at her throat. She abandoned the newspapers and zeroed in on the old oak counter, figuring it was the nerve center of the operation. If there was any paperwork—a will, a deed, bank statements—it would be here. The surface was a landscape of clutter. A chipped ceramic mug filled with pens, a tarnished silver letter opener, a pair of reading glasses with one arm taped together. She ran her finger over the dusty lenses, a phantom image of her grandmother, head bent over a book, flashing through her mind. Hannah shook it away, annoyed by the sudden prick of emotion.

She began sorting through the drawers. The first was filled with junk: rubber bands, paper clips, dried-up highlighters, and a tangle of charging cables for phones that hadn't been made in years. The second held stacks of receipts, invoices for book orders, and utility bills, all jumbled together. Progress. She started to sort them into neat piles, the familiar, methodical task soothing her frayed nerves.

It was in the bottom drawer, tucked beneath a stack of old seed catalogs and a faded photo of a much younger Hannah grinning from a tire swing, that she found them. Not a file folder, but a stack of five cloth-bound books, each a different, muted color: forest green, navy blue, dusty rose, dove grey, and a deep, wine-red. They weren’t printed books for sale; they were journals. Her grandmother’s journals.

Her breath caught. Her first instinct was to slam the drawer shut. It felt like a violation, a line she shouldn’t cross. These were private thoughts, not part of the estate to be liquidated. But her hand lingered on the worn fabric cover of the top journal, the green one. The spine was soft, the corners frayed from use. This was a piece of her grandmother she’d never known. The woman who wrote letters and baked cookies, who always smelled faintly of paper and lavender, had a secret life in these pages.

The professional, detached mask she wore for the world began to crack. This wasn’t about business anymore. She pulled the green journal from the drawer, its weight solid and real in her hands. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light cutting through the grimy windows. She sank onto the creaking stool behind the counter, the piles of paperwork forgotten. With a deep, hesitant breath, she opened the book to the first page. The handwriting was elegant, familiar, a looping cursive that filled the page. The date at the top was from just after Hannah had left for college. Her heart gave a painful throb. This was where it began.

September 14th. Hannah called tonight. She sounds tired, but she’s doing so well. A promotion. I told her I was proud, and I am. So fiercely proud it feels like my heart might burst. But I wish she’d told me more than just the good news. I asked her if she was happy, and she got quiet. Changed the subject. Sometimes I feel like she’s a thousand miles away, and not just on a map.

Hannah’s fingers tightened on the edge of the book. She remembered that call. She’d been standing on a crowded subway platform, shouting over the screech of the train, desperate to end the conversation and get back to the office for a late-night strategy session. She hadn’t even registered the question about being happy.

She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the entries. They weren’t a record of grand events, but a catalog of small, cherished moments.

October 2nd. The first frost today. The mountains looked like they’d been dusted with sugar. I put the kettle on for anyone coming in from the cold. Ethan stopped by—that boy has grown into such a good man. He re-stocked my firewood box without even being asked. Said he was worried my old bones would get chilled. I sent him home with a lemon meringue pie for his trouble. He has his father’s smile.

November 19th. A slow day, but a lovely one. Little Maya Peterson spent an hour in the children’s corner, reading to a stuffed bear. Her mother said it’s the only place she’ll sit still. This store is more than a business. It’s a quiet place in a loud world. It’s a sanctuary.

Page after page, her grandmother’s world unfolded. A world of quiet satisfaction, deep community ties, and a profound love for this building and the people who passed through it. It was a life lived on a scale Hannah could barely comprehend. Her own life was measured in market shares, campaign metrics, and quarterly reports. Her grandmother’s was measured in cups of tea shared, firewood stacked, and children discovering a love for reading.

A thick, hot shame washed over her. She’d seen this place as a burden, a failure, a mess to be liquidated. To her grandmother, it had been a life’s work. A legacy. Hannah had flown in for Christmases and the occasional summer weekend, breezing through town with stories of New York, never once asking about the soul of this place. She’d accepted the pies and the hand-knitted scarves without ever considering the life they came from.

