Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a receipt.
Not some big, romantic gesture or a flurry of petals or a glance across a crowded room. Just a stupid little scrap of thermal paper, folded in half and tucked between pages 112 and 113 of a beat-up copy of Jane Eyre.

Ava hadn’t meant to do it. Not really.

She’d wandered into the shop like she always did when the sky turned gray and her brain got loud. The place smelled like cedar and old words, dust and lavender, like someone had tried to make time stop and almost succeeded. It was quiet in the kind of way that made her chest ache—like the world had lowered its volume just enough to let her think.

She hadn’t been thinking about flirting. She hadn’t even been thinking about staying.

But the girl behind the counter—
God.

She was something else. All neat hair and soft sweaters and a spine so straight it made Ava feel like a delinquent just by standing there. She wore glasses, for God’s sake. Actual glasses. And she had this way of scanning the barcode on the back of a book like she was afraid it might bite her.

Ava had barely gotten out a “Hey” before the girl said, “Let me know if you need help finding anything.” British. And a little nervous.

Ava, of course, had immediately needed help with everything.

She didn’t even want the damn book. But she bought it anyway, fumbling with her wallet like it might run away from her. And then—just before she left—she saw the pen on the counter. Black ink. No cap.

Impulse was a dangerous thing.

“You look like you’d cry if someone dog-eared a page,” she scrawled on the back of the receipt. Don’t worry. I won’t. Then, underneath that, she drew a very bad sketch of a flower. Rose-ish.

She slipped it into the book, grinning to herself like a kid sneaking candy into their pockets.

She told herself it didn’t matter if the girl saw it. It wasn’t like she’d write back.

---

But the next time Ava came in, two days later, she returned Jane Eyre. She placed it carefully on the “returns” shelf. Waited around the poetry section like she was genuinely debating between Rilke and Neruda.

Twenty minutes later, curiosity got the best of her.

She pulled the book back out, flipped to page 112, and her heart stuttered.
The receipt was still there. But now, there was something else written beneath her note.

Some of us believe books deserve to be treated with dignity. But thank you for not folding the corner.

The handwriting was small. Neat. Pressed into the page like a secret.

Ava blinked. Once. Twice.

Then she smiled.

Really smiled.

---

She left her next note in Pride and Prejudice.

What’s your name, Book Girl? I can’t keep calling you That Really Pretty One With the Judgy Eyebrows.

Chapter Text

Ava left Pride and Prejudice on the cart like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t waiting for a reply in the center of a used paperback. Like she wasn’t checking her phone compulsively every hour to remind herself it had only been a day. A single day.

By the third morning, she cracked.
Slid into the bookshop in the late afternoon when the clouds hung low and the bell above the door made the same tired sound it always did.

She didn’t go straight for it.
She circled the shelves. Pretended to skim the new releases. Thumbed a collection of essays she wouldn’t read. Then she drifted over—slow like she wasn’t already halfway buzzing with anticipation—and pulled the book from its place in the “Romance / Classics” section.

Page 23. Page 23. Page 23.

The note was there. Folded once, neat as a pressed flower. On the same receipt, no less.

She unfolded it with a ridiculous amount of care.

Beatrice. Not That Pretty One With Judgy Eyebrows (though I’m choosing not to be offended).

Ava laughed, quiet and surprised, and folded the note back like it was something holy. She didn’t even care that a customer was watching her with mild confusion. She just tucked the book under her arm and walked straight to the front desk like she had a purpose now.

Beatrice was there. Of course she was. Sweater today was pale blue, collar buttoned all the way up. Her glasses slid a little down her nose when she glanced up.

“Back again,” she said, tone even, eyes giving nothing away.

Ava offered a smile. “I think I have a thing for doomed women in British fiction.”

Beatrice didn’t flinch. But Ava saw the tiny twitch of her mouth.

She scanned the book. Ava tapped the counter.

“No pen today?” she asked, trying to sound offhanded.

Beatrice blinked once, slowly. “I find it’s safer not to leave one out.”

A beat. Then Ava grinned.

“Smart.”

Their fingers didn’t touch this time. But Ava still felt something when she took the book—like static, or possibility.

She left the shop with her heart ticking louder than it should’ve been.

---

That night, she stared at a blank receipt for fifteen minutes.

Then, with a quick breath, she wrote:

Beatrice. That’s a very bookshop name. I'm Ava, by the way. And I don’t usually flirt with strangers through Austen, but I might make an exception for you.

She thought about signing it. Thought about leaving it as-is.
In the end, she added a very bad drawing of a teacup with a heart floating out of it. A little stupid. A little soft.

She tucked it into Wuthering Heights, page 82.

She’d never liked that book.

But suddenly, it felt like it might be worth another try.

Chapter Text

Ava came back the next day. She didn’t mean to.

She’d told herself she’d wait a week. Play it cool. Be chill. Normal people didn’t orbit bookshops hoping for attention like a particularly stubborn planet.

But normal people also didn’t get notes back.

And now she was hooked.

---

Beatrice noticed her before the bell even finished ringing.

Ava never entered the same way twice. Yesterday she had come in like the tide—soft, unassuming, pretending she wasn’t there for her. Today, she swept through the door like she belonged to the place, hoodie shoved halfway into the pockets of her thrifted denim jacket, cheeks a little red from the cold.

Beatrice didn’t say anything. She just nodded.

Ava grinned like it was their secret.

---

The classics section felt smaller now. Or maybe Ava just filled it differently.

She found Wuthering Heights exactly where she left it. Pulled it down with careful hands.

The note was there. Folded into the receipt, her handwriting staring back at her from beneath the neat, looping lines of something new.

Wuthering Heights? That’s brave. A lot of screaming and weather. But you get points for dramatic flair.

Ava bit her lip. Below it, smaller:

Thank you for the tea cup. I liked it.

She didn’t even realize she was smiling until a customer brushing past her gave her a look like she’d just started glowing. Maybe she had.

---

That evening, Ava came back with Wuthering Heights in her bag and a new book in hand—Little Women. A little on the nose, sure. But it felt right.

She waited until Beatrice disappeared into the back—something about inventory—and slipped the note in without ceremony.

I like that you write like you're thinking out loud. I think that’s brave. Also: Jo March totally should’ve ended up with Laurie. Don’t fight me on this.

She paused. Then added:

P.S. I brought you a muffin but chickened out and ate it.

It was a lie. She never bought the muffin.

But the idea of Beatrice reading that, picturing it—it made her cheeks burn in the best way.

---

Ava was halfway down the street when she realized she was already wondering what Beatrice would write back.

And whether next time, she’d actually bring the muffin.

Chapter Text

Beatrice found the note near closing.

She’d seen Ava that afternoon—watched her hover in the classics section like she didn’t know exactly where she was going. Beatrice had given her space, though she couldn’t stop herself from glancing over the top of her glasses every few minutes. Just to check.

After the last customer had left and the door had been locked, she moved through the aisles in her usual end-of-day rhythm—return a few misplaced books, straighten the tables, dim the lamps.

And there it was.

Little Women, spine slightly askew. Page 73 marked with a worn receipt and Ava’s looping scrawl.

> Jo March totally should’ve ended up with Laurie. Don’t fight me on this.

Beatrice let out a soft breath that could almost be a laugh. Ava had a way of writing that felt like she was saying things out loud, right into Beatrice’s ear. Warm. Immediate. Unafraid.

