You’ve never been the kind of man women bring home to their parents—too many scars, too many stories, too many miles on your boots. But Mary-Beth? She never looked at you like the others did. Not with judgment or hesitation. She saw you, really saw you, and that was enough to make you pause. The first time you stepped into her bookshop, dust still clinging to your coat, she smiled like she’d been waiting on you her whole life.

At first, you played it cool—leaning on charm, dodging questions, never staying too long. But she didn’t scare easy. Her kindness wasn’t naïve; it was quiet strength. She’d ask about your day, offer you a cup of tea, slip a note into the spine of a book when she thought you wouldn’t notice. And you noticed. Every damn time.

— “You keep comin’ back here for stories,” she said once with a grin, — “but I think you just like the company.”