She turned a page and a photograph slipped out, landing on the counter. It was of her and Ethan, probably around seventeen. They were sitting on the hood of his old, beat-up truck, sharing a soda, their heads close together as they laughed at something. Hannah’s hair was long and wild, and she was looking at him with an open, unguarded adoration that made her stomach clench now. Tucked beneath the photo was a final entry on the page.

July 8th. Hannah leaves for New York in a month. I watch her with Ethan and I see the future I always hoped for her. A life filled with real, honest love, rooted in a place that will hold her safe. But she has stars in her eyes, and they aren’t the ones we see from the porch at night. She wants a bigger world. I pray she finds what she’s looking for. And I pray that if she doesn’t, she remembers the way home.

A tear she hadn’t realized was forming dripped onto the page, smearing the ink. The carefully constructed walls of her professional life, her brisk efficiency, her detached plan—they were crumbling. This wasn't just a building full of dusty books. It was a love letter. It was her grandmother’s heart, bound in cloth and ink. And she was planning to sell it to the highest bidder. The guilt was a physical weight, settling deep in her chest, making it hard to breathe.

The sharp, cheerful jingle of the bell above the door cut through the dusty silence, making Hannah jump. She slammed the journal shut as if she’d been caught doing something illicit, her heart hammering against her ribs. She hastily wiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself before whoever it was saw her crying.

Ethan pushed the door open, a cardboard drink carrier in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. He stopped just inside, his easy smile faltering as he took in the scene. He saw the streaks on her dusty face, the redness rimming her eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders. He didn't comment on it, didn't ask if she was okay. He simply closed the door behind him, the bell offering another, softer jingle, and walked toward the counter.

“I know what you said,” he started, his voice low and steady, “but my momma taught me it’s a sin to let a person starve, even a stubborn one.”

He placed his offerings on the one clear spot on the counter she’d made. The rich, dark scent of fresh coffee filled the air, cutting through the mustiness. Hannah’s stomach grumbled in betrayal. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, her voice sounding thick and unused. She shoved the journal aside, trying to hide it behind a stack of invoices.

“I know.” He pulled two steaming cups from the carrier and a pair of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper from the bag. “Turkey and provolone on rye from the deli. Your old favorite.”

Of course, he remembered. The thought sent another confusing wave of emotion through her—part irritation at being so transparently cared for, part a deep, aching gratitude. He pushed a cup and a sandwich toward her. His fingers were long and capable, clean but with faint lines of dirt etched around the nails that soap couldn't quite reach. The hands of a man who worked.

She stared at the food, her throat tight. “Ethan, I’m fine. I just need to focus and get this done.”

“You can’t focus on an empty stomach.” He unwrapped his own sandwich and took a bite, watching her. There was no judgment in his gaze, only a quiet, patient insistence. “Just ten minutes, Hannah. The dust will still be here when you’re done, I promise.”

Defeated, she finally gave a small nod. Her hands trembled slightly as she unwrapped the sandwich. The bread was fresh, the turkey piled high. It was the most appealing thing she’d seen in days. She took a sip of the coffee. It was hot, strong, and exactly what she needed, chasing away some of the chill that had settled in her bones.

They ate in silence for a few moments. It wasn't awkward, but filled with the unspoken things hanging in the air between them: her grief, her guilt, his concern. He finished his first half of the sandwich and leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The worn fabric of his flannel shirt stretched taut, outlining the muscles of his shoulders and arms. He was bigger than she remembered from their teenage years, broader and more solid. A man, fully grown.

“This place is a lot,” he said, his voice still gentle. He wasn't talking about the mess. He was talking about the weight of it all, the memories. He knew.

Hannah could only nod, taking another bite of her sandwich to keep from having to speak. A single tear escaped and traced a clean path through the grime on her cheek. Before she could wipe it away, Ethan reached out. His movements were slow, deliberate, giving her time to pull back. She didn't. His thumb, warm and slightly calloused, brushed against her skin, gently wiping the moisture away.

