Chapter 3 The Night I Let Him In

Ava couldn't stop thinking about Jace.

It had been four days since she last saw him bloody, broken, and barefootedly stubborn in the back room of Whitmore Books. She had half-convinced herself that she imagined the whole thing. But the first aid kit was still missing a roll of gauze, the couch still bore a faint rust-colored stain, and her thoughts were still tangled in the memory of the way he'd looked at her.

Like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve, but also feared the answer.

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

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.

She glanced up casually-then nearly dropped the stack in her hands.

Jace.

Not bleeding. Not breathless. Clean shirt, jacket zipped halfway up, and those same stormy-gray eyes that seemed to pierce her skin. This time, though, there was no panic in his step. No pain in his voice.

Just a strange, casual boldness.

"You're open," he said, as if she'd invited him.

"You're back," she replied, struggling to hide the sudden rush in her chest.

"I owed you a thank-you." He held up a brown paper bag. "Also, pastries."

She narrowed her eyes. "You bribing me with baked goods?"

"That depends. Are you accepting bribes today?"

She stared at him, arms folded, then nodded toward the reading table near the window. "Sit."

They sat across from each other, the pastries untouched between them. He didn't speak right away. He just watched the way the late afternoon sun lit up the streaks in her hair. She tried not to look too long at the way his sleeve pulled back to reveal the edge of a tattoo crawling up his forearm.

"So," she said finally. "You said thank-you. You can go now."

Jace chuckled softly. "You really don't trust anyone, do you?"

"I trust people who don't lie about their name, show up bleeding in my bookstore, or follow me through dark alleys."

"Fair enough," he said, looking down. "But I didn't lie about my name. I just didn't give the full version."

Ava raised a brow. "And what is the full version?"

He hesitated, then said, "Jason Rourke."

The name rang faint bells. She couldn't place it, but it stuck.

"Why were you hiding it?"

"Because people look it up," he said flatly. "And when they do, they find headlines. Not facts."

Now she was fully curious. She leaned forward. "Headlines about what?"

Jace looked away for a long moment, his jaw tightening. "An accident. A girl. A grave mistake."

There was something in his voice-raw and cracked at the edges.

He pushed the bag toward her. "Before I say anything else, at least eat the damn pastry. I drove all the way to North End to get it."

Ava blinked at the sudden change in tone, but obliged. She bit into a flaky chocolate croissant and hated how warm it made her feel inside.

"You're forgiven," she mumbled through a mouthful.

"I knew it."

They both laughed-just briefly. Just enough.

⸻

As the sun dipped below the skyline, and the city outside began to blur into headlights and soft horns, Ava and Jace fell into a rhythm that felt... unexplainably natural.

They talked about books.

Surprisingly, Jace loved Hemingway but hated The Great Gatsby ("Everyone's shallow, and Gatsby needed therapy, not Daisy.").

He liked old music, didn't own a smartphone, and carried a beat-up leather notebook full of poetry he'd never shown anyone. He even read her one-half-reluctantly-and she was stunned by how beautiful it was.

"You don't act like a criminal," she said at one point.

He tilted his head. "What do criminals act like?"

"I don't know. Angry. Cold. Dangerous."

"I am dangerous," he said softly, eyes suddenly locked on hers.

But his voice didn't match the words. There was no threat. Just a warning.

"I don't want to hurt anyone again," he added.

The word "again" echoed in her mind long after he left that evening.

⸻

The next day...

"Okay, who's the guy?"

Casey was relentless.

They were walking across Boston Common, coffee in hand, backpacks slung on one shoulder. Ava had barely spoken during their usual catch-up session. She tried to lie. But Casey saw through her like a glass door.

"I don't know," Ava said carefully. "He's... just someone I keep running into."

"Is he hot?"

"That's not relevant."

Casey stopped walking. "That means yes."

Ava sighed. "He's not like that. He's just... different."

Casey squinted. "Different like 'reads poetry and listens to Bon Iver'? Or different like 'may have bodies in his basement'?"

Ava chuckled. "Honestly? Somewhere in between."

Casey looked skeptical. "Be careful, Ava. You don't do 'reckless.' That's not you."

Ava looked away. "Maybe that's the problem."

⸻

Three nights later...

He showed up outside Whitmore again. This time, leaning against his black motorcycle, helmet dangling from his fingers.

"You ever been on one of these?" he asked.

Ava stared at it like it might bite. "Absolutely not."

Jace smiled. "Want to break another rule?"

Against all logic, all instinct, she got on.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. The engine roared beneath her. The wind clawed through her hair.

They raced through the city-the old streets of Boston turning into a blur of neon lights and shadows. She didn't know where they were going, and for once, she didn't care.

Twenty minutes later, they stopped outside a broken fence leading to an old greenhouse, half-buried in vines and time.

He led her inside with a flashlight and no explanation.

"What is this place?"

"My father was a botanist," Jace said quietly. "Before he left. Used to bring me here. Said things could grow in darkness, if you gave them enough light."

Ava looked around. Wildflowers burst from cracked tiles. Vines curled along old frames. It was beautiful, wild, and haunting.

He sat beside her on a mossy bench and pulled something from his pocket: a silver chain. On it hung a ring-simple, delicate, clearly too small for his finger.

"It belonged to her," he said. "The girl in the story I didn't finish."

Ava didn't ask. She just reached out and placed her hand over his.

He looked at her like she was the first quiet thing he'd found in a world full of noise.

Then, slowly, he leaned in.

Their first kiss was soft. Not hesitant-but careful. Like he was afraid she might disappear if he moved too quickly.

When they pulled apart, she said nothing. Neither did he.

The silence was full of everything they couldn't yet say.