chapter 2
792 Words
**Chapter 2: A Slow Kindling**
The morning after their meeting on the beach, Elena found herself staring at her half-finished painting, the colors now dull in the flat light of day. She touched the edge of the canvas where the sunset had bled into the horizon, remembering the way Liam had looked at it—like he could see something deeper in her strokes, something even she hadn’t intended.
She exhaled sharply and stepped back.
*Why does it matter what he thinks?*
But it did.
---
Liam’s bookstore, *The Mariner’s Compass*, was exactly as he’d described—sandwiched between a bakery and a florist, its windows stacked with weathered classics and new releases alike. The bell above the door chimed softly as Elena stepped inside, the scent of old paper and vanilla wrapping around her like an embrace.
She hadn’t planned on coming.
But then again, she hadn’t planned on lying awake last night, replaying the way his voice had curled around her name.
*Elena.*
The shop was quiet, save for the distant hum of a jazz record spinning in the back. She trailed her fingers along the spines of the books, letting the texture of the bindings ground her. Poetry, travelogues, a few well-loved volumes on art history.
Then, a familiar voice.
“Looking for something in particular, or just browsing?”
She turned.
Liam stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a pencil tucked behind his ear. His smile was slow, knowing, as if he’d been expecting her.
Elena’s pulse flickered. “Just browsing.”
“Liar.”
She laughed despite herself. “Fine. Maybe I wanted to see if your taste in books was as good as your taste in sunsets.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “And?”
She tilted her head, considering. “It’s… acceptable.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, but his eyes sparkled. “I’ll have to try harder, then.”
---
He made her tea—Earl Grey with a splash of honey, exactly how she liked it, though she hadn’t told him. They sat in the back of the shop, nestled between towering bookshelves, as the morning light filtered through the front windows.
“So,” Liam said, stirring his own cup, “why painting?”
Elena wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic. “It’s the only time my mind goes quiet.”
He nodded, as if he understood. “And what does it usually say?”
“Too much.” She traced the rim of her mug. “Mostly that I should be doing something more practical.”
“Practical is overrated.”
“Says the man who owns a bookstore in a town with a population of two thousand.”
He grinned. “Exactly. I’m an expert in impracticality.”
She rolled her eyes, but her chest felt lighter.
---
The hours slipped away unnoticed. They talked about everything and nothing—her fear of open water, his irrational hatred of celery, the dog-eared copy of *The Odyssey* he’d carried with him through three countries. At some point, Liam pulled a book of poetry from the shelf and read to her, his voice low and textured like well-worn leather.
*"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul."*
Elena’s breath caught.
Their eyes met, and for a suspended moment, the air between them hummed with something unspoken.
Then the bell above the door chimed, breaking the spell.
An elderly woman shuffled in, asking for a recommendation, and Liam stood, shooting Elena an apologetic glance. She waved him off, but the absence of his presence beside her was suddenly, acutely noticeable.
She finished her tea, now gone cold.
---
As she stood to leave, Liam caught her wrist—just for a second, just long enough for his thumb to brush the delicate skin there.
“Come back,” he said, voice low.
It wasn’t a question.
Elena swallowed. “Maybe.”
His fingers lingered a heartbeat longer before letting go. “I’ll be here.”
---
Outside, the sun was high, the air thick with the scent of freshly baked bread from the neighboring bakery. Elena walked slowly, her mind still tangled in the quiet of the bookstore, in the weight of Liam’s gaze.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from her sister: *How’s the seaside escape treating you?*
Elena hesitated, then typed: *I think I’m in trouble.*
Because trouble was the only word for the way her pulse jumped when she thought of him.
Trouble was the only word for how badly she already wanted to see him again.
**End of Chapter 2.**
- Writer