She turned the receipt over.

> P.S. I brought you a muffin but chickened out and ate it.

A lie. Beatrice was sure of it. She read it twice anyway.

She didn’t have the kind of life where people flirted with her in notes hidden in paperbacks. And if they did, it didn’t last longer than a single spark. But Ava had come back. Again and again. And Beatrice had replied. Again and again.

She ran a finger along the edge of the note, then tucked it into her cardigan pocket like a secret worth keeping.

---

That night, her handwriting came slower. She wasn’t used to writing like this. Not to someone. Not about feelings. Even light ones.

But she folded her reply carefully, slipped it into the next day’s copy of Little Women, and tried not to think about how long she stayed awake wondering if Ava would come in to find it.

---

> Jo broke Laurie’s heart and then gave him to Amy like he was a spare coat. I will fight you on this.
P.S. If you ever bring that muffin, I promise not to let you chicken out.

Chapter Text

Beatrice didn’t open the book right away.

She shelved it behind the counter, spine out like normal. But something about it—Persuasion—lingered in her mind all afternoon. Ava had left it on the edge of the classics cart, and when Beatrice picked it up, her thumb had landed on the exact spot that Ava always marked: somewhere in the middle. Always intentional.

She had started to notice.

Page 112 in Jane Eyre? The moment Jane tells herself she isn’t a bird in a cage.
Page 73 in Little Women? The first hint that Jo is in love with Laurie and too stubborn to name it.
And now: page 159 in Persuasion.

She flipped to it after closing. Slipped the folded receipt free and read it, carefully, like it might fade if she touched it wrong.

> Black coffee, books, and Jane Austen? You’re lucky I’m already halfway in love with you.
P.S. You don’t have to write back. But I hope you do.

She let the note sit in her hand. Ava was bold like ink on skin. Beatrice... was not. But Ava never pushed. Just left things behind—words, jokes, the ghost of a muffin—and waited.

Page 159. "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope."

It wasn’t coincidence. Not anymore.

Beatrice swallowed.

She turned the page, read the line again, and let the silence of the shop settle around her like a heavy coat. She didn’t know what this was yet. But it was something. And that something had a warmth she hadn’t let herself hope for in a long time.

---

Beatrice wrote her next note slowly.

She didn’t want to say too much. But she didn’t want Ava to stop, either.

> I think you know what this page means. And I think you know I’m going to write back anyway.
P.S. I don’t regret the muffin.

She paused.

Then—carefully, deliberately—she wrote something else beneath it.

> P.P.S. Your handwriting is worse than mine. I find that strangely comforting.

She folded the receipt and placed it in The Secret Garden, page 45.

It wasn’t Austen. But it was hers.

Page 45 — the moment when Mary first hears something alive behind the wall.

Chapter Text

Ava wasn’t planning to stop by that day.

She had work. Laundry. A mild hangover from a party she’d barely wanted to attend. But something about staying away—not checking the shop—made her restless.

So she went.

No plan. No new note in her pocket. Just her heart thudding with something stupid and soft as she pushed the door open and let the chime ring out over the quiet.

Beatrice was behind the counter, sorting through a box of old hardcovers.

Ava hovered near the entrance. “Hey.”

Beatrice glanced up, brushing her fingers across the top of a spine. “Hey.”

That was it.

Simple.

Still, Ava felt like she’d been hit with something warm and weightless. It filled her ribs in a way that scared her a little.

She didn’t linger long in the greetings. Just wandered through the store, pretending she didn’t know exactly where she was going.

Children’s classics.
Middle shelf.
Third row.
The Secret Garden.

She hadn’t touched this book since she was nine and someone told her girls who liked flowers were weak. But something about it—Beatrice choosing this—made her hands feel a little shaky as she pulled it free.

Page 45.

Her fingers slipped into the fold of the spine like muscle memory.

> I think you know what this page means. And I think you know I’m going to write back anyway.
P.S. I don’t regret the muffin.
P.P.S. Your handwriting is worse than mine. I find that strangely comforting.

Ava choked on a breath that felt like laughter, but deeper. Softer.

She knew the passage on page 45. Mary, discovering the robin. The hint of something behind the wall. The beginning of everything blooming.

Ava pressed the note to her chest for a second. Just to feel it.

Then she closed the book, slid it back in place, and made her way to the counter like someone walking a tightrope.

Beatrice looked up, lips twitching.

“Did you find it?”

Ava nodded. “You don’t regret the muffin. And I officially feel called out about my handwriting.”

Beatrice tilted her head. “Should I take that as encouragement to continue?”

Ava leaned on the counter, grinning. “God, yes. Please do.”

They stood there for a moment—no notes, no Austen, no page numbers between them. Just two girls in a quiet shop pretending this didn’t already mean something.

Finally, Ava said, “Tell me your favorite book. I’ll try not to make fun of it.”

Beatrice blinked. “Why?”

“So I can leave the next one there. Thought we could upgrade from anonymous classics to slightly more personal ones.”

Beatrice hesitated. Ava almost backed off—but then Beatrice said, voice low and certain:

“The Bell Jar. Sylvia Plath.”

Ava raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t peg you for the spiral-into-madness type.”

“I like precision,” Beatrice said. “And women who are angry quietly.”

Ava smiled, slow. “Good answer.”

She left the shop ten minutes later with a crumpled receipt in her hand and a wild idea brewing in her chest.

---

That night, she found her own copy of The Bell Jar and flipped until the spine gave. She found the page. Page 70 — the moment Esther Greenwood looks around the room and realizes everyone wants her to want something she doesn’t.

Ava scribbled the next note without thinking too hard. Sometimes, the truth was easier when it was folded up and left behind.

> I think I understand this book better than I wish I did.
Also: you terrify me just a little. In a good way.

She paused. Then added, in smaller script:

> P.S. What would you do if I asked to take you out for coffee—with or without a muffin involved?

She folded the note. Slipped it in.

Then left it behind, heart pounding, and tried not to dream of flowers blooming through walls.

Chapter Text

Beatrice didn’t check the shelves immediately.

She told herself she wouldn’t — that she’d wait until closing like always. But Ava had been in that morning, cheeks pink from the wind, and had left without buying anything. That usually meant a note.

She let herself look by late afternoon.

The Bell Jar was right where it should be. Page 70.

She could already feel it — the slight weight of the folded receipt inside, just thick enough to feel like a heartbeat between the pages.

She unfolded it, slowly, sitting on the floor between shelves like it was an ordinary thing to do.

> I think I understand this book better than I wish I did.
Also: you terrify me just a little. In a good way.

Beatrice smiled — but it was quieter this time. Sadder, maybe. She knew that page. Knew it the way you know a scar. Esther, looking out at a world full of paths she couldn’t take, all while people smiled and told her to be grateful.

She ran her thumb across the paper. Then read the last line.

> P.S. What would you do if I asked to take you out for coffee—with or without a muffin involved?

Her breath caught.

She read it again, then folded the note and tucked it between the pages, pressing it like a flower that might otherwise wilt.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she worked the rest of the day in silence, distracted and restless in a way she didn’t know how to name.

By closing, she still hadn’t written back.

She took the book upstairs to her little apartment above the shop, set it on her nightstand, and stared at it like it might answer the question for her.

