41. Jonas
Chapter Forty-One
Jonas
I've been planning this for two weeks. It needs to be right.
I stand in front of my closet, staring at shirts like they matter.
They don't. Not really.
But tonight feels important.
Not because I'm trying to impress her. She's already ours. Has already chosen us.
But because I want her to understand something: I see her. Not just the surface. Not just the fear or the running or the careful walls she's built. I see who she's becoming. Who she's always been underneath.
And I want her to know that.
I pull on a dark sweater. Jeans. Nothing fancy. This isn't about impressing. It's about being present. I grab my keys and the stack of books I've been collecting, then head downstairs.
The drive to the café is quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just anticipatory. I pull up outside just as she's locking the door. She turns. Sees me. Smiles.
Gods, that smile.
She walks over and slides into the passenger seat.
"Hi," she says softly.
"Hi."
She glances at the back seat, at the stack of books.
"What's all this?"
"You'll see."
She studies my face for a moment, then settles back into her seat. Trusting. That does something to me. Something I don't have words for.
The bookstore is dark when we pull up. Kaia frowns slightly.
"Are they...closed?"
"Yeah."
"Then…"
I hold up a key.
Her eyes widen.
"You have a key?"
"The owner's a friend," I say. "He lets me use the space sometimes…when I need quiet."
Kaia's expression shifts. Softens. "You brought me somewhere you go when you need quiet?"
"Yeah."
She doesn't say anything. Just looks at me like she's trying to figure out what that means.
I get out of the car, scoop up the books, and walk around to open her door. She takes my hand, steps out, and follows me inside.
The bookstore smells like paper and old wood and something faintly floral. Lavender, maybe. The lights are low. Warm. Golden.
Kaia stops just inside the door, looking around. "Jonas..."
"Come on," I say quietly.
I lead her through the aisles, past fiction, past poetry, to the back corner where the café sits.
Small tables. Soft chairs. A counter with an espresso machine that's been turned off for the night.
I set the books down on one of the tables and pull out a chair for her.
She lowers herself slowly, still looking around like she can't quite believe this is real.
"I'll make us something," I say.
"You know how to use that?" she asks, nodding toward the machine.
"Oh, hell no. But I can make hot tea from an electric kettle.”
She smiles and chuckles. Small. Warm.
I move behind the counter, start the kettle, and pull out two bags of tea. When I come back, she's looking at the stack of books. Not touching them—just staring. I set her tea down in front of her and sit across from her.
"What is this?" she asks softly.
"Books I thought you'd like."
"You...picked these out for me?"
"Yeah."
Her gaze lifts to mine, searching. "Why?"
I lean back slightly, considering. "Because I wanted you to know I've been paying attention."
She stills slightly. A quiet breath escapes her. Her lips part slightly. "Jonas…"
"Not in a weird way," I say quickly. "Just...I notice things. About people. About you."
She's quiet for a moment, then reaches for the top book, running her fingers over the cover. "I've heard of this one."
"It's about a girl who makes a deal to be free," I say. "But the cost is that no one remembers her. She has to keep choosing herself, over and over, even when it's hard."
Kaia's eyes lift to mine. "You think that's me?"
"I think you've been choosing yourself," I say quietly. "Even when it cost you everything."
Her throat works. She looks back down at the book.
"What else?"
I reach for the next one. "This one's about finding home in unexpected places," I say. "About people who don't fit anywhere else building something together."
She smiles. Soft. Sad. "That sounds nice."
"It is." I pull out the third book. "This one's about a woman who walks a thousand miles to figure out who she is after everything falls apart."
Kaia's fingers trace the spine. "Does she figure it out?"
"Yeah," I say. "But not because someone told her. Because she walked until she found herself."
She's quiet for a long moment, then looks up at me.
"You really see me, don't you?"
"Yeah," I say simply. "I do."
Her eyes shine. Just slightly. "I don't know if anyone's ever really seen me before."
"I know."
She exhales. Shaky. Unsteady. Then reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Thank you. For...knowing what I needed before I did."
I squeeze her hand gently. "That's what I do."
We sit there for a while, drinking tea—a chamomile lavender blend I'd brewed specifically for her, something calming, something I thought might help settle the restlessness I'd sensed in her—and talking quietly.
She asks more about the books. I tell her my favorite passages, read a few aloud.
She listens. Really listens. Not just to the words, but to what I'm saying beneath them.
"You do this a lot, don't you?" she asks after a while.
"Do what?"
"Understand people before they understand themselves."
I pause. Consider. "Yeah. I guess I do."
"Does it ever get heavy?"
I blink, surprised. No one's ever asked me that before.
"Sometimes," I admit.
"How do you handle it?"
"I don't know if I do," I say honestly. "I just...carry it. Because someone has to."
Her eyes grow tender. Her features soften. "That's not fair."
"Maybe not."
"Jonas…"
"I'm okay," I say quickly.
"Are you?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Because the truth is, I don't know. I've spent so long being the one who understands, the one who holds space, the one who notices, that sometimes, I forget to check if I'm okay.
Kaia stands, walks around the table, and sits in the chair beside me. Then she takes both my hands. "You don't have to carry everything alone," she says softly.
"I know."
"Do you?"
I look at her. Really look. And I see it in her eyes, the same thing I've been trying to show her. That she's not alone. That she doesn't have to be strong all the time. That it's okay to let someone else hold her.
She's doing the same thing for me.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I think I'm starting to."
She smiles, then leans forward and presses her forehead to mine. "Good."
We sit like this for a long moment. Just breathing. Close. Connected. Safe.
"Jonas?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm really glad you brought me here."
"Me too."
She pulls back slightly, just enough to look at me. "Can we stay a little longer?"
"As long as you want."
We end up on the floor, backs against a bookshelf, books spread out around us.
She reads passages aloud. I listen. Her voice is soft.
Steady. Beautiful. And I just watch her.
Her fingers tracing the words. Her expression shifting with each line.
She's completely present. Not thinking about what comes next.
Not worrying about what she left behind. Just here. With me.
"What?" she asks, glancing up.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I know."
She smiles. "Why?"
"Because you're beautiful when you're like this."
"Like what?"
"Present. Unguarded. Yourself."
Her inhale falters as she winds a strand of hair around her finger. "I don't think I've ever been myself before."
"You are now."
She sets the book down and turns to face me fully.
"You really think so?"
"I know so."
She's quiet for a moment, then leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her and pull her close.
"Jonas?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm falling in love with you."
Everything in me goes still. Completely still, like the world has stopped spinning and I'm suspended in this moment—her words, her vulnerability, the weight of what she's just given me. My heart actually stops for a second, then restarts, harder. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I press a kiss to the top of her head.
"Good," I say softly. "Because I'm already there."
She lifts her head and looks at me. Eyes wide. Vulnerable. Open.
"Really?"
"Really."
She smiles. Slow. Certain. Then kisses me. Soft. Tender. Perfect. When she pulls back, she's still smiling. "Can we come back here?"
"Anytime you want."
"Good," she says. "Because I think this might be my second favorite place now."
"What's your first?"
"Your house."
"Mine too."