Seraphina's world keeps pulling her toward Rowan, despite every instinct screaming to stay detached. When a late-night encounter at the beach turns unexpectedly intimate, her armor begins to crack. But shadows from her past start to bleed through—unanswered calls, old wedding photos, and a gut-deep fear that love will always come wrapped in betrayal.
---
Willow's End had a way of breathing different after dark.
The sea whispered in waves that didn't dare crash, the streetlights hummed like lullabies, and the bookstore—The Rusted Spine—turned into a sanctuary of candlelight, jazz, and memories that didn't ask questions.
Seraphina stayed late that night. Daphne had gone home hours ago, and the "Fix-It Night" wine bottle sat half-empty on the counter.
Rowan was still there.
Not fixing. Not talking. Just sitting on the floor between two shelves, flipping through a weathered copy of Les Misérables like it held answers instead of heartbreak.
She glanced down at him from behind the counter. "You always read in corners like a stray cat?"
Rowan looked up, crooked grin in place. "Only in buildings that feel haunted."
"You think this place is haunted?"
"I think you are."
Her breath caught. Just for a second. She masked it with a sip of wine.
"I'm not haunted," she said. "I'm private."
He nodded slowly. "Same thing, sometimes."
---
They didn't talk for a while. Just sat with the silence—him flipping pages, her pretending to read.
Eventually, he broke it.
"You ever been in love, Seraphina?"
She didn't answer. Not right away.
Then: "Yes."
He closed the book. "Did he break you?"
She stared at him. No pretense now. No walls.
"Yes," she said quietly. "And I let him."
Rowan leaned back against the shelf, arms folded across his chest. "You strike me as someone who doesn't let anyone do anything they don't want to."
"I thought it was love," she whispered. "But it was just... well-tailored manipulation."
He didn't ask for details. He didn't need to.
Instead, he said, "You know what the worst part of betrayal is?"
"What?"
"It convinces you that your instincts are wrong. That you can't trust yourself anymore. And that's how they win. Even after they're gone."
That hit too close. Too real.
She got up. Walked outside. Needed air. Space. Something other than his words echoing in her ribcage.
---
The beach was quiet. Moonlight scattered like silver shards across the tide.
She kicked off her shoes, stood at the edge where the waves licked the sand, and let herself feel it—the grief, the regret, the betrayal. All of it.
She didn't hear Rowan follow her until he was standing just behind her, hands in his coat pockets.
"You always run away when it gets real?" he asked.
She didn't look at him. "You always chase women into the ocean?"
"I don't chase," he said. "But I do follow."
Something about that made her turn. Face him. Eyes to eyes, dark to darker.
Rowan stepped closer. Just a breath away.
"You don't scare me, Sera," he said. "Not your silences. Not your anger. Not your ghosts."
She blinked. "You should."
"Why? Because you're complicated?"
"No," she whispered. "Because I don't know how to feel safe anymore. And I don't trust people who pretend like that doesn't matter."
He reached out, not to touch, just to be there.
"I don't need you to feel safe with me. I just need you to not lie to yourself."
---
They sat in the sand for what felt like hours. He told her about Montana—about the cabin he grew up in, the father who drank too much, the sister who left at sixteen and never came back.
"I've been angry a long time," he said. "Didn't realize it was grief."
Seraphina listened, hands buried in her sleeves, head resting on her knees. It felt oddly peaceful—this trade of damage under the stars.
She almost didn't notice when her phone buzzed.
One missed call.
Unknown number.
Her blood turned to ice.
It buzzed again. Voicemail.
She didn't open it.
Not yet.
But she knew.
Julian.
The past never knocked. It just barged in.
---
Back in her apartment that night, alone under the weight of everything she hadn't said, Seraphina played the voicemail.
"Sera… I know you don't want to hear from me. I get it. But I—I saw the photos online. You left. You disappeared. And I just… I just want to talk. Please."
Silence.
Then a whisper, barely audible:
"I miss you."
She ended the message.
Deleted it.
Then stared at her reflection in the dark window, unsure if the tears in her eyes were from anger… or the hollow ache of almost believing him again.