By the Book

Chapter Eleven: Uncharted Waters

I trust you.

The words hung between us, simple but startling in their weight. Trust wasn't something people offered lightly, at least not in my world, where everything came with expectations or strings. I traced the edge of the book cover with my thumb, suddenly feeling like I'd been handed more than just a story.

"You don't have to," I said, the faintest tremor in my voice. "This... it's personal."

"Exactly." He leaned a little closer, his tone soft but steady. "That's why I want you to have it."

I looked up, his expression earnest but open, no pressure in his gaze—just the quiet assurance that this was something he truly wanted to do. "You don't even know me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "You said so last week—"

"I've been paying attention, Kara," he said firmly, full of conviction, but not unkind in the slightest. "You fidget with your necklace when you're thinking too hard, and you always set your mug down twice before you actually start drinking your coffee. You hum—quietly, but you hum—when you're working and you don't think anyone's listening. And you keep that cardigan folded on the back of your chair, even when you don't wear it, like you need to know it's there just in case."

My throat tightened, his words landing with an unexpected weight. He was listing things I hadn't even realized about myself, habits and quirks I hadn't thought anyone noticed.

"You act like you've got everything under control," he went on, his hazel eyes warm but unflinching. "But when you're overwhelmed, you'll stay late—way later than anyone else would—and you forget to eat. You hate messes, but you'll let your desk get chaotic when you're in the zone. And the way you looked at that book last week?" He tilted his head, his smile softening. "That wasn't just curiosity. That was recognition—appreciation, even."

I opened my mouth, but no words came. My pulse thrummed in my ears, a steady beat that matched the rain hammering the shop windows.

"You don't have to say anything," Miles added, his voice gentler now. "I'm not trying to put you on the spot. I just wanted you to know—I see you, Kara. And I meant it when I said I trust you."

The silence that followed felt heavy, but not uncomfortable. I looked down at the book in my hands, its worn cover suddenly feeling like an anchor, grounding me. When I finally spoke, my voice was quieter than I intended.

"No one's ever said anything like that to me before," I whispered, my voice trembling. The book felt heavier in my hands, its edges pressing into my palms. "I've always... had to keep it together. For everyone else."

I blinked hard, willing the stinging in my eyes to go away, but it didn't. Instead, my mom's voice echoed in my head, clear as day: You're always picking up the pieces. She hadn't meant it unkindly, but the weight of those words had stayed with me, pressing into my chest until it was hard to breathe.

"Being the oldest," I said, my throat tight, "means you don't get to fall apart. You just... make it work. Because you have to."

Miles didn't say anything, but when I glanced up, his expression was steady, his hazel eyes filled with quiet understanding. He wasn't looking at me with pity, or worse, surprise. It was something deeper, like he'd already pieced it together long before I'd admitted it aloud.

The pressure in my chest swelled, and before I could stop myself, a tear slipped free. I swiped at it quickly, letting out a shaky laugh. "Sorry. I'm not usually like this."

Miles stepped around the counter, his movements deliberate but unhurried. He closed the space between us in a few strides, his hazel eyes never leaving mine. There was no hesitation in the way he moved, no uncertainty. He wasn't asking permission; he was offering something I hadn't realized I needed until that very moment.