Alia woke to the smell of cinnamon.
Not strong, not artificial—real cinnamon, mixed with burnt toast and what she could only assume was a hopeful attempt at coffee. She turned under the blankets, blinking at the soft, gray light streaming through the attic window.
Micah was not in bed.
But she could hear him humming.
It was low and tuneless and completely off-key.
She smiled into the pillow.
For the first time since returning from New York, she didn't feel caught between worlds. There was no guilt, no split heart. Only this moment, this sound, this room that smelled like memories and beginnings at the same time.
She padded downstairs barefoot.
The sight waiting in the kitchen was both hilarious and heartbreakingly sweet.
Micah stood in a too-long apron, one sock on, hair a disaster, holding a pan with something vaguely pancake-like stuck to it. There was flour on his jaw. His face lit up the second he saw her.
"Happy First Real Date Day," he said.
She blinked. "That's a thing?"
"It is now." He dropped the pan into the sink with an unapologetic clang. "You deserve a day that doesn't start with poetry or unpacking boxes or putting out bookstore fires."
"And it starts with… burnt pancakes?"
"I was going for rustic," he said with a smirk.
Alia crossed to him and kissed the flour off his cheek. "Let's call it charmingly terrible."
---
They spent the next hour wandering through the market stalls just outside Eastcliff Square.
It was Saturday, which meant local honey jars, knit mittens, herbal teas with names like Moonlight Gut Cleanse, and old men selling records from crates. Micah bought her a faded copy of Blue Valentine on vinyl, even though neither of them owned a record player.
"I just like how sad she looks," he said, holding up the cover. "It's very us, circa six months ago."
Alia rolled her eyes. "We were never that tragic."
"You were literally living above a haunted bookstore."
"Fine," she said. "Tragic adjacent."
He grinned and took her hand.
They walked like that—fingers laced, laughter trailing behind them, stopping for mini donuts and cider—until their hands were sticky and warm, and the weight of the past felt a little more behind them.
---
At the beach
Later, they wandered down to the shoreline. The tide was low. The sky was that soft silver-blue that only existed in small towns at the edge of nowhere.
Alia tugged off her boots and walked barefoot along the sand. Micah followed, holding both their coats, watching her like someone memorizing a scene he didn't want to forget.
She spun once, arms wide, wind catching her hair.
"This feels unreal," she said.
Micah smiled. "What part?"
"Being happy." She shrugged. "I thought maybe I was only built for the kind of love that hurts. The kind that ends in poems and sleepless nights."
He walked up beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence but not enough to steal her space.
"And now?"
She looked at him.
"I think maybe this is the poem I was trying to write all along."
Micah's eyes darkened with something soft, something heavy.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded napkin. On it was a rough sketch of the typewriter. Beneath it, in his handwriting, were the words:
> Some love isn't loud.
Some love just stays.
She stared at it.
"That's beautiful," she whispered.
"It's yours," he said. "I wrote it after you fell asleep last night."
She tucked it carefully into her pocket.
And in that moment, she felt it—something inside her rooting. Deep. Permanent.
Not the kind of love that explodes. The kind that remains.
---
Evening fell slowly.
They went to a tiny restaurant that Micah insisted had "the best oysters on the East Coast." Alia didn't even like oysters, but she ordered them anyway because he looked so proud when they arrived.
They clinked glasses over candlelight.
Talked about everything and nothing.
Plans for poetry nights. A community writing group. Turning the attic into a real creative space.
At one point, Micah reached for her hand and said, "You know, I don't remember what it felt like before you."
And Alia replied, without hesitation, "I think I was just waiting to become this version of myself."
He stared at her like she was made of constellations.
And for a while, it felt like the world might actually let them have this.
---
Until they got home.
There was a white envelope taped to the bookstore door.
No name. No stamp. Just a single piece of paper inside.
Micah opened it under the porch light.
His shoulders tensed before he even spoke.
"What is it?" Alia asked.
He handed it to her silently.
> NOTICE OF PROPERTY SALE — 60-DAY NOTIFICATION
Dear Tenant,
As per Article 14 of the lease agreement, we inform you that the property located at 14 Wicker Street (Whittaker's Bookshop) is under final review for external sale. Pending inspection and legal transfer, the new ownership will determine lease renewal terms or vacate options within 60 days.
You will be notified when a decision is made.
— Briar & Lathmore Legal, on behalf of the estate of Robert Halstead
Alia's breath caught.
Micah stood perfectly still, the way people do when they don't want their bodies to betray their thoughts.
"Your uncle?" she whispered.
He nodded once. "He still owns the building. This… this is his final card."
Alia folded the letter slowly, careful not to crumple it even though her hands were shaking.
"He waited until we let our guard down," she said.
"Exactly when he knew we would," Micah replied.
---
Upstairs, the attic felt colder.
Micah sat on the edge of the bed, reading the letter again, even though there was nothing new in it.
Alia paced slowly, arms wrapped around herself.
Sixty days.
Two months.
Two months until they either fought for the store again—or lost it entirely.
"It's not over," she said quietly.
Micah looked up.
"I know."
"We can fight this. We've done it before."
He gave her a small smile. "We didn't have much to lose last time."
"You mean—"
He set the letter down. "Now we do."
Alia crossed the room and sat beside him. Rested her head on his shoulder.
"You're not alone in this."
"I know," he said again. "And that's what scares me most."
She reached for his hand.
And in that silence, surrounded by everything they'd built together, they made a silent promise:
Whatever came next—they'd face it as one.
---
Later that night
Alia stood at the typewriter.
No new letter had appeared.
Just the one Micah had written earlier that morning—something short, something playful, still on the carriage:
> You and me. First real day.
Let's make it a thousand more.
She slipped in a new page.
Typed carefully.
> Even if the roof caves in.
Even if the ink runs dry.
Even if we lose the shop, the typewriter, the candles, the quiet—
*I'll still be here.
With you.
Always.*
— A.
She left the letter for him to find.
Then crawled into bed beside him.
And when he turned and pulled her into his arms, holding her like the answer to every question he never asked out loud—she let herself believe it.
Even if the storm was coming…
They were ready this time.
Together.