The days slid by in their usual shape. Morning light, the hum of the ceiling fan, the taste of tea gone faint before it cooled. Rowen's house was the same, his shop was the same, and yet he noticed the quiet more.
Not as comfort. Not fully as discomfort either. Just… waiting.
He filled it with small things—tightening loose screws, cleaning parts that didn't need it, moving a drawer three inches left and then back. By mid-afternoon on the fourth day, he realized he'd been glancing at the door now and then without meaning to.
That evening, as he was closing the shop, headlights slid briefly across the glass. A black car passed slowly, pausing just long enough for him to register its shape. He didn't need to see the driver to know.
It didn't stop.
Rowen lowered the shutter and walked home, the image of that passing car settling somewhere behind his ribs.
The next day, the bell above the door chimed.
Lira stepped in with the tablet he had repaired, wrapped in a slim case. She wasn't holding it out like a problem. She just placed it on the counter and smiled.
"I thought I should thank you properly," she said. "And I needed some air."
He gave a small nod.
She lingered, her gaze moving around the shop in the slow rhythm he was starting to recognize.
"You seem comfortable here," she said eventually. "Most people look like they're waiting to be somewhere else. But you…" She tilted her head. "You look like you belong here."
Rowen didn't answer. He didn't feel the need to.
The silence was heavier than usual, but not unpleasant.
Lira smiled faintly, adjusted the strap of her bag, and left without brushing the counter this time—just a nod before the bell chimed behind her.
That night, Rowen sat at his table, notebook open but blank.
He realized the line between them wasn't hers alone to cross.
It was his to acknowledge.