Shelved Hearts (Hearts of Willowrun #1)

Chapter 1

GABE

Pathetic.

A voice repeats in my mind as I stand by the window of my store, clammy palms pressed to the glass, eyes fixed on the corner of Main and Alder.

The coffee kiosk is parked where it always is on Tuesdays, bright lettering scrawled across the chalkboard menu, steam curling into the cool morning air. Micah doesn’t just do coffee; his specialty teas are my favorite—spiced vanilla, bergamot blends, and what I want most: lavender honey.

I haven’t made it over there in nearly two months now. But every Tuesday, I stand here. I watch with my heart in my throat. Most days, I push through the dead weight of exhaustion and anxiety weighing me down. I act normal, pretend everything is fine. But lately, it’s been getting harder.

My hand drifts, fingertips grazing the scar etched across my right cheekbone.

My skin tingles under the touch, raw even a year later.

I press the tips of my fingernails in, the pain grounding, making me feel something other than the hollow ache in my core.

I force myself to tear my hand away. I need to stop doing that.

The scar isn’t dramatic in its appearance. It’s a thin, pale crescent, slightly raised at the center where the cut was deepest, smoother at the ends where it fades into my face. Some days it looks almost silver. Other days—cold weather, touching it too much—it goes pink and tender.

I know what it looks like to others. A faint mark. A flaw you might not notice until you’re close. But sometimes someone’s gaze snags on it for too long, brows furrowing, head tilting. The joy and curse of small-town life, everyone knows your face, so when it changes…

The scar isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is what lives under it.

I watch as people move around the street, laughing and talking. Willowrun looks like something out of a postcard—old brick storefronts, painted in soft, weather-faded colors, lining a narrow main street.

It’s strange how the world outside can look so cheerful while something in me feels splintered. I curl my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms. I’m getting annoyed with myself now. I could just go over and grab a tea. It’s such a normal, everyday thing.

But… What if someone wanted to talk? What if they ask about the scar?

Worse… What if someone touched me?

My heart starts to thunder, anxiety flaring at the thought. Even a simple accidental bump, and there’s a high possibility I’d panic, I’d embarrass myself on the street in front of everyone.

Everyone would see. Everyone would talk. Everyone would realize how much of a mess I am.

My stomach flips. Heat prickles under my skin. I breathe through it, hoping this feeling of helplessness fades.

Avoidance is the safest option.

The smell of espresso drifts in when someone opens the door to my bookstore. My body leans toward the light, toward the chatter and warmth.

A soft brush of fingertips at my wrist jolts me. I turn to find Ciarán standing there, his expression caught between apology and concern, cerulean eyes searching mine.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, smiling sheepishly. “I called your name.”

I blink, I didn’t even notice him come in when the door opened, didn’t hear his voice, nothing but the roar of my own thoughts. My shoulders relax at the sight of him, though.

His hand drops, pastel pink nails catching the light. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” I murmur automatically, even though we both know he did.

Ciarán follows my gaze to the window. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t tease like he might about any other topic.

Instead, he tilts his head toward the shop counter.

“Come on. Grabbed pastries on the way. I can’t stick around long, I’m swamped working on this current project.

” I hear the excitement in his voice. He works as a literary editor and part-time event planner; he’s the go-to person in Willowrun when it comes to planning anything.

We move to the other side of the shop. Ciarán drops a paper bag onto the counter, pulling out two pastries, one already half gone.

“I was going to wait until I got here,” he says around a bite, “but patience isn’t one of my virtues.”

I arch an eyebrow as I lower myself onto the stool beside him. “You don’t have any virtues,” I tease. “What’s the book about?”

He grins, dark waves falling across his forehead, highlighting his olive-toned skin and shimmering cheekbones.

He’s much smaller than me, about a foot, but he’s all energy and restless movement.

He fills every space like he owns it—legs stretched out, rings glinting as he takes another bite.

He’s wearing a tight white cropped shirt, black tailored wide-leg pants, and a silver blazer.

I look down at my own outfit: Converse, faded jeans, a plain T-shirt, and one of my many cardigans that have seen better days, boring compared to him.

He has a confidence I could never achieve.

