The morning after, Elara woke to the sound of birdsong slipping through the open window. Pale light fanned across the wooden floor, stretching toward the edge of the bed where Rowan still lay asleep beside her, his arm draped loosely around her waist.
She studied him in the hush—his mouth slightly parted, the crease between his brows even in rest, as though some part of him never fully relaxed. She reached out and smoothed it gently with her thumb.
He stirred. "Hey," he said groggily, eyes blinking open.
"Morning."
"You watching me sleep like a lovesick ghost?"
She smiled. "A very affectionate ghost, yes."
Rowan shifted closer, brushing a kiss to her collarbone. "That's okay. I think I'd let you haunt me."
Elara laughed, but there was an ache under it. Last night had been everything she hadn't dared hope for. And yet, with the brightness of morning, a fear crept in—that the world might not let this last. That something, somewhere, would try to take it from her.
She turned to him, suddenly serious. "Promise me something?"
"Anything."
"Don't disappear. Don't… drift away like the others did."
Rowan's expression softened. "Elara, I've waited years to hold you like this. I'm not going anywhere."
She nodded, pressing her forehead to his chest, trying to believe in a future neither of them had dared name until now.
Later that morning, they walked into town to pick up supplies and breakfast from the café. The town square was buzzing more than usual. Flyers flapped on light posts, children ran past with kites, and a string of canopies was being erected along the edge of the park.
"What's going on?" Elara asked, eyeing the crowd.
"Harvest Festival's coming up," Rowan said. "It's one of Windmere's only real events. Small towns know how to throw tradition around like confetti."
Elara stopped walking. "I remember this. Grandma used to enter the lavender wreath contest every year. And always lost to Margaret Boyd."
"Because Margaret cheated with store-bought ribbon. Scandalous."
Elara laughed. "Think they'd let me enter?"
Rowan gave her a look. "They'll probably beg you to."
The festival became the center of their days that week. Between painting trim at the shop and finishing custom-built shelves, Rowan and Elara helped set up tents and decorations with other locals. Elara hadn't realized just how many people remembered her—or her grandmother—with fondness.
Mrs. Keating, the town librarian, brought over a box of old journals. "Your grandmother donated these years ago. She wrote poems in the margins," she said with a wink. "Thought you might like to see them."
Elara clutched the box to her chest like it was treasure.
In the evenings, she and Rowan worked side by side making lavender wreaths in the back garden. Her fingers became stained with oils, his with sap. They bickered playfully over arrangements, kissed under the low branches of the fig tree, and let music drift out from the open kitchen window.
There were moments of quiet, too. Long silences where they didn't need to speak. Where their presence was enough.
But not all silence was peaceful.
—
One night, a letter arrived.
It had no return address. The handwriting was unfamiliar, neat, but impersonal.
Elara opened it by the sink while Rowan chopped vegetables. As her eyes moved down the page, her shoulders stiffened.
Rowan noticed. "What is it?"
She read aloud:
_Elara,
We regret to inform you that there is a pending legal dispute over the ownership of the Honeyfern property. Your grandmother failed to update the deed in accordance with state requirements. A distant relative of hers, Josephine Marlin, has filed for inheritance rights. You are advised to consult legal counsel immediately._
– Allen & Brightman, Attorneys at Law
Elara lowered the letter slowly, hands trembling.
"No," she whispered. "No, this can't be right."
Rowan took the paper and read it himself, eyes narrowing. "Who the hell is Josephine Marlin?"
"She's… I don't know. I think she was my grandmother's cousin. They hadn't spoken in decades. Grandma told me she moved away after a fight over the land, actually. She never wanted her near the house again."
"And now she wants to claim it?"
Elara pressed her hands to her temples. "I've finally started feeling like I belong again. Like I have a place—and now this?"
Rowan put a hand on her back, grounding her. "We'll fight it. I know a good property lawyer in Astoria. Let's not panic until we have the facts."
Elara blinked rapidly, swallowing the wave of nausea. "What if I lose it, Rowan? What if everything we've built—this dream, this life—is taken away again?"
He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.
"Then we build something new," he said. "Wherever you are, I'll follow. I'm not tied to this town—I'm tied to you."
The words struck deep. Comforting, yes. But also terrifying.
Because what if she couldn't be that anchor for him in return?
—
The next few days brought tension that neither of them knew how to completely shake. Elara called the lawyer. Rowan made calls to old contacts. Paperwork was filed. Copies of deeds and documents were scanned and sent.
The emotional high they'd been riding dulled under the weight of uncertainty.
And yet, through it all, their connection held.
On the eve of the Harvest Festival, they stood in the nearly finished storefront. Elara had hung old photographs along one wall—her grandmother in the garden, young Elara with dirt-smudged cheeks and flower crowns, old poetry clippings.
The sign above the door gleamed with fresh paint.
Lavender & Light.
"I don't want to lose this," Elara said softly, eyes on the photos.
"You won't," Rowan replied. "Because even if someone tries to take the house… they can't take this."
He touched her chest. Her heart.
"And they can't take us."
Tears filled her eyes. "How did you know how to find me again, Rowan?"
"I didn't," he said. "But I kept walking toward where I last felt whole. And there you were."
Elara leaned into him, and they stood together in the heart of everything they had built—fragile, maybe, but real.
And when she looked up, past his shoulder, past the glass window into the lavender dusk beyond, she saw something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.