The touch was electric. A current shot from her cheek straight down to her core, making the muscles low in her belly tighten. It was a simple, comforting gesture, but it felt intensely intimate. Her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the heat of his body, smell the faint, clean scent of his soap mixed with coffee and the cold mountain air clinging to his clothes. Her eyes locked with his. The blue of his irises was deep and serious, and for a heartbeat, she saw something there—a flash of heat, a raw hunger that mirrored the sudden, unexpected pull she felt toward him. He held her gaze for a long moment before letting his hand drop, the air crackling with the sudden loss of contact.

Ethan cleared his throat and took a step back, putting a tangible distance between them. The spell was broken, but the air still felt charged. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looked around the room, his gaze landing on a towering, dark wood bookshelf crammed into a corner.

“That one always drove your grandmother crazy,” he said, his voice a little rougher than before. “She said it blocked the best of the afternoon light. We always talked about moving it to the back wall, but never got around to it.”

Hannah looked at the imposing piece of furniture. It was massive, loaded down with heavy-looking hardcovers. “I’d have to empty it first. That would take all day.”

“Not necessarily.” He walked over to it and gave it a solid push. It didn’t budge, but the floorboards beneath it groaned in protest. “It’s heavy, but if we slide it, we can do it with the books still on. Just need to get some old blankets underneath to protect the floor.”

Before she could protest, he was gone, jogging out to his truck. Hannah stood frozen for a moment, her cheek still tingling where he’d touched her. This was his way. He saw a problem and fixed it, whether it was a person who needed food or a bookshelf in the wrong spot. He returned a moment later with two thick, worn moving blankets, the scent of hay and his dog clinging to them.

“Okay,” he said, all business now. “We’ll tip it forward, just enough for you to kick these under the front feet. Ready?”

Hannah nodded, finishing her coffee and setting the cup down. She moved to the side of the bookshelf, placing her hands on the cool, dusty wood. Ethan stood on the other side, his body obscuring hers from the front door.

“On three,” he instructed. “One… two… three.”

He grunted with the effort, his entire body tensing as he pulled the top of the heavy shelf toward him. The muscles in his back and shoulders strained against the fabric of his flannel shirt, a powerful display of controlled strength. Hannah quickly kicked the blankets into place.

“Got it,” she said, her voice a little breathless.

“Alright, let it back easy.”

They lowered it gently, the front feet now resting on the padded blankets. “Now the fun part,” he said, a grin touching his lips. “We push.”

They positioned themselves side-by-side, their shoulders pressed together. The space was tight, and Hannah was overwhelmingly aware of him. The solid wall of his body, the heat radiating from him, the clean scent of his skin beneath the flannel. She put her hands on the wood and pushed. Beside her, she felt Ethan dig in, his boots gripping the floor as he put his entire weight into the effort.

Slowly, agonizingly, the bookshelf began to scrape across the floor. They moved it an inch, then another. Hannah’s arms started to burn.

“It’s… moving,” she gasped out.

“Told you,” he grunted, his breathing heavy next to her ear.

They got it halfway across the room when one of the back legs caught on a warped floorboard. The entire unit jolted to a halt, groaning like a dying beast. They both pushed harder, their faces flushed with exertion.

“Come on, you stubborn son of a…” Ethan muttered, giving it a final, mighty shove.

The bookshelf didn’t move. Instead, a thick, leather-bound copy of Moby Dick vibrated off the top shelf and landed squarely on his head with a dull thud.

He swore, stumbling back and rubbing his scalp. “Ahab finally got me.”

For a second, Hannah was just stunned. Then, a bubble of laughter escaped her. It started small, a choked giggle, but seeing the look of genuine surprise on his face, a dusting of plaster in his dark hair, it erupted into a full, peeling laugh. It was a sound she hadn’t heard from herself in years—unrestrained and genuine.

Ethan looked at her, his initial annoyance melting away as he watched her. A slow grin spread across his face, and then he was laughing too. A deep, warm sound that filled the entire dusty room.

The tension of the last few days, the grief, the guilt, the confusing spark of attraction—it all dissolved in that shared moment of absurdity. They were just Hannah and Ethan, covered in dust, defeated by a piece of furniture and a very large book. Her sides ached and tears of mirth streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the dust. It felt cleansing. It felt like coming up for air. It felt, she realized with a pang in her chest, like being home.