“I have virtues.” He pauses. “Can’t think of a single one right now, though,” he laughs, sliding the pastry across to me. “Queer romance. A lace-wearing villain who falls for the hero, it’s hilarious. Editing is nearly done.”

He nods at the pastry when I don’t immediately pick it up.

I take it, flakes scattering across the counter. I can’t remember when I last ate, maybe lunchtime yesterday? He does this regularly—shows up, checks on me without saying he’s here to check on me. It makes me feel cared for, but it also makes me feel like I can’t take care of myself.

Ciarán watches me for long seconds, then jerks his chin toward the front window. “You were staring pretty hard.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “I wasn’t—”

“Please.” His smile softens. “I know that look.”

Embarrassment swirls inside me. I don’t deny it. He knows me too well for me to even try.

“I could go with you,” he offers, casual but careful. “Stand in line, run interference. Easy.”

Easy. It should be easy. For someone normal, it would be easy. If he knew how bad things have been, he wouldn’t call it easy. But I’ve hidden so much from everyone, so of course he thinks that.

My hand tightens on the pastry. The thought of crossing the street, of standing in a line with strangers brushing too close, of their eyes sliding to the scar on my cheek—my stomach roils again.

I shake my head. “Not today,” I say in a whisper, feeling like I’m admitting some huge secret.

Ciarán shrugs lightly without pushing. “Okay. Then we sit here, and I eat half your breakfast if you don’t hurry up with it.”

The playfulness in his tone earns him a laugh from me, weak but real. I bring the pastry to my mouth and take a bite.

Ciarán leans back on the stool, delicately brushing crumbs from his fingers. I go to open my mouth, but close it again when my phone buzzes on the counter. I glance down to see a text from my brother. “Aiden’s on his way,” I murmur. “Wants to catch up.”

Ciarán exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. He balls up the pastry bag and drops it into the bin. “Guess that’s my cue.”

“You don’t have to go,” I say, though even to my own ears it sounds weak.

He tilts his head at me. “He barely tolerates me on his best days. I’m not in the mood today to sit here while he scowls at me.”

The words sting because it’s true. Ciarán’s been one of my best friends since we met in the first year of college, my anchor more times than I can count.

I’m closer to him than anyone else. But Aiden’s my brother, two years younger, and his dislike of Ciarán has always sat sharp between them.

One taunts with a grin, the other bites when pushed too far.

Oil and water, and I’m caught in the middle.

Ciarán notices the look on my face and gives me a reassuring smile.

“It’s not a big deal, I need to head off anyway.

” His grin turns wicked. “And don’t worry, I’ll be in the mood to torment him next time.

Text me later, we’ll do something during the week.

Abbie is desperate for a night away from her roommates. ”

I smile in return, looking forward to time with my friends, but before I can even answer, the door opens.

Aiden steps in, wearing his typical gym shorts and hoodie combo, black on black.

We’re clearly brothers, but he’s built broader from years of lifting, and slightly taller with eyes a darker green than mine.

Those eyes flick to me, then to Ciarán, still lingering by the counter. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring.

“Well,” Ciarán says blandly, smoothing down his outfit. “I’ll be off, then.”

He winks at me before slipping out the door.

I sigh as I watch him go. Aiden steps fully inside, adjusting his hoodie. He must have jogged here; sweat dampens his hairline, a few dark strands sticking to his forehead. I feel the cool February air clinging to him. He glances at the counter, at the half-eaten pastry, then back at me.

“Sorry, didn’t realize I was interrupting.” He sets a paper cup in front of me.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, fidgeting with the sleeve on the cup.

“Tea, from Kindle’s café.”

We share a small smile. Aiden’s always been like this—doing little things for me. Showing up with tea, fixing the shop door without being asked, small reminders that he’s always looking out for me.

Sometimes I feel guilty that he still needs to look after me so much, but he’s always been my protector. His status as younger brother never impacted that. I was always a shy and quiet kid, softer than most, and he constantly worried about me. That hasn’t changed over the years.

He leans an elbow on the counter, settling in like he’s been waiting to corner me. Green eyes catalog my face. “So, Gym opens next month.”

I nod. “I know. Everything going to plan?”