---

She didn’t sleep much.

The next morning, she brewed a too-strong cup of coffee and sat at the tiny kitchen table that looked out over the street. It was foggy. Quiet. The kind of day that blurred at the edges.

She opened the note again. Touched Ava’s handwriting like it was something living.

Then she wrote:

> I think about saying yes more than I should.
And I never say yes. But—maybe. If you ask again, I might.

P.S. I don’t think I terrify you. I think I surprise you. There’s a difference.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then folded it carefully and, when she opened the shop an hour later, placed it in Persuasion again — page 199, this time. The last letter. The one that said everything without saying it out loud.

She told herself she didn’t care if Ava came back.

But when the doorbell rang that afternoon and she heard Ava’s laugh before she even saw her — she knew she’d lied to herself completely.

Chapter Text

Ava didn’t expect a reply.

That was the truth.

The note she left in The Bell Jar had been half a joke and half a dare. The part of her that scribbled that final line—What would you do if I asked to take you out for coffee—never expected it to be met with anything other than silence. A boundary, maybe. The quiet closing of a book.

But the bell above the door rang that afternoon, and Beatrice was behind the counter, and she looked up when Ava entered like she had been waiting.

And Ava—well. She lost all her chill in a matter of seconds.

Her smile came late. Slower than usual. There was something different in the air. Not heavy, not bad. Just charged.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Beatrice answered. Her fingers hovered over a closed hardcover like she’d just set it down. “Back again?”

“I heard there was a very rare edition of Persuasion floating around,” Ava replied, stepping closer. “The kind with extra commentary.”

Beatrice quirked a brow. “Sounds like a collector’s item.”

“I brought my wallet and everything.”

She said it like a joke. But her hands were already moving—reaching for the copy on the display table, sliding it open to page 199. She didn’t make a show of it. She just read. Quiet. Focused.

> I think about saying yes more than I should.
And I never say yes. But—maybe. If you ask again, I might.
P.S. I don’t think I terrify you. I think I surprise you. There’s a difference.

Ava blinked.

Twice.

Then closed the book slowly, like it had teeth.

She looked up at Beatrice, who was watching her now—not hiding behind shelving or counters or careful detachment. Just looking.

“Okay,” Ava said softly.

Beatrice tilted her head. “Okay?”

“I’m asking again,” Ava said, voice steadier this time. “Would you like to get coffee with me?”

Beatrice didn’t smile right away.

She just stepped around the counter and stood in front of her, all stillness and slow-blooming tension.

“I get off at five.”

Ava swallowed. “Cool. I’ll come back.”

“Bring a coat,” Beatrice added. “It gets cold down by the pier.”

A beat.

“You want to walk?”

Beatrice shrugged. “I want to say yes.”

Ava laughed—quiet, unsure. “Then say it.”

Beatrice didn’t. Not yet. But she reached out and tapped the spine of Persuasion.

“I already did.”

---

That evening, Ava came back. Wearing the too-warm coat she usually hated. She waited by the door until Beatrice locked up.

Neither of them mentioned books or letters or page numbers.

Not that night.

They just walked, side by side, down quiet coastal streets, past shuttered shops and salt-stained windows, Ava’s sleeve brushing Beatrice’s hand once, then again—until, finally, Beatrice let their fingers tangle. Softly. Like a bookmark left in place.

And just like that, the story turned.

Chapter Text

They didn’t talk much at first.

Well—Beatrice didn’t talk much. Ava tried not to talk too much, which, of course, meant she absolutely did.

“This town smells like seaweed and cinnamon,” Ava said within the first few blocks. “Which I didn’t realize was a thing until I moved here, and now I associate it with you, so congratulations, I guess. You smell like seaweed and cinnamon.”

Beatrice blinked. Said nothing.

Ava winced. “That was supposed to be a compliment.”

Beatrice’s mouth twitched like she might be smiling.

“You know,” Ava continued, hands shoved in her pockets now, “I rehearsed, like, ten possible conversations we might have. Things like, ‘So how long have you worked at the shop?’ and ‘Do you alphabetize by author or title?’ But now I’m just out here comparing you to baked goods and coastal decay. I’m really doing great.”

Still, Beatrice didn’t interrupt. She just walked beside her with that same quiet presence, like she was listening to more than just the words.

When they reached the boardwalk, Ava started again, voice bouncing over the lull of the waves.

“My mom used to say I talked because I was scared of being boring. Or maybe it was because I didn’t want anyone else to talk first and ruin the moment. Isn’t that so dumb? Like, I’d rather say something stupid than let someone else say something worse.”

Beatrice finally spoke. “I don’t think that’s dumb.”

Ava paused. “No?”

“I think you fill in the silence because no one ever taught you how to feel safe inside it.”

That shut her up for a solid five seconds.

Which, for Ava, was impressive.

They sat on a bench looking over the sea. Ava’s foot bounced a little. She kept her hands in her pockets, not trusting them not to do something awkward like reach for Beatrice’s hand or touch her coat sleeve.

“You’re good at that,” Ava said after a while. “Reading people. Saying one thing that feels like it explains everything I’ve been trying to say for years.”

Beatrice shrugged. “You say enough for both of us. I just listen.”

Ava chuckled, breathless and warm. “I do talk a lot, huh?”

“Yes,” Beatrice said. “But it’s… kind. I like it.”

Ava smiled at the sea.

They didn’t kiss that night. Ava thought about it, sure. But something told her not to rush. For once, she didn’t have to fill the space between moments.

At the shop door, Beatrice paused before going in. “If you write again… leave it in Jane Eyre. Page 124.”

Ava tilted her head. “Let me guess. Something devastatingly romantic?”

Beatrice’s lips curled into the smallest of smiles. “Something honest.”

Ava grinned. “Then I’ll leave it in all caps.”

Beatrice stepped inside. The door closed with a soft chime.

And Ava, for once, walked home quietly—heart thumping, pockets full of things she didn’t say.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Ava showed up before opening hours.

She peeked through the front window like a teenager casing a crush’s house, hoodie strings drawn tight, fingers curled around the folded square of notebook paper burning a hole in her jacket pocket.

She was not nervous. Or, okay, she was. But in that wired, sparkling, someone-might-be-listening kind of way.

The Jane Eyre copy sat halfway down the second aisle. Hardback. Worn red cloth over spine. No dust jacket. Page 124 marked with a paperclip someone had left in ages ago.

She slipped the note in and whispered, “Good luck,” like the book might cough if it choked on the paper.

It read:

> You picked the letter scene? Of course you did.
You would fall in love through letters. I should’ve known.
I’ve never had anyone want to know me slow before. I’m used to crash-and-burn things. People like the version of me that’s funny and quick and always one step ahead of being honest.

But you…
You read like someone who’s never rushed anything in her life. And that terrifies me in the best possible way.

So yes. Let’s go again. Talk again. Write again. Whatever this is.

P.S. I’m already writing the next one in my head.
P.P.S. Please don’t stop surprising me.

She closed the book gently, patted its spine like it might understand, and left the shop as quickly as she came — before Beatrice could catch her in the act, before she could say too much out loud and ruin the lovely slowness of it all.

That evening, she came back like she hadn’t been there twelve hours earlier.

The door chimed.

Beatrice looked up from the register. Her eyes flicked, just once, toward the aisle where Jane Eyre lived.

