Chapter 35 Ava
Chapter thirty-five
Ava
It’s been two weeks since someone vandalized my shop.
Two weeks since I stepped onto that sidewalk and saw the shattered glass, the slashed shelves, and those blood-red words screaming from the wall.
I still see it when I close my eyes—YOU DON’T BELONG TO HIM.
I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Who did this? Who hates me enough to break something I’ve poured my heart into? Someone with a grudge? A ghost from the past? Or worse—someone I don’t even know?
The shop looks almost normal now, thanks to Elijah.
He didn’t just show up for me—he stayed.
Every day. Every night. He brought in the team and hired professionals to clean up the mess, replace the door, repaint the walls.
The books that could be salvaged were carefully sorted and re-shelved.
The others… Well, I still can’t talk about those without my throat tightening.
Eventually, we had to report it. The police came, asked their questions, filled out their forms—detached, clinical. It wasn’t enough to catch whoever did it, but it satisfied the insurance company. Of course, we left out the most important detail: the stalker.
That part is being handled by the Kingston brothers.
They don’t talk about what they’re doing, not in front of me. But I know they’re pulling every string they have behind the scenes. I see the looks they exchange when I’m in the room. The tension in Elijah’s shoulders when his phone lights up with one of their names.
And through it all, Elijah has been... Elijah.
If it’s even possible, he’s been more devoted, more protective, more tender.
It’s like this whole thing pulled something fierce out of him—something primal.
He hasn’t let me sleep alone once. He texts every few hours when we’re apart.
And every night, when we fall asleep in his bed, I feel like the only safe place left in the world is wrapped in his arms.
I know he’s worried it might be someone from his past. He hasn’t said it outright, but I can feel it.
There’s guilt in his silence sometimes. A flicker in his eyes when he thinks I’m not watching.
But I don’t believe it.
We’ve been friends for four years. We’ve shared coffees and sarcasm, grief and laughter. In all that time, I never once felt unsafe around him or because of him. Whatever this is—it’s not about his past.
It 's about me.
And whoever it is, they’re not finished. Not yet.
In all this time, I’ve only been back to the store a handful of times.
Just enough to make sure the space is still standing, to feel the pulse of it under my fingertips—even if it’s quieter now.
Mia has taken care of everything else. The day-to-day, the customers, the deliveries.
She stepped in without hesitation, without waiting to be asked.
I’m so lucky to have her. Honestly, I’m lucky with all my friends.
They’ve become family in the truest sense.
They’re there when I need them—and sometimes even when I don’t realize I do.
It’s like they can see right through me, through the “I’m fine” smiles and the silent panic behind my eyes.
They help because they want to. Not because they’re keeping score.
Not because they expect anything in return.
I still remember the first time my mom met Mia.
God.
It was during Pride Month, and Mia—of course—had her hair dyed in a full, glorious rainbow. She walked into the store like a burst of sunlight, tattoos on display, glitter eyeliner catching the light, grinning ear to ear.
And within minutes, she was recounting how she’d been offered a threesome the night before.
My mom looked like she was about to faint on the spot.
"Ava," she hissed, eyes wide with shock, her pearls practically rattling, "how could you even think of hiring someone like that?"
I couldn’t stop laughing. Still can’t, when I think about it.
I told her what I’d tell anyone: Mia is a phenomenal employee.
Despite what people might assume from her bold appearance or her unfiltered mouth, she’s one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I know.
She’s warm with customers, gentle with kids, and fiercely loyal.
She’s honest, hardworking, and would take the shirt off her back if someone needed it more.
Which is more than I can say for some of the daughters of my mother's friends she insists to compare me to—the ones who obsess over the newest Hermès bag but wouldn’t notice the elderly woman across the street struggling to carry her groceries.
That woman? Mia’s helped her more times than I can count. So have the guys from the tattoo studio. No one asks them to. They just do it.
Because that’s who they are.
And I’m proud—so proud—to call them mine.
My phone buzzes against the counter.
Mother
I stare at the screen for a second, debating whether to answer. I already know this isn’t going to go the way I need it to. But something in me still hopes—foolishly—that maybe this time will be different. Maybe she’ll just ask how I’m feeling, or say she’s sorry this happened.
I swipe to answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, Ava,” she says, voice tight. “I just heard what happened. The store—vandalized?”
The question is there, but it feels like punctuation. Not real concern. More like a formality before she gets to her point.
“I’m okay. Shaken, but okay.” I try to keep my voice steady, but I already feel it slipping. “Elijah’s been amazing. And Mia’s holding down the store, so—”
“Well, that’s just it,” she cuts in. “Don’t you think this is a sign?”
My heart drops.
“A sign of what?”
“That it’s time to let this little bookstore go,” she says, like she’s trying to sound gentle. Like she doesn’t know she’s driving a knife between my ribs. “Find something stable. Safer. A normal job with benefits, maybe in an office. This whole thing—it’s dangerous, Ava. It’s not worth it.”
I blink, stunned into silence. Not even a that must’ve been terrifying, or I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Just straight to quit.
“Mom,” I say slowly, “the store is my life. You know that.”
“It’s a shop, Ava. You sell books. And clearly, it’s attracting the wrong kind of attention. Maybe it’s time to grow up and move on.”
