Dawn seeped through the workshop's newly polished windows, slanting over the workbench where Ella hunched, squinting at a brass pocket watch. Its gears were rusted, its face scuffed—a relic from a customer who'd heard "White & Black" was reopening and dropped it off with a note: "My grandfather's. Worth more than he knew."
Sebastian leaned against the doorframe, watching her. She'd swapped her paint-splattered overalls for a faded blue shirt, the cuffs rolled up to reveal smudges of oil on her forearms. The nightingale key he'd given her dangled from a chain around her wrist, glinting when she twisted a screwdriver.
"Trouble?" he asked, pushing off the frame.
She didn't look up. "The balance wheel's bent. Too much pressure—someone tried to force it closed instead of letting it breathe." Her voice softened, almost to the watch itself. "Clocks don't like being rushed."
He huffed a laugh, pulling up a stool beside her. "Neither do you."
Ella finally glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Neither do you. Remember when you tried to assemble that bookshelf in an hour and snapped the dowel?"
"One time," he muttered, but his eyes were warm. He nodded at the watch. "Can you fix it?"
"Not today. But by next week? Sure." She set it aside, brushing her hands on her shirt. "We need to pick a date for the opening. Dad's been calling—he wants to bake pastries for the day. 'Grand opening tradition,' he says."
Sebastian tensed, just slightly. Ella noticed—she always did. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just… thinking about the guest list." He paused. "Chloe's mother sent a card. 'Hoping to celebrate the new venture.'"
Ah. The remnants of his old world, knocking again. Ella reached for his hand, his calluses rough against hers—from gripping paintbrushes, not just contracts, these days. "We can say no. It's our opening."
"I know." He laced their fingers together. "But… maybe it's good. Let them see. Not the 'shadow' or the 'tyrant'—just us. Fixing clocks. Burning pastries, if your dad has his way."
Ella laughed. "He will burn them. He's terrible at baking. Mom always said his scones could double as doorstops."
Sebastian smiled, but his gaze drifted to the corner, where a dusty box sat—Isabella's old journals, found in a closet at the castle last week. He'd hesitated, then handed them to Ella. "You should see them. Not… as a ghost. As a person."
She hadn't opened them yet. Not ready. But now, she nodded at the box. "Maybe after the opening. When we're… settled."
He squeezed her hand. "Whenever you're ready."
A clatter from the back made them jump—Ethan, balancing a ladder on his shoulder, grinning like a fool. "Heard 'opening date'—count me in. I'll bring the crowd. Half the town still owes me for fixing their radios."
Ella raised an eyebrow. "You mean 'half the town still glares at you for accidentally rewiring their toasters'?"
"Semantics." Ethan set the ladder down, nodding at the watch on the bench. "Tough case?"
"Nothing she can't handle." Sebastian's tone was casual, but there was pride in it—unmissable.
Ethan winked at Ella. "Softie."
"Shut up," Sebastian muttered, but he didn't let go of Ella's hand.
Later, as the sun dipped low, Ella stood at the workbench, tracing the outline of the new sign propped against the wall: "White & Black, Clockmakers." The paint was fresh, the letters crisp.
Sebastian came up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist. "What are you thinking?"
"About the first clock I ever fixed. A cuckoo clock, from Mrs. Higgins down the street. Its bird got stuck mid-song—just 'cuck-' forever." She laughed. "I cried when I finally got it to sing. Dad said I'd 'found my rhythm.'"
He kissed the top of her head. "You found it again. Here."
She turned in his arms, meeting his eyes. "We did."
Outside, a streetlamp flickered on, casting light through the windows—on the half-painted walls, the tools lined up on the bench, the box of journals in the corner, waiting.
The past wasn't gone. But it wasn't the boss, either.
"Next week," Ella said, sure. "Let's open next week."
Sebastian smiled. "Next week."
And somewhere, in the quiet of the workshop, a clock began to tick. Steady. Unrushed. Ours.