If Only (GxG)

Chapter 55 Unexpected

『 °*• ❀ •*°』
Alison's POV

The shop smelled of dust and sunlight and secondhand stories.

It was early afternoon, warm in that late-summer London way that clung to your skin—just shy of sticky, softened now and then by a lazy breeze drifting in through the propped-open door. Someone had left the ceiling fan on low. Its blades turned in a slow, half-hearted rotation, just enough to stir the air and keep the weight of it from settling too heavy.

Golden light filtered through the front windows, casting soft, faded stripes across the floorboards. It caught the spines of the books on the front display, turning them into something from a Wes Anderson set—muted, nostalgic, and quietly magical.

I trailed my fingers along a row of hardbacks, the tips of my nails clicking gently against the glossy covers. Behind me, someone turned a page with the reverence of someone fully absorbed. Near the back, a child laughed, high-pitched and delighted, probably at the slightly lopsided Paddington bear that had been slouched on the lower shelf for as long as I'd worked here.

It felt peaceful.

Not empty. Not artificial.

Just real. Quiet and tucked away. A kind of peace I hadn't known how much I missed until I was standing in it.

I pulled a stool over to the ladder shelf and began re-stacking the classics display. Brontë, Austen, Hardy—familiar names worn into cracked leather and faded paperbacks, a few with newer editions in movie tie-in covers that made me wince every time I saw them. I worked slowly, letting the weight of the books settle in my hands one by one.

My voice had come back. Fully now.

Which meant customers had stopped giving me those sympathetic looks when I rasped out a thank you, and I could finally argue with Ross again when he said Wuthering Heights was overrated—which was both a personal attack and a literary crime.

Ross was out on his break, probably at the juice bar chatting up the girl who worked there. I had another half hour alone.

And I didn't mind.

I hadn't expected to feel okay. Not this soon. Not after what happened.

But something about this place—the scent of old paper and warm light, the stillness that felt earned instead of imposed—had helped. Maybe more than I wanted to admit.

It wasn't that I had forgotten. I hadn't.

I still felt it in strange, sudden flashes. In the way I tensed when someone walked too close behind me. In the way my breath caught at the sound of boots on concrete. Sometimes I paused while locking the shop door, heart hammering for no clear reason, needing to just breathe for a second.

But I wasn't frozen anymore.

Not paralysed.

Because I remembered what came after.

Blake.

Blake storming through the crowd like the city had been holding her back.

Blake on her knees beside me, her hands on my face like I was sacred. Like she couldn't believe I was real. Like she might fall apart if I vanished again.

Blake who wrapped herself around me that night like armour. Who hadn't let go once. Who slept beside me every night after, one hand always somewhere on my body, as if she needed to feel the rise and fall of my breath to stay grounded.

I pulled a copy of Jane Eyre from the shelf and ran my thumb along its edges, slow and thoughtful.

I kept thinking about her face that morning.