Elara stood in the lavender field just before sunrise, barefoot in the dewy grass, her arms wrapped around herself as the wind traced circles through the hills. The quiet here was sacred—not empty, but expectant. Like something was listening.
The farmhouse still slept behind her, and so did Rowan.
He'd stayed the night again, but they hadn't made love. Not yet. There had been tenderness, long talks under blankets, forehead kisses and warm silences. But they hadn't crossed that last threshold—and not out of fear or hesitation.
They were waiting. Letting something fragile take root first.
Elara bent down and brushed her fingers through the lavender stalks, breathing in the heady sweetness. This field had always been her grandmother's sanctuary. Maybe now, it could be hers too.
Behind her, the screen door creaked open.
"Thought I'd find you out here," Rowan said, his voice warm with sleep.
She turned and smiled. He was barefoot too, wearing flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt with tiny oil stains across the hem. He looked beautifully undone, like this was his true shape—no armor, no reserve.
"I couldn't sleep," she said. "But not in a bad way."
Rowan stepped beside her, tucking his hands in his pockets. "Dreams?"
"Memories. Of her. Of being here and feeling safe."
He glanced at her. "You feel safe now?"
She nodded. "With you, yes. And here, more and more."
They stood quietly as the first blush of morning reached across the field, washing the sky in rose and gold. Birds began their tentative songs.
"I've been thinking about the shop," Elara said after a moment. "The front room's still a mess, but I want to open it again. Not just as a flower shop—something more. A place people can come sit, have coffee. Read. Maybe a corner for poetry readings or local artists."
Rowan looked at her with that quiet admiration that made her heart tilt. "That sounds like something Windmere needs."
"It feels like something I need," she said softly. "Something to build. To belong to."
"I'll help," he offered without hesitation.
Elara touched his arm. "You already are."
—
Later that day, they drove into town together for supplies—paint, lumber, and new glass panes for the cracked front window. The hardware store was old-fashioned, still run by a gruff but kindly man named Hank, who'd known Elara's grandmother.
"Looks like someone's finally breathing life back into the Honeyfern place," Hank said as he rang them up. "Your grandmother would be proud."
Elara's throat caught, but she smiled. "I hope so."
Rowan loaded the truck while she walked next door to the café. Inside, she was greeted by the scent of cinnamon scones and the familiar clink of ceramic mugs. A few older women looked up and offered knowing smiles—Windmere's own council of watchers.
"Elara Whitmore," one of them said brightly. "We were just talking about you."
"I'm almost afraid to ask what you've heard."
"Oh, honey," said another, "we don't need to hear—we see. You and that handsome carpenter of yours have been glowing like the moon since last week."
Elara laughed despite herself. "He's not mine. Not officially."
"Well," said the first woman, "he looks at you like you're the only lighthouse on a stormy coast. That's official enough for us."
With a warm cup of coffee in hand, she returned to Rowan and told him what the women had said.
He grinned, eyes on the road. "A lighthouse, huh?"
"You didn't deny the stormy part."
He looked at her. "You've always been a light to me. Even when I tried not to see it."
Elara reached for his hand across the console and squeezed.
"Let's make this place shine again," she whispered.
—
The next few days passed in a rhythm both exhausting and exhilarating. They scrubbed walls, pulled up warped floorboards, and sanded down old counters that smelled of pine and long-forgotten memories. Rowan taught her how to swing a hammer without bruising her thumb. Elara showed him how to arrange flowers with intuitive balance, how to trust color.
At night, they collapsed together on the couch, sore and laughing, covered in sawdust and flecks of paint. Sometimes he read her poems. Sometimes she sang softly under her breath as he worked.
The space began to change.
So did she.
—
One evening, after the sign for the new shop—"Lavender & Light"—was stenciled and drying in the back room, Elara asked, "Why did you really stay in Windmere, Rowan?"
He looked up from where he was fixing a shelf. "What do you mean?"
"You had offers. I remember. You could've gone to Portland. Even out of state."
Rowan hesitated. Then: "I stayed because I was waiting for something to change."
"And did it?"
He stood, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Not at first. Then you came back."
She stared at him, heart thudding. "You waited for me?"
"I waited to stop hoping. And I never did."
Her eyes stung. "I don't deserve that kind of faith."
"Maybe not," he said, walking toward her. "But you have it anyway."
They stood face to face in the half-painted shop, surrounded by the scent of wood shavings and lavender oil, and she couldn't take it anymore—the way her heart ached and ached for him, the way he held back just enough not to push her.
"I want you," she said.
Rowan swallowed. "Are you sure?"
"I'm not just sure. I'm ready."
—
That night, they made love for the first time in the bedroom her grandmother once used for drying herbs. The windows were cracked open to the sound of the sea, and moonlight slipped through like a whispered promise.
It wasn't rushed. There was no urgency in their hands, only reverence. They touched like two people who had once been lost and had finally been found in each other.
Elara traced every scar on Rowan's chest, every line earned by years of quiet heartbreak. He kissed the hollow of her throat, the dip of her waist, the place behind her ear that made her breath catch.
When they moved together, it felt less like passion and more like worship—like rebuilding something holy from the wreckage of grief.
Afterward, they lay tangled in sheets and each other, her head resting on his chest.
"You still feel like home," she whispered.
Rowan's fingers brushed her hair. "You never stopped being mine."
She looked up at him. "I think I'm falling in love with you."
His smile was slow and deep, like dawn rising. "Then I think I'm finally where I'm supposed to be."
Outside, the wind paused in the trees, as if listening.
And inside the old farmhouse, something bloomed that neither time nor loss could ever take away.