“Good book?” Ava asked casually.

Beatrice just nodded.

But something had changed between them—something warm, and open, and unmistakable. Ava wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but she found herself rambling again, this time softer, filling the air between them like an offering.

“Did you know Brontë wrote that scene in one sitting?” she said, stepping closer. “The letter. She was apparently sick in bed and just poured it out. Like it had been sitting in her chest the whole time.”

Beatrice nodded again, that same small almost-smile.

“She’d been building to it,” she said. “It was always going to be that page.”

Ava looked at her, then, for real. “Yeah,” she said. “It had to be.”

And Beatrice, for the first time since the notes began, reached forward first—just to brush her fingers against Ava’s hand. Nothing more.

But Ava stopped talking.

For once.

And in the quiet that followed, something bloomed that had nothing to do with paper or ink or punctuation.

It was just them.

Finally turning the page.

Chapter Text

Ava couldn’t sleep that night.

She tried. Really. She did the whole tossing-and-turning thing, the open-a-window thing, even the drink-warm-tea-and-stare-at-the-wall thing. But none of it helped, because her brain wouldn’t shut up.

It just kept replaying the way Beatrice’s fingers brushed hers. Like a secret. Like a promise.

And not even in a dramatic, swoony way. Just in the way that mattered.

It was such a small touch, but it lit up every nerve in her hand like her palm had a memory of its own.

She ended up at the kitchen table in the early hours, writing.

Not a note. Not exactly.

Just words. Sentences. Fragments.

Beatrice was always saying things that felt like they had weight. Ava talked to fill space; Beatrice spoke like silence was a language all its own. But Ava was beginning to learn how to sit with that silence — and more than that, how to listen.

She scribbled:

> There’s a kind of quiet I only feel around you. It’s not empty. It’s not lonely. It’s just… calm. And I think I’ve been chasing that my whole life without knowing what it was.

She didn’t sign it.

Didn’t even know if she’d leave it.

But she folded it anyway, tucked it into the inside pocket of her coat.

---

The next day, she walked into the shop with no plan.

Beatrice looked up from the counter like she was already expecting her.

Ava froze halfway between the door and the poetry shelf. “Are you psychic?”

“No,” Beatrice said simply, “You just always show up when you’re thinking too loud.”

Ava groaned. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re carrying something.” Beatrice’s voice was soft but sure. “Not a book.”

Ava reached into her coat.

Hesitated.

Then laughed nervously and pulled out a folded scrap of paper.

“I don’t even know if it’s for you,” she admitted. “I mean. It is. But it’s not polished. It’s not—clever. Or whatever the other ones were.”

Beatrice just held out her hand.

Ava gave it to her.

And then she bolted. “Okay bye—gonna pretend this never happened,” she said as she backed out the door. “Tell Jane Eyre I said hey!”

---

Beatrice didn’t read it right away.

She waited until the end of her shift, with the shop emptied and the sun slanting long shadows across the hardwood floors.

She unfolded it at the back desk. The handwriting was messy. Sleepy. Real.

> There’s a kind of quiet I only feel around you. It’s not empty. It’s not lonely. It’s just… calm. And I think I’ve been chasing that my whole life without knowing what it was.

She read it twice.

Then turned off the shop lights, locked the door, and went upstairs to her tiny apartment.

She left the note under her pillow.

Just for the night.

Just to keep it close.

Chapter Text

Beatrice hadn’t written to anyone in years.

Not really. Not since she was a teenager, pressed against the side of her childhood bed with a notebook balanced on her knees and too many feelings she didn’t know where to put. That girl had written things in the dark and torn them out by morning. Most of those pages never saw light.

But that morning, when the shop was still closed and the street below hadn’t quite woken up, Beatrice sat at the kitchen counter in her small apartment above the shop and stared at the folded note Ava had written her.

She had read it again before bed.

She had read it again when she woke.

There was something terrifying about being understood in so few words. Ava’s letter wasn’t poetic or careful — it was raw, like it had been pulled straight from her chest at three in the morning. And Beatrice knew what it cost to write like that.

So she found one of the blank bookmarks from the register drawer, sat down with a pen, and started to write.

Not much.

Just enough.

> You make noise like it’s a gift. Like silence is something you leave behind for others, not yourself. And yet—when you’re quiet, it feels like something rare.
I want to hear both.

I’m not used to people saying the thing before I even ask the question. But you do. And you don’t ask me to hurry. That’s new.

Let’s keep walking.
Let’s keep writing.

P.S. You’re not too much. You’re just real.
P.P.S. I think that’s what scares me most.

She didn’t sign it. She didn’t have to.

She left the letter in the paperback copy of Franny and Zooey, page 53 — not because it meant anything, but because it was the first page she opened to, and that felt like enough.

She didn’t tell Ava where to find it.

She wanted to see if Ava would wander. If she’d follow the breadcrumbs. If she’d keep looking, even without a map.

Beatrice liked that thought: being found without asking to be.

---

That afternoon, Ava showed up with windblown hair, headphones around her neck, and a half-eaten apple in hand.

She dropped the core in the trash and leaned on the counter.

“Hypothetically,” she said, “if someone were leaving a trail of cryptic bookmark notes in weirdly specific books, what would they recommend I look at today?”

Beatrice didn’t even blink.

“Fiction,” she said. “Second aisle. Top shelf.”

Ava disappeared behind the shelves without another word.

Beatrice listened to the creak of her boots on the old wood floor.

A soft gasp. Then a beat of silence.

Then, Ava’s voice, low and full of a smile:

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay, yeah. This is really happening.”

Beatrice closed her eyes.

And smiled back.

Chapter Text

The bookstore was quiet again. It always was around closing — the kind of stillness that settled into the cracks of the floorboards and the corners of the ceiling like dust.

Ava lingered near the register longer than she needed to. Her fingers trailed along the spines of books she wasn’t really reading. She was waiting. Or building up the nerve.

Beatrice was finishing her tally, pen tapping gently against the counter as she double-checked the drawer.

Ava cleared her throat once. Then again.

“Do you ever—” she started, then stopped. “Actually, that’s dumb.”

Beatrice looked up, brows raised. “You’ve said that before almost every sentence you’ve ever said to me.”

“I know.” Ava gave a sheepish grin. “You’d think I’d grow out of it.”

“Maybe it’s just your preamble.”

Ava laughed. “Okay, yeah, maybe. So… preamble incoming: I was thinking—after last time, you know, walking by the pier and all — which was honestly kind of perfect even though you barely spoke and I talked enough for both of us —”

“Ava.”

She stopped.

Beatrice gave her a soft look. “Ask.”

Ava exhaled slowly. “Would you want to go out again? With me? Like—not just walking. We could sit this time. At a table. Maybe even order food. Bold, I know.”

Beatrice didn’t answer right away. She just looked at her, as if measuring the shape of the question. And then — a small nod.

“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”

Ava blinked. “You would?”

“I wouldn’t say yes if I didn’t mean it.”

Ava’s smile bloomed slowly, then all at once. She leaned forward on the counter, chin in her hand. “See, when you say things like that, I start to believe you like me.”

“I do.”

“Oh.” Ava’s voice cracked a little on the syllable. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

Beatrice finally smiled. Fully, this time. “Pick a day.”

