The air in Dawnmere smelled like cedar ash and yesterday's storm. The wind had quieted, but the sky still looked uncertain-like it hadn't decided if it would keep holding back.
Isla walked slowly through the narrow lanes, coat wrapped tight around her, scarf half-untied, curls escaping like they always did when her head was full.
She wasn't going to the studio.
Not yet.
She wasn't ready to see Lennox's eyes today.
Instead, she wandered into Viola's candle shop, where the windows were fogged and the scent of bergamot and clove practically hugged her at the door.
Viola looked up from behind the counter, where she was pouring wax into delicate blue glass jars. "You look like someone pressed pause on your heartbeat."
Isla managed a breath. "He was here."
Viola didn't need to ask who.
Adrian.
She set down the ladle gently, wiped her hands, and came around the counter without a word.
"He came into the bookstore down the street," Isla said. "I was dropping off donation boxes. He saw me through the window. Walked in like he belonged. Like I owed him the shape of my silence."
Viola's hands curled around her arms. Not tight. Not soft. Just... there.
"What did he want?"
"He said he was just passing through. That he'd heard I was back. That he was glad to see I looked... better." Isla's voice cracked on the word. "Better."
"Bastard."
"I thought he might hit me again," she said, almost to herself. "But worse than that-he didn't. He didn't have to. He still knew how to make the room disappear around me."
Viola was quiet for a long moment.
Then she said, "You don't have to tell Lennox."
"I know."
"But do you want to?"
Isla paused. Her answer was slower, sadder. "I think I want him to see me without having to ask."
Viola nodded like she understood. Because she did.
---
That evening, Isla stood outside Lennox's studio for a long time before knocking.
When the door opened, he looked surprised. Not unpleasantly. Just... surprised.
"You're late," he said softly.
"I wasn't sure if I should come."
He stepped back, just enough for her to enter. "You're here now."
The studio was quiet. The cat was curled in a ball of disdain and twitching whiskers. The painting-the one without eyes-was facing the wall, turned away.
"You finished it?" she asked.
"No," he said. "She's not ready."
"Neither am I."
He didn't ask what she meant.
But he walked to the counter. Poured her tea-lemon balm with honey. The good kind.
"I saw someone from my past today," she said, settling into the chair by the canvas.
Lennox didn't speak. He just listened.
"He used to call me 'firecracker,'" she said, bitterness folded into every syllable. "Because I burned bright when I broke."
Still, Lennox said nothing. Just watched her with that steady, quiet gaze that made her feel like she was safe unraveling.
"I stayed too long," she whispered. "Because love that leaves bruises still feels like love for a while."
"I know the shape of that kind of silence," Lennox said. "And the ache when it leaves your ribs."
She looked up. "You do?"
He nodded.
"Not from a lover," he added. "But from someone who taught me to mistake quiet for safety."
Their eyes met.
Something real passed between them then-fragile, flickering, but whole.
"I don't want to be pitied," she said.
"I don't do pity," he replied. "I do paint. I do tea. I do silence that doesn't ask you to explain yourself."
A beat.
Then she said, "Will you show me the eyes when they're ready?"
He nodded. "I was waiting for you to ask."