Chapter 2 Kisses I couldn't Have

It was almost closing time at Whitmore Books, the small corner bookstore Ava had worked at since sophomore year. The rain outside had faded to a soft drizzle, and jazz hummed from the radio behind the register. Ava stood behind the desk, scanning returned books with distracted fingers.

Her mind kept circling back to last night.

To the man in the leather jacket. The way he knew her name. The way he vanished into the city like he'd never existed.

She told herself it was just a weird encounter, a glitch in the rhythm of her structured life. But the way he looked at her-it stayed in her head like a skipped heartbeat.

She didn't tell Casey. Or her mother. Or anyone. She barely slept.

Not because she was scared.

Because she was curious.

⸻

Whitmore Books was calm that Sunday afternoon. The wind had taken on that early-March bite that crept down the collar of her coat and tugged at the edges of her patience. Ava was reshelving some vintage classics near the back window when the door jingled.

Her eyes flicked up.

And froze.

He was back.

The man from the alley.

Only now, he wasn't just shadowed and mysterious-he was hurt.

He stood with one hand gripping the doorframe, the other clutching his side. His hoodie was soaked and clung to his body. A dark stain spread across his ribs. Blood.

Ava stepped out from behind the counter, panic and instinct rising together.

"Oh my God-you're bleeding!"

"Don't call anyone," he said quickly, his voice raspier than before. "Please. Just-just help me. Five minutes."

She hesitated, logic screaming no, but something else-something quiet but unshakable-told her to trust him.

"Come with me," she whispered, locking the front door and flipping the "Closed" sign.

She led him to the back room where they kept supplies, paperbacks, and an emergency first aid kit. He sank into an old armchair, jaw clenched.

"What happened?" she asked, grabbing gloves and antiseptic.

"Wrong place. Wrong people," he muttered. "But I didn't do anything."

Ava knelt beside him and carefully pulled up his shirt. A nasty gash ran along his left side, like he'd been grazed by a knife. It wasn't deep, but it was raw.

"You need stitches."

"I just need it cleaned. I'll be gone in five."

She didn't answer. Just focused. Cleaned the wound, pressed gauze to it, and taped it down. Her hands were steady-more from training than calm.

"You're lucky," she said, finally meeting his eyes. "It missed your lung by about an inch."

He exhaled through his nose. "I'm always almost unlucky."

There was silence. Thick with tension. He watched her like she was something fragile he didn't want to break but couldn't stop touching.

"You really shouldn't have helped me," he said softly.

"And you really shouldn't have followed me last night."

He gave her a ghost of a smile. "Fair."

She sat back on her heels. "Who are you?"

"Jace."

"Last name?"

He hesitated. "Let's just stick with Jace."

"Okay... Jace. Why do you know my name?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dark. "You don't remember me, do you?"

She frowned. "We've met before?"

"You sat in the front row of Professor Dyer's English class last semester. You always stayed late to return the handouts. Always corrected his Shakespeare quotes when he got them wrong."

Her mouth dropped open slightly. "You were in that class?"

"I was the one who never showed up until the midterm. Hoodie, headphones, always asleep in the back."

She blinked. She did vaguely remember someone like that. But never this version. Never up close.

"So... what, you remembered me from class and followed me home?"

"Not exactly." He stood carefully. "I was already in the alley. You just... showed up. I didn't mean to scare you."

She crossed her arms. "And the part where you knew my name?"

"I listened more than you think."

She didn't know what to say to that.

Jace picked up his helmet from the shelf and tucked it under his arm.

"Thanks for patching me up, good girl."

"You don't even know my name."

"I do. It's Ava." His gaze lingered on her face. "And you have this habit of tapping your fingers when you're anxious. You're tapping them now."

She looked down. She was.

Before she could respond, he was already slipping out the back door, vanishing into the Boston night once again.