Ava pretended to think deeply. “Tomorrow. Or tonight. Or yesterday, if we can invent time travel before I leave.”

“Tomorrow’s fine,” Beatrice said, amused.

“Great. It’s a date. An actual one. I’m gonna wear something emotionally prepared for that.”

“You could show up in a blanket and still be fine.”

Ava flushed at that. Actually flushed. “Careful, bookstore girl, you’re gonna make me fall harder.”

Beatrice just turned back to her receipts. “That’s not my fault.”

But she was smiling.

And Ava left the shop feeling like the world might just be tilting slightly in her favor.

Chapter Text

Ava had never been nervous about dates.

She had been on plenty. Okay, not plenty, but enough. Enough to know how to flirt, how to keep the energy light, how to laugh at the right time. She was good at beginnings — loud, funny, easy to like. No one had ever accused her of being hard to talk to.

But this time was different.

This time, her hands wouldn’t stay still.

She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair towel-wrapped, half-dressed and staring at three wildly different outfit options laid out like they were stages of a mental breakdown. A flannel she wore when she felt brave, a vintage tee she wore when she felt safe, and a sweater that still smelled faintly of ocean air from their first walk by the pier.

She picked the sweater.

Then panicked and changed into the tee.

Then panicked again and pulled the sweater on over it.

“I’m fine,” she told her reflection, dragging her fingers through her damp hair. “Totally normal behavior.”

She had told herself not to overthink this — that it was just dinner. Just food. Just Beatrice.

But her brain didn’t care. Her brain was racing in loops, spinning every version of how the night could go — some soft, some awkward, some terrible, some so sweet they made her stomach flip.

She grabbed her jacket, the one with the inside pocket where she kept Beatrice’s notes, and patted it once. For luck. Or courage.

---

Meanwhile, Beatrice stood in the tiny kitchen above the shop, quietly boiling water for tea she probably wouldn’t drink. She wasn’t nervous in the way Ava was. She didn’t pace or talk to herself or change clothes three times.

She just… paused.

Let the water hiss. Let the kettle click.

Then she sat at the table, running her fingers over the edges of the note Ava had given her the day before. The handwriting messy. The paper soft from being folded and unfolded. Something about it steadied her.

She tucked the note back into Franny and Zooey before she left.

Downstairs, she locked the door, turned off the shop lights, and stepped out into the dusk.

The air smelled like salt and sun-warmed wood.

Ava was already there.

Leaning against the railing near the edge of the boardwalk, hair wind-swept, foot tapping, clearly rehearsing some joke she’d never say right.

She turned, saw her, and smiled like she meant it.

“Hey,” Ava called, walking toward her. “You came.”

Beatrice gave her a look. “You really thought I wouldn’t?”

Ava laughed. “No, I guess not. But I did consider the possibility that you were a very elaborate ghost I invented just to keep myself entertained.”

“Not a ghost,” Beatrice said. “But I do haunt bookstores.”

Ava stared at her for a beat. “Was that… was that a joke?”

Beatrice shrugged. “You’re a bad influence.”

Ava grinned. “I really am.”

They started walking, side by side again. Not touching. Not yet. But closer than before.

Ava felt her chest relax.

They didn’t need a letter tonight.

They were already writing something new.

Chapter Text

The restaurant wasn’t fancy.

It didn’t try to be — which was, in Ava’s opinion, the best kind of place to take someone who made your heart short-circuit if you thought about them too long. No white tablecloths, no candlelight illusions. Just string lights, grilled fish, a chalkboard menu, and waves crashing quietly just past the patio.

Beatrice glanced around as they stepped inside, her eyes darting briefly to the exit before settling on the small table in the back that Ava had clearly picked ahead of time. It had a view of the ocean and no other diners nearby.

“Strategic,” Beatrice said as they sat.

Ava grinned. “I panicked and made a reservation like a real adult. You’re welcome.”

“Impressive.”

“Wait until you see me try to pronounce half the wine list wrong. You’ll be swept off your feet.”

Beatrice let out a soft sound — almost a laugh, not quite — and opened her menu.

Ava pretended to do the same, but mostly just watched Beatrice from the corner of her eye.

There was something hypnotic about the way she moved — calm and focused and present, like every choice she made had been considered three times before she made it. Meanwhile, Ava could barely decide between pasta and panic.

When the server arrived, Ava ordered for them both, surprising herself. Beatrice raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue.

“Didn’t peg you for the type,” she murmured after the waiter left.

“What type?”

“The decisive type.”

“Oh no,” Ava said, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. “I googled the menu last night and rehearsed in the mirror.”

Beatrice blinked. “You’re serious.”

“Absolutely.”

Beatrice looked down, biting her lip, and Ava watched her shoulders shake a little with laughter.

It was her favorite sound in the world.

They fell into an easy rhythm after that.

Ava talked — about the pier, about the first time she ran away from home and ended up in a train station café with a broken shoelace and no plan. She told Beatrice how she once got locked in a library overnight and read Wuthering Heights by flashlight, out loud, just to feel less alone.

Beatrice listened — not just with her face, but her entire body. She was still, yes, but never distant. And when she finally spoke, it was always something Ava didn’t expect.

“I never liked that book,” Beatrice said after Ava finished the library story. “Wuthering Heights. Too much chaos. Too much ruin passed off as love.”

Ava blinked. “I never thought of it that way.”

Beatrice nodded. “You romanticize everything.”

“And you deconstruct everything.”

“It’s balance.”

They smiled at each other across the table, something warm and unmistakable curling between them.

After dinner, they didn’t go straight home.

They walked. Again.

Only this time, Ava didn’t speak.

Not at first.

The silence stretched between them, and for once, she let it. Let it breathe. Let it be sacred.

It was Beatrice who reached for her hand.

Quietly. Without announcement.

Just the brush of fingers, the slide of palms, until they were holding each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Ava?

She didn’t say a word.

She didn’t have to.

Chapter Text

They didn’t talk much on the walk back.

Not because there was nothing to say — Ava always had something to say — but because it didn’t feel necessary. The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward. It just was.

And somehow, that was more intimate than anything Ava could’ve imagined.

Their hands stayed clasped. Not tightly. Not like a claim. Just… steady. Present.

Ava kicked a little pebble down the sidewalk, watching it skitter ahead of them.

“You know,” she said eventually, her voice quieter than usual, “I used to be terrified of quiet.”

Beatrice glanced over.

“Not just uncomfortable,” Ava continued. “Like, heart-racing, stomach-sinking terrified. I thought if there was silence, people would realize I didn’t have anything real to say.”

Beatrice hummed softly. “And now?”

Ava looked at her. “Now I think… I just hadn’t found the right kind of quiet.”

They stopped in front of the bookstore.

The street was nearly empty. Just one streetlamp casting long shadows and the faint sound of the sea in the distance.

Ava turned toward her.

“This was nice,” she said, unsure suddenly what to do with her hands even though one was still in Beatrice’s.

“It was,” Beatrice said.

There was a long pause.

Ava opened her mouth. Closed it. Then blurted: “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Beatrice blinked. “Do you want to kiss me?”

“Yes,” Ava said, without hesitation. “But only if you—”

Beatrice leaned forward.

Just enough.

Just close enough that Ava could feel her breath when she spoke.

“Yes.”

That was all it took.

