The next morning, Seraphina woke before the sun.
The air in her apartment felt thick, like grief had decided to curl up in her sheets overnight. She hadn't slept. Not really. The voicemail played on loop in her mind, Julian's voice stitched into her nerves like barbed wire.
"I miss you."
God. He made missing her sound like an act of love instead of guilt.
She stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair like it would tame the chaos in her chest. Her face looked foreign. Less like a woman in hiding now… and more like a woman afraid of being found.
---
The bookstore felt colder that morning.
Daphne greeted her with two almond croissants and a look that said girl, you're not fooling anyone.
"Long night?" she asked.
Seraphina nodded, sipping her latte too fast. "I didn't sleep well."
"You know there are these magical things called melatonin gummies—"
"I didn't sleep because my past tried to FaceTime me at 1 a.m."
Daphne blinked. "Ex?"
Sera nodded.
Daphne didn't pry. She just slid over a wrapped muffin and said, "If you kill him, I'll hide the body."
---
Rowan came in around noon. Too early to be casual, too late to be innocent.
He looked good, which annoyed her. Black hoodie. Beanie. That half-smirk that made women question their values.
"You look tired," he said.
"You look like a hipster lumberjack," she replied.
"Touché."
He didn't press. Not yet. Just helped stock the travel memoir section and hummed under his breath like they were in some indie film and not two deeply broken people pretending to be fine.
But later—alone in the back room, surrounded by book returns and bad lighting—he turned to her.
"Talk to me."
"No."
"You're shaking."
She was. Hands trembling just enough to give her away.
He reached out to steady her, and she flinched.
"Sorry," he murmured.
She looked away. "I got a voicemail."
"From him?"
She didn't answer. Didn't need to.
Rowan ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Why didn't you block him?"
"Because part of me still wants to hear him say sorry. And part of me wants him to suffer."
Rowan exhaled hard. "That's not healing, Sera. That's just bleeding slower."
---
That night, she stayed late again, alone. She shelved books like they'd hold her up if she cracked. Every creak in the floorboards felt like footsteps from the past.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
"I'm in town."
Just three words. That's all it took.
Her blood turned to ice.
She dropped the phone.
Julian.
He was here.
---
The next morning, Rowan found her in the poetry section, sitting on the floor, glassy-eyed and distant.
He crouched next to her, picked up a book from the pile—The Collected Poems of Anne Sexton—and didn't say anything for a while.
Finally: "You need to tell me what's going on."
She handed him her phone.
He read the message. His jaw clenched. "Do you want me to deal with him?"
The way he said it—like it wasn't a question but a promise—made something shift in her.
"No," she said. "I don't want anyone else fighting my ghosts."
Rowan nodded. But there was something different in his eyes now. Not just care. Not just attraction.
Protectiveness.
And God, that scared her more than Julian ever had.
Because when someone wants to protect you, you start believing you're worth protecting.
And she wasn't sure she could survive believing in love again.
---
That night, after closing up, Seraphina opened the bottom drawer of her nightstand for the first time in three months.
She pulled out the wedding folder.
All of it was still there. Guest lists. Calligraphy samples. Vows she'd handwritten on rose-pink paper. A photo of her and Julian, laughing in a field like they were living someone else's dream.
She took out a lighter.
Stared at it.
She wanted to burn it. She should burn it.
But instead, she closed the drawer again.
Because she wasn't ready to erase the evidence.
Not yet.