The storm didn’t end that night.

It softened, then surged again, as if the sky couldn’t decide whether to let go or hold on. Willowridge sank deeper into its gray hush, the kind that made footsteps sound louder and thoughts feel heavier.

Sienna felt it the moment she woke.

Not dread.  

Not sadness.  

Just… a tightness. A quiet pressure in her chest she couldn’t quite name.

She wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself and tried to shake it off. It lingered.

When she reached the library, the air was cold enough that her breath fogged. But Liam was there—earlier than usual, leaning against the door with his hands around a warm paper cup.

The moment he saw her, something in his face gentled.

“You okay?” he asked.

Not *good morning*, not *you’re early*.  

Straight to the question that mattered.

“I’m fine,” she said.

She wasn’t.  

He knew it.  

He didn’t push.

He simply handed her the cup, his fingers brushing hers with a touch that lingered a fraction longer than yesterday.

They stepped inside together, the bell chiming softly. The smell of rain-swept air followed them in.

Sienna placed her bag down, slower than usual. Liam stayed nearby, not hovering, not distant—just present.

“Bad night?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “Just… noise.”

“Noise?” he repeated.

“In my head.” She regretted saying it immediately.

His expression softened. “You don’t have to explain.”

She nodded once, grateful.

He moved to his usual seat, opening his notebook, though his eyes didn’t leave the page. Sienna knew he was waiting—for her to settle, for the day to start, for something she couldn’t yet define.

As she turned on the lamps, she caught her reflection in the darkened window. She looked like herself, but not entirely. Something in her gaze flickered—the same tightness she felt in her chest.

Fear.  

Not of him.  

Not of what was happening.

Fear of losing the fragile warmth she’d just begun to understand.

She took a breath and pushed the thought away.

By midmorning, the library had slipped into its usual rhythm. A few patrons murmured between shelves. Nora arrived, dripping rain and chaos as always.

“Sienna,” Nora said, squinting at her. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I slept.”

“You look like you slept *badly*.”

Sienna sighed. “Nora—”

“You sure you’re okay?” Nora pressed softer this time, glancing toward Liam.

Sienna followed the glance instinctively, then caught herself.

“I’m fine,” she repeated.

Nora didn’t believe her.  

Liam didn’t either.  

They didn’t say it out loud.

Around noon, Sienna carried a stack of new returns to the back. She reached for the top shelf—too high—and the books wobbled. She reached again, misjudging the distance.

A hand steadied the stack from behind.

She startled. “Liam—”

“Careful,” he said gently.

She stepped aside as he helped ease the books into place. His movements were steady, practiced. Not intrusive.

“You seem… somewhere else today,” he murmured.

She stared at the shelf. “Just… thinking.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that this week,” he said softly.

“I think a lot,” she replied.

He didn’t smile. “I know. I just want to make sure you’re not thinking alone.”

Her breath caught, and she didn’t know why. Maybe because it was the first time someone had said something like that to her. Maybe because letting someone into her thoughts felt like stepping barefoot into cold water.

She didn’t answer right away.

Liam didn’t fill the silence.

Finally she whispered, “I don’t always know how to let people do that.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m not asking for today.”

She looked up at him then. His expression held no pressure—just steady patience, the kind that didn’t demand anything except honesty.

Before she could speak, Nora poked her head around the shelf.

“Hey,” she said, “we’re out of receipt paper—oh. Sorry. Am I interrupting emotional character development?”

Liam actually choked on air.

Sienna groaned, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “Nora.”

Nora raised both hands. “Please continue your subtle-but-not-really-subtle moment. I’ll pretend I didn’t see anything.”

She vanished.

Liam rubbed his forehead. “She’s getting bolder.”

“She always gets worse when she senses anything… emotional.”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “We’re giving her a lot of material.”

Sienna almost smiled—almost. But the tightness hadn’t left her chest.

He noticed.

“Let me know if you need air,” Liam said quietly. “Or space. Or… company.”

She swallowed. “Company is fine.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Okay.”

The words were small. But they mattered.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded gently. He didn’t press. She didn’t retreat. They moved around each other with a careful synchronicity—two people learning the edges of each other’s comfort, the invisible boundary lines of closeness.

But beneath it all, the tightness in Sienna’s chest remained.

It grew sharper whenever she caught herself wanting him near.  

Stronger when she felt the warmth of him settling into her day.  

Louder when she realized how much she’d started depending on his presence.

Dependence.  

That was the fear.

It scared her more than rain, more than storms, more than silence.

Because needing someone meant losing the part of herself that had always stayed safe by staying alone.

Near closing time, Liam approached the counter with his jacket already on. The rain outside had softened to a misty drizzle.