Grow up.
The words hit harder than they should.
I glance around Elijah’s apartment, trying to ground myself. Trying not to cry. Again.
She doesn’t understand. She never has. Not about the store, not about Mia, not about me.
I tighten my grip on the phone. “I have to go. Thanks for checking in.”
Before she can respond, I hang up and set the phone face down.
The silence afterward is louder than her voice. But at least it’s mine.
And in this silence, I let myself feel what I couldn’t say to her: anger, hurt, disappointment… but also defiance.
Because she’s wrong.
The store is more than bookshelves and paper. It’s mine. And I’m not letting it go.
I sit there for a long moment, staring blankly at the phone like it might apologize.
But of course it doesn’t.
A sharp ache pulses behind my eyes, the kind that comes from holding back too much emotion for too long. I swipe at the corner of my eye with the sleeve of Elijah’s hoodie—because that’s what I’m wearing now, practically every day. His clothes. His space. His steadiness.
And still, my world feels like it’s being held together with thumbtacks and strings.
She called the store my “little shop.” Like it’s a lemonade stand.
Like it’s not the place I built from the ground up with nothing but grit and a dream.
Like I didn’t pour my savings, my soul, and years of 12-hour days into it.
Like it’s not the first place I’ve ever felt truly like myself. A bitter laugh escapes me.
My mom only sees the surface. Appearances.
Stability in the form of desk jobs and healthcare plans and men with clean-cut resumes.
She doesn't see that some people, people like me, need meaning more than we need a 401(k). That the store isn’t just my career.
It’s my purpose. It’s where I feel useful and seen.
It’s where people come in lost and leave with stories that change them.
It’s where I met Mia, Sophia, and Elijah.
God, Elijah.
Just the thought of him makes my breath catch. As if on cue, I hear the soft sound of the door and then the familiar weight of his footsteps crossing the apartment.
He finds me curled on the couch, still clutching my phone like it might bite.
His brows draw together instantly. “Princess? What's wrong?”
The tears I’ve been holding back start slipping free before I can even speak.
He doesn’t ask why I'm like this. He’s across the room in seconds, down on one knee in front of me, cupping my face with hands that are strong and steady and safe.
“She called,” I whisper.
He doesn’t have to ask who. “What did she say?”
“That I should quit. That the break-in was a sign to grow up and move on.” My voice cracks. “Like the store is a phase. Like I’m a phase.”
His jaw ticks, his hands tightening slightly at my jaw before relaxing. “She’s wrong,” he says, low and certain.
I nod, but it’s a weak, wobbly thing.
He pulls me into his arms, pressing me tight against his chest, one hand on the back of my head and the other stroking slow, soothing lines down my spine.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs. “You hear me? I’ve always been proud of you. The store, the way you’ve handled everything, even now, when you’re scared, you’re still standing. You’re still fighting.”
I bury my face in his shirt, breathing him in, trying to let his words settle somewhere deep.
“You don’t have to be everything all the time, Ava,” he whispers. “You don’t have to hold it all together for everyone. You can fall apart with me. I’ll hold you.”
I nod again, and this time it feels real.
This is what my mother will never understand. This is what she doesn’t even know to hope for. This feeling of being known, not just for what I do, or how I look, or who I impress, but for who I am when I’m cracked and tired and honest.
This is love. Not the performative kind. The real kind.
I pull back just enough to look him in the eyes, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“Thank you… for not letting go of me.”
He kisses my forehead, then my temple. “Never.”
And just like that, the world stops spinning. Not forever. Not completely.
But for now, here, in his arms—it’s peaceful.
He shifts us gently, pulling me onto his lap like I weigh nothing, like I’m not curled in on myself and frayed at every edge. One arm wraps around my waist, the other strokes my hair with a patience that undoes me more than anything else could.
I tuck my head under his chin, letting the steady beat of his heart ground me.
“I just wanted her to say she was proud,” I whisper.
Elijah is quiet for a moment, then: “I know.”
“She didn’t even ask if I was okay.”
“Because she’s not capable of giving you the kind of love you deserve.” his voice soft.
Those words strike somewhere deep and unsteady in my chest. Because he’s right. And it still hurts.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, princess.”
I feel the words pushing up from where I keep all the things I don’t say. “Sometimes I feel like I’m too much. Like I ask too much. Feel too deeply. Break too easily.”
His arms tighten around me. “No. You’re not too much. The world just doesn’t always know what to do with something real.”
I pull back slightly, just enough to see his face.
“I’m trying to be okay,” I admit.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m going to help you get there. However long it takes.”
There’s something in his eyes—something fierce and vulnerable all at once—and it makes my throat close up.
“Elijah, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He smiles, but there’s nothing casual in it. “Luckily, you won’t have to find out.”
I lean in and kiss him—soft and slow, more gratitude than heat. But he kisses me back like I’m made of something rare, something precious. Like nothing else in the world matters except the feel of my mouth on his.
When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against his. “Can we just stay like this for a while?”
“As long as you need, princess.” His thumb brushes along my cheek. “You’re safe now. We’ll face whatever comes next—together.”
And even though I don’t know what the next day will bring, for the first time in a while, I believe that maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to go through it alone.