Ava’s free hand rose slowly, brushing against Beatrice’s cheek. She kissed her like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to, like it was something sacred and borrowed. Just a brush of lips, a question half-asked and finally answered.

When they pulled apart, Beatrice looked a little stunned. Her cheeks were flushed, but her gaze was steady.

Ava grinned, breathless. “Okay, well. That just happened.”

Beatrice let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “You really don’t know how to be subtle, do you?”

“Absolutely not.”

They stood like that for another second — close, close, close — and then Beatrice stepped back.

“I should go up.”

“Yeah,” Ava said. “Totally. Yeah.”

Neither of them moved.

Beatrice nodded once, then turned toward the door, keys already in hand.

Before she went in, she looked over her shoulder.

“Goodnight, Ava.”

Ava’s voice was soft.

“Goodnight, Beatrice.”

The door clicked shut.

Ava stood there a moment longer, just staring at it. Then she touched her lips, smiled like an idiot, and whispered to the empty street:

“Holy shit.”

Chapter Text

She stood behind the locked door for a long time.

Back pressed lightly to the wood. Eyes closed. Breath shallow.

Downstairs, the streetlamp outside cast a dull golden glow through the narrow window, spilling light across the bookshop’s quiet floor. From where she stood, Beatrice could still feel the weight of Ava’s hand in hers. Still feel the warmth of her fingers against her cheek.

Her lips tingled, not in a dramatic, movie-scene way — more like something remembered. The ghost of a kiss. The after-image of something she hadn’t dared to want.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t speak.

She just felt.

And it was terrifying.

Because Beatrice had spent most of her life building things: walls, order, silence, distance. A safe space in the world she could disappear into. She had learned how to go unnoticed, how to fold her feelings into the spine of a book and leave them shelved, untouched.

But Ava hadn’t let her stay hidden.

Ava talked like it was breathing. She existed in full color. She left notes in books and looked at Beatrice like she was worth listening to.

And now Ava had kissed her. Asked permission. Waited. Meant it.

Beatrice had said yes.

And she meant that, too.

She slipped off her shoes slowly, set them neatly by the stairs, then climbed to the small apartment above the shop — her steps soft, measured, as though anything louder might shatter the stillness she had sealed herself inside.

Once in her room, she didn’t turn on the overhead light. Just the small reading lamp on her desk.

She sat. Pulled her notebook toward her. Opened it to a blank page.

Then, with her usual pen — the one with ink just beginning to skip from overuse — she started to write.

> Ava kissed me tonight.
I said yes.
I didn’t stutter. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t run.

I didn’t think someone like her could ever be real. But she is. Loud and soft and everywhere at once.
I’m not used to being looked at like that.
Like maybe I’m enough without having to earn it.

She paused.

Bit the inside of her cheek.

Then kept writing.

> I want to see her again.
Not in passing. Not between shelves. Not as a habit. I want to know what it’s like to let someone in without the world unraveling.

I think it’s too late not to fall.
I think maybe I already have.

She stared at the words for a long time.

Then tore the page out.

Folded it once.

Then again.

Then slipped it into the back of her copy of Jane Eyre, between the pages she had underlined a decade ago.

A keepsake. A warning. A beginning.

She didn’t sleep easily that night.

Not because she was anxious.

But because her heart, for the first time in a long time, felt awake.

Chapter Text

The morning came slow, like honey in tea — quiet, golden, and inevitable.

Beatrice hadn’t meant to fall asleep at her desk, but when the first bit of light cracked through the curtain seams, it found her curled on the small armchair in the corner, wrapped in a blanket she didn’t remember fetching. Her notebook rested open on her lap, though the pages were blank again — the written confession tucked safely away in Jane Eyre, just as vivid and unnerving as the moment she’d written it.

She sat there for a while, watching the light creep over the floorboards. The city was waking — not all at once, but in layers: birdsong, car horns, someone walking a dog just below her window. Familiar sounds, but today they felt distant, like she was listening from underwater.

She stretched slowly. Took the time to breathe. Then padded down the stairs barefoot, her cardigan slung loosely over her shoulders.

The shop was still locked. The street still mostly empty.

And then—

A knock.

Gentle. Not urgent.

She paused.

The world narrowed.

Then another knock. Softer this time.

Beatrice crossed the small space, heart tapping unevenly against her ribs. She hesitated only briefly before undoing the latch and pulling the door open.

There was Ava.

Hair barely brushed, wearing a hoodie over a dress like she’d thrown on the first things she saw. Holding two coffee cups and a brown paper bag.

She grinned, sheepish.

“Hi.”

Beatrice blinked. “Hi.”

Ava held out one of the cups. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be up yet. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you and... I don’t know. This felt less intense than texting ‘I miss you’ before breakfast.”

Beatrice took the coffee wordlessly. Their fingers brushed again.

Ava stepped inside when invited, looking around the quiet bookstore like it was something sacred. Then she pulled the bag open and offered its contents without fanfare. “I guessed what you’d like. But I could be completely wrong and that would be deeply embarrassing.”

Beatrice glanced down. A scone. One she hadn’t had since university. Slightly lemony. Light glaze. Soft interior with just the right bit of crumble.

She looked up.

Ava raised an eyebrow. “Okay, the silence is killing me. Did I get it wrong?”

“No,” Beatrice said softly. “You got it exactly right.”

Ava’s face lit up — a mix of triumph and relief. “Hell yes. Intuition game strong.”

Beatrice smiled, barely.

“How did you know?” she asked, voice quieter than she meant.

Ava shrugged, eyes warm. “I didn’t. I just... paid attention.”

That answer sat heavy in Beatrice’s chest. Heavier than it should have.

They moved toward the counter without another word, coffees between them, sunlight filtering lazily through the windows. The morning hadn’t asked anything from them. It simply offered this — small, warm, steady.

And Beatrice, still barefoot, still unsure, let herself lean against the counter beside her.

Not quite touching.

But close.

A page turned somewhere in her chest. Quietly. Willingly.

Like something had finally begun.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day passed with a kind of gentle hush to it, as though the world knew better than to intrude. Customers drifted in and out of the bookstore like they were part of a slowed film reel — soft voices, polite smiles, no rush. Beatrice watched it all from behind the counter, Ava nearby, lounging in the overstuffed chair with a book in hand and one leg slung over the armrest like she’d always belonged there.

It should have felt invasive. It didn’t.

It felt like something else entirely.

By late afternoon, Ava was thumbing through poetry, occasionally reading a line aloud like a secret too lovely not to share. Beatrice found herself listening more than working, her eyes darting up every time Ava’s voice softened on a certain phrase.

Then, as the light shifted gold again and they started to close up, Ava stood beside her at the door, holding a broom in one hand and offering it like a peace treaty.

“Let me help,” she said. “I promise I’ve swept before.”

Beatrice didn’t argue. She simply handed over the dustpan, and they worked in an easy, wordless rhythm — brushes against floorboards, sleeves brushing by accident.

When they finished, Ava leaned her hip against the bookshelf and grinned. “So. What do you say we make a habit of this?”

Beatrice tilted her head. “Breakfast drop-ins?”

“Well, yeah,” Ava said, mock-serious. “But I was thinking... a little broader.”

Beatrice blinked.

Ava stuffed her hands into her pockets and rocked back slightly on her heels. “I mean, you and me. Spending time. Not just in bookstores. Though, bonus points if there are always scones.”

