"Don't play games, Leni," he warns, his voice firm but edged with something darker.

"Don't call me that," I whisper, defiant.

"Call you what?" His smirk is devastating, the kind that could pull confessions from saints.

"That," I say, my voice barely audible, but he hears it.

He chuckles softly, his gaze never leaving mine. "Then stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" I challenge, giving his words right back to him.

His thumb glides over my thigh, a simple stroke that sends my mind spinning.

"Like you want me to⁠⁠—"

Before he can finish, footsteps and Camilla's unmistakable laughter echo through the house. Nate steps back, the space between us stealing the heat as quickly as it had built. I slide off the counter, trying to steady my breathing, the kitchen suddenly suffocating with the ghost of him so close.

Camilla stumbles into view, wide-eyed.

"Oh, shit, sorry!" She freezes, then gestures awkwardly toward the door. "I was just—uh, actually, never mind. I'll go check outside. For lemons," she adds, spinning on her heel and disappearing with a sheepish grin.

I take another sip of water, as if that'll put out the fire Nate just started. The glass is cool against my lips, but it does nothing to ease the burning under my skin where his fingers traced patterns of want just moments ago.

Spoiler: nothing will.

The tension between Nate and me has been building all summer, but now it's something else entirely—thicker, heavier, like tectonic plates shifting beneath the earth's surface, threatening to create an earthquake with every shared glance.

By morning, I'm raw and restless, like my skin doesn't fit quite right anymore. The house feels too small, too empty and too full all at once—every room echoing with the ghost of last night's almost-kiss. I grab my bag and practically run for the door. I go to the one place that always feels like an extension of me, Gracie's bookstore.

The familiar scent of aged paper and leather bindings wraps around me as I step inside, the little bell above the door announcing my arrival with its cheerful jingle.

Alfie is there, hunched over a worn classic, glasses perched precariously on the edge of his nose. His weathered hands cradle the book with the reverence of someone handling precious memories rather than just pages. At the sound of the bell, he looks up, and his warm smile immediately eases the knots in my chest.

"Miss Wells," he greets, setting his book aside with careful precision. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

I drop my bag at my feet and sink into the chair across from him, letting out a breath as if I’d just run the entire way here.

"Alfie, I did it. I finished the piece about you and Gracie."