“Walk you home?” he asked.

She hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want him to.  

Because she wanted him to too much.

Liam saw it. His expression gentled, understanding without judgment.

“You can say yes,” he said softly.

Her chest tightened again.

“I know,” she whispered.

He waited.

She looked at the door, then at him, then back at the door.

Finally—

“…Yes.”

His smile was small, warm, immediate. “Okay.”

He held the umbrella for them both. Their shoulders brushed. Their steps aligned.

And as they walked into the fading rain, Sienna realized something:

Sometimes fear isn’t a stop sign.  

Sometimes it’s the first sign that something matters.

The rain thickened again by evening.

Not a downpour—just a heavy mist that blurred the world like breath on glass. The kind of rain that didn’t fall, but hovered, suspended in the air, soaking everything slowly and silently.

Sienna walked beside Liam in that suspended quiet, her fingers curled inside her sleeves, her steps matching his without effort. The umbrella tilted slightly toward her, the handle held loosely in his hand.

Their shoulders brushed again.  

This time she didn’t pull back.

When they reached the bakery corner, Liam slowed.

“You want to take the long way?” he asked.

She blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged gently. “You looked like you weren’t ready to go home yet.”

Something in her chest fluttered.

She swallowed. “We can… walk a little.”

The long way wrapped around the old part of town—stone sidewalks, low-hanging trees, puddles reflecting the dim yellow streetlamps. The town felt quieter here, like the edges had softened.

They walked without talking.

Sienna usually hated that.  

Silence used to feel like distance—like she was expected to fill it, or like she’d failed to.

But with him, silence felt like water.  

Something she could move through without drowning.

Eventually, Liam spoke.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s on your mind,” he said. “But if keeping it in makes it heavier… you can give me a corner.”

“A corner?” she echoed.

“Yeah.” He smiled carefully. “Not the whole weight. Just… enough so you don’t have to hold all of it alone.”

She stopped walking.

Liam paused beside her, turning toward her slowly, giving her room.

The streetlight behind them cast a faint halo around his silhouette, the rain catching in the air like dust.

“Liam,” she said quietly, “I’m trying.”

“I know.”

“It’s just… new.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to—”

She swallowed hard.

He didn’t move closer.  

He didn’t move away.

He waited.

“…depend on someone,” she finally whispered.

There it was.  

The tightness.  

Named.

The fear that had been rubbing like a stone under her ribs.

Liam exhaled softly—not a sigh, not frustration.  

Something gentler. Something like understanding settling into place.

“Sienna,” he said, voice low, “depending on someone isn’t a weakness. It’s a truth.”

She looked down. “A truth that can disappear.”

“And a truth that can stay,” he said immediately.

Her breath caught.

“But you don’t know that,” she whispered.

“You’re right.” His voice didn’t waver. “I don’t know the future. But I know what I’m choosing now.”

She finally looked up.

His expression was steady—no hesitation, no doubt, just a calm sincerity that held more weight than any promise could.

“And I’m choosing,” he continued softly, “to stay near you. Even if it scares you a little.”

The rain hovered around them, the air thick with something fragile and warm.

Sienna’s hands tightened inside her sleeves. “I don’t want to break something.”

“You won’t,” he said.

“You don’t know that either.”

He shook his head gently. “No. But I know this—”

He hesitated, not out of fear, but care.

“—you’re not something that breaks easy.”

Her breath trembled.

“What if I do?” she whispered.

“Then I’ll be there when you put the pieces back.”

That was it.  

The line that hit somewhere deep and hidden.  

Not dramatic.  

Not loud.

Just true.

Sienna felt something inside her shift—  

not open, not close, but tilt toward him, almost unconsciously.

She didn’t step closer.  

She didn’t need to.

He read the shift anyway.

They continued walking—not touching, but near enough that she could feel the warmth of him like a small gravity.

When they reached the stairwell of her building, neither spoke at first.

Then Liam said, softly—

“Tomorrow?”

Sienna hesitated for one heartbeat.  

Two.

Then—

“…Yes.”

His smile appeared slowly, like dawn finding a horizon.

“Goodnight, Sienna.”

She whispered, “Goodnight.”

He began to turn away, but she stopped him without thinking.

“Liam?”

He paused.

She didn’t step down toward him.  

She didn’t reach out.  

She simply said, very quietly—

“Thank you.”

His eyes softened—so much that it almost hurt to look at.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said.

But this time, she didn’t agree.  

This time, she let the gratitude sit between them like a warm light.

He left only when she stopped watching.  

And that night, for the first time in a long time, her chest felt a little less tight.