Something tugged behind Beatrice’s ribs. That careful ache of wanting.

She hesitated, then said, “You want to date?”

Ava looked at her like she was the only thing in focus. “I want to know you.”

That, more than anything, undid her.

Beatrice nodded. Once. Then a second time, slower. “Okay.”

Ava lit up like it was the first morning of spring. “Okay.”

They lingered in the doorway, night beginning to spill across the pavement outside. Neither of them said anything else. They didn’t need to.

When Ava finally turned to go, she looked back once — eyes lingering.

Beatrice watched until she vanished down the street.

Then she turned the lock.

And leaned her forehead briefly against the door.

The scone was gone. The coffee, cold.

But her chest was warm.

And tomorrow, she knew, would come golden again.

Chapter Text

Their next date was quiet by design.

Ava suggested the botanical garden — “Because plants are like books, but slower,” she’d said, grinning through the phone — and Beatrice, after a pause just long enough for Ava to start backtracking, murmured a yes. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but when she arrived, Ava was already there, waiting near the entrance with a crumpled paper bag and two iced lemonades sweating in the heat.

“I brought snacks,” she said, sheepish. “I didn’t want to assume, but you strike me as someone who eats on a schedule.”

Beatrice blinked. “That is… correct.”

They wandered slowly through the shaded paths, the air thick with damp soil and the green hush of growing things. Ava talked more than Beatrice did — that much had become natural — but she did it gently, like conversation was something she was offering, not demanding. Her hand brushed Beatrice’s once, twice, before she gave in and laced their fingers together without a word.

Beatrice didn’t pull away.

They sat beneath a tree shaped like an open umbrella, its wide branches mottling the sunlight. Ava pulled the paper bag from her tote and offered up what was inside: two simple sandwiches and a small container of strawberries, already sliced.

Beatrice looked at the fruit, then up at Ava.

“I never told you I liked these.”

Ava shrugged, her grin lazy. “You didn’t have to.”

There it was again — that low ache in her chest, familiar now, not unwelcome. Beatrice took a bite and didn’t ask how she’d known. She didn’t want to ruin the magic by naming it.

After a while, they lay back on the grass, side by side. Beatrice let her eyes fall closed, listening to the hum of distant bees, the rustle of leaves, and Ava’s soft breathing. It felt like time had bent a little, offering them this — a small, perfect moment with no demands, no sharp edges.

“Hey,” Ava whispered at some point, her voice drifting like birdsong. “What if we just stayed here a while?”

Beatrice didn’t open her eyes. She just nodded.

And Ava, for once, said nothing more.

Chapter Text

The beach wasn’t crowded. Late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the sand, and the tide moved slow, like it was taking its time deciding whether to stay or go. Ava had picked the spot — a quiet strip just outside the city, far enough that the usual bustle gave way to sea breeze and birdsong.

Beatrice stood at the edge of the sand, her shoes in one hand, her other shading her eyes as she looked out at the water. The wind tugged at the hem of her linen shirt, tousled strands of her hair. She wasn’t sure why she’d said yes to this. Maybe because Ava had asked so softly. Maybe because something inside her had shifted the day Ava offered to sweep the bookstore, like the floorboards weren’t the only thing being cleared.

“Hey,” Ava called from a few feet away, her voice light, teasing. “Are you going to stand there looking majestic all day or are you coming down here?”

Beatrice turned, a small huff of breath escaping her. “You dragged me to the beach. I reserve the right to be mildly dramatic about it.”

Ava grinned, barefoot and already half-buried in the warm sand, her jeans rolled to the knee. She held out a hand. “Come be dramatic over here, then.”

Beatrice walked toward her, slowly, the sand cool in some places and sun-warmed in others. She took Ava’s hand — without thinking, then not letting go.

They walked like that for a while, fingers laced, their footsteps side by side and leaving a single, uneven trail behind them. The conversation was soft. Silly at times. At others, quiet. Just the sound of the waves threading between words.

At one point, Ava let go only to crouch and gather a handful of seashells. She held up a small, curved one, pink and white, and said, “This one reminds me of you.”

Beatrice raised a brow. “I’m not sure how to take that.”

“It’s elegant. A little sharp on the edges. Hard to find unless you’re paying attention.”

Beatrice looked away before she could smile too much. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You like that about me.”

She didn’t deny it.

They sat down eventually on a blanket Ava had tucked into her bag, some local takeout between them and the sun dipping low enough to turn the water gold. Beatrice ate slowly, but not cautiously. Ava kept making her laugh. Not loudly — just in small, surprised bursts that she didn’t even realize were hers until they were out in the open.

After, when the sky had softened to lavender and the moon began to rise, Ava stretched back on her elbows, looking up.

“You know,” she said, “I used to come here when I felt like the world was too much. Something about the ocean makes it all feel... not smaller. Just... manageable.”

Beatrice glanced sideways at her. “Do you feel like that now?”

Ava met her gaze. “No. Not anymore.”

Something stilled in Beatrice’s chest. She reached out, slow and careful, and took Ava’s hand again, thumb brushing over her knuckles.

They didn’t kiss. Not yet. The air between them was full — not with hesitation, but with the weight of everything unsaid and unfolding.

Later, when they stood to go and the sky was nearly dark, Ava offered her jacket, even though Beatrice said she wasn’t cold.

“You’ll wear it anyway,” Ava said with a wink. “Just to be polite.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes, but slipped it on. The sleeves were too short.

It smelled like salt and sunlight and something quietly Ava.

She wore it all the way home.

Chapter Text

The city had fallen into that hush just before midnight — not quite asleep, but softer. Streetlamps flickered to life along Beatrice’s street as Ava pulled up to the curb in her sputtering little car, the headlights brushing against the brick of the building. They sat there in the quiet for a moment, neither moving to open the door.

Beatrice was still wearing Ava’s jacket, zipped halfway, her arms tucked into the sleeves like she might be reluctant to give it back.

Ava glanced at her sideways. “You know, you don’t have to rush out. I can wait until you’re inside.”

Beatrice smiled faintly, a little tired around the edges. “And risk you driving off before I say thank you properly?”

“You already thanked me,” Ava said. “Four times, in fact. Once during dinner, twice when I gave you the extra fries, and a very dramatic one when the tide chased us off the rocks.”

Beatrice gave her a sidelong look. “That was not dramatic. That was a tactical retreat.”

Ava grinned. “Still. I liked today.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It settled warm between them, something easy. Beatrice’s gaze dropped to where their hands were resting close on the console between them — not touching, but almost.

“I liked it too,” she said, quietly. Then, before she could lose her nerve, “I like being with you, Ava.”

Ava looked at her fully then, all the teasing gone from her expression, replaced with something softer, steadier.

“You do?”

“I wouldn’t have stayed this long if I didn’t.”

A beat passed. Then Ava leaned forward, not quickly, not with any urgency — just a slow shift of breath and body, as though asking without needing to say anything.

Beatrice met her halfway.

Their lips brushed first like a question, one that Beatrice answered by tilting her face just slightly, deepening the kiss into something firmer, more certain. It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. It lingered — sweet and warm and just a little trembling with the weight of it.

When they parted, their foreheads touched.

Ava was smiling. “Hi,” she whispered.

Beatrice let out a breath, barely a laugh. “Hi.”

