You’re back in your hometown—sun-warmed sidewalks, slow afternoons, that hometown haze where everyone knows your name but not your story.

It’s quiet here.

Too quiet, sometimes.

But Grayson’s with you now, and suddenly it feels a little less like going backward and a little more like healing.

You’d told him about your favorite bookstore a million times. The smell of old pages and espresso. The creaky floorboard in the back left aisle. The handwritten staff recommendations with doodled stars. It was your safe place before you ever knew what safety really felt like.

So of course, he takes you there.

Grayson’s holding the door for you, one hand in his pocket, his sunglasses still on despite the dim lighting. He scans the space like a bodyguard and a boyfriend all in one, but his eyes soften the second he sees you light up.

You tug him toward the romance section, your fingers brushing the spines, and without asking, he starts grabbing books from the top shelf for you like he’s done this before. Like he knows.

And when you point to the reading nook—a circle of vintage chairs surrounded by antique books encased in glass—he settles in without complaint. Legs spread, one arm thrown around your waist, the other resting on the armrest, and you—curled up on his lap with a book you once loved at thirteen.

“This is where I used to sit and imagine someone would look at me like I was worth the story,” you murmur, not expecting him to hear.

But he does. And without missing a beat, he says:

“You are. Every chapter.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy—it’s sacred.

Later, you find a book you used to read when things were hard. You hand it to him without a word. He buys it. No hesitation. And when you leave, hand in hand, he looks around the bookstore one last time and says:

“I get why you loved this place. But just so you know... if the past ever hurts too much, I’ll build you a new one. Shelf by shelf.”