Neither of them moved.

Eventually, Ava said, “You can keep the jacket tonight, if you want.”

Beatrice nodded, eyes still closed. “I do.”

And she wore it all the way up the stairs, still carrying the taste of Ava’s lips and the sound of her laughter like a secret she wasn’t quite ready to share with the world yet.

Chapter Text

Beatrice shut the door to her small apartment, the latch clicking into place like the final line of a sentence she didn’t quite want to end. She stood there for a moment in the quiet, her back against the wood, her fingers lifting almost without thought to touch her lips — just the bare tips brushing over them.

The tingling was still there. The warmth. That feather-light, certain press of Ava’s mouth against hers.

A smile began at the corner of her lips and took its time, unfolding slow and steady until it had settled over her whole face. She shook her head a little, as if to herself, as if she could believe it better that way.

Still wrapped in Ava’s jacket, she let her steps carry her through the dim apartment, past the shelves and the worn rug, into her bedroom. The small table nook waited for her there, tucked beneath the window where the city light spilled in faintly.

She sat down, slipping her notebook from the neat stack beside the lamp.

The pen felt heavier than usual in her hand, but her thoughts moved easily — bright and unspooling — as she began to write.

She wrote about the way Ava’s laughter had carried over the waves, about how her hand had felt warm even through the salt-chilled breeze, about the stubborn way she’d offered Beatrice her fries as though it was a matter of principle. She wrote about the sunset — not just the colors, but the way Ava had looked at it like it was worth slowing down for.

And then she wrote about the kiss.

Not in detail, but in feeling — the stillness inside it, the way everything else had dropped away, the startling truth of wanting and being wanted in the same breath.

When she paused, the page was half full. Her hand ached faintly from writing. But she didn’t close the notebook just yet. She let the pen rest in the crease, looking out the window at the quiet street below.

The jacket still smelled faintly of Ava’s perfume — something warm and a little sharp, like citrus in sunlight.

Beatrice thought she might sleep in it tonight.

Just this once.

And so she did — curling into bed still wrapped in Ava’s jacket, the sleeves a little too short, the fabric soft and worn in all the right places. She slept without realizing she’d left the curtains open, the city night slowly shifting into pale morning beyond the glass.

The sunlight woke her gently, brushing across her face in warm, gold stripes. She blinked against it, squinting for a moment before remembering why she’d forgotten to draw the curtains at all.

She’d been too deep in thought.

Too wrapped in the echo of Ava’s laugh, the softness in her eyes, the weight of the truths that had slipped between them in the quiet moments — unplanned, unforced, like the tide pulling in and out.

Beatrice lay still, the scent of Ava’s perfume still faint on the collar, the jacket’s weight a reminder of last night. She touched her lips again without meaning to, and there it was — that faint, impossible tingling, as though a single kiss had rewired her entirely.

It astonished her, in a quiet, terrifying way, how life could tilt so sharply in just one moment. How someone could step into your days, speak a handful of truths, and suddenly you were seeing the world in sharper focus.

She closed her eyes again, but not to sleep. Just to let it all settle.

And for the first time in a long time, the thought of what might come next didn’t feel like something to guard against.

It felt like something to reach for.

Chapter Text

Ava watched through the rearview mirror as Beatrice’s door closed, the soft click echoing louder in the quiet night than it should have. She kept the engine running, her hands resting on the wheel, feeling the weight of the evening settle deep into her chest.

That kiss replayed in her mind—gentle, deliberate, a tether thrown across the space they’d both been circling for so long. It wasn’t flashy or frantic; it was patient and true, like something both fragile and fierce at once.

Ava’s fingers twitched on the steering wheel, the memory of Beatrice’s lips still warm on hers, the way her fingers had hesitated before brushing Ava’s hand. She smiled to herself, a little breathless at the thought of how quiet and bright it had felt all at once.

She wanted to stay longer. To keep talking, laughing, to hold Beatrice just a little more. But the world outside that door was quiet now, and Beatrice needed space—needed the small apartment she’d made her own, the sanctuary she had carefully built.

Still, Ava wanted to be part of that space.

The thought pulsed like a promise, steady and sure.

Tonight had been more than a date. It was a beginning.

A beginning she didn’t want to rush, but also one she couldn’t wait to explore.

Ava took a slow breath, turned off the engine, and looked up at the dim streetlight.

Tomorrow was coming, bright and new.

And she’d be ready.

-

The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains as Ava’s phone buzzed gently on the bedside table. She blinked awake, the memory of last night’s kiss still warm on her skin.

After a quick shower and hurried breakfast, Ava texted: Coffee? There’s a new place that just opened downtown. Thought it might be worth a try.

Beatrice’s reply came almost instantly: I’d like that.

They met outside the small café, its windows steamed with the scent of fresh brewing. The place was bright and welcoming, with plants hanging from the ceiling and soft indie music weaving through the air.

Ava watched Beatrice’s eyes light up as she took in the space—the worn leather chairs, the stacks of well-loved books by the counter.

They ordered two lattes, and Ava couldn’t help but grin when Beatrice accepted her scone offer without hesitation this time.

Sitting side by side at a small table near the window, they let the city wake around them, the hum of life filling the spaces between their conversation.

There were no grand declarations—just quiet moments shared over warm coffee, laughter threading through the air like sunlight.

And Ava felt, with a steady certainty, that this was exactly where she was meant to be.

And once they went back to Beatrice’s bookshop.

Ava stood outside the narrow staircase that led up to Beatrice’s apartment, heart thudding with a mix of nerves and something softer—something like hope. The worn wooden steps creaked under her feet as she climbed, each one carrying her closer to a space that had been Beatrice’s sanctuary long before Ava stepped into her life.

At the top, Beatrice’s door stood closed, simple and unassuming. Ava reached out, fingers brushing the cool brass knob before she gently pushed it open.

The apartment was small, yes, but it felt alive—like a story waiting to be told. Soft light filtered through sheer curtains, casting a warm glow over shelves lined with books, notebooks stacked neatly beside a reading lamp, and the faint scent of paper and vanilla that made Ava’s chest tighten in a way she couldn’t quite name.

Beatrice moved beside her, barefoot and calm, closing the door behind them with a soft click. Her eyes flickered nervously but held steady as she gestured toward the cozy nook by the window.

“Make yourself at home,” Beatrice said quietly.

Ava smiled, stepping further inside, letting the warmth of the space wrap around her like a promise.

For the first time, she wasn’t just visiting—she was part of something real, something fragile and beautiful. And she wasn’t ready to let go.

Their kiss began slow and deliberate, each movement measured and meaningful, as if they were savoring every second of the moment. Maybe it was the quiet intimacy of Beatrice’s space—her apartment, her sanctuary—that made everything feel safe enough to deepen, to let go.

Hands found each other hesitantly at first, then with growing certainty, tracing paths over familiar skin and new territory alike. The world outside melted away as they drifted together, fingers entwining, breath mingling, until they moved inside Beatrice’s bedroom without breaking the kiss.

The soft glow of the reading lamp cast gentle shadows around them, wrapping the room in warmth and quiet magic. Beatrice’s heart swelled in a way she hadn’t expected, caught between the tenderness of the moment and the thrilling unknown of what was unfolding.

She couldn’t have pictured a more perfect night if she tried.