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It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Xavier stood outside the little shop again, his reflection faint in the dusty glass.
How did he keep ending up here?
The first time made sense—delivering instructions, checking progress. The second, maybe curiosity. But the third, fourth… it was starting to get difficult to explain, even to himself.
He pushed the door open.
There she was, just like always—head bent over fabric, needle in hand, distant, detached. She looked up slowly, her face giving nothing away.
"You're here again," she said.
"Just checking on the dress," Xavier replied, carefully keeping his tone light, neutral.
That was the story he told himself.
He wasn't here for her.
He wasn't.
He crossed the room, pretending to examine the scattered fabrics on the nearby table. "It's… looking good."
"It's not finished."
"I know. Just wanted to see how it's coming along."
She didn't smile, didn't soften. She just kept working.
He told himself this wasn't unusual. He was a man preparing for a wedding, checking on something important to his fiancée. Lilian was busy. Someone had to make sure things stayed on track.
That was all this was.
But deep down, he knew he could have sent someone else.
His sister, a wedding planner, even Lilian's cousin who had offered to help.
Instead, he came.
Again and again.
Why?
Why did he keep showing up here?
He tried to name it. Curiosity? Responsibility? No. It was something else. Something harder to admit.
He wasn't here because of love. Not for Amara. Not for the dress. He didn't even think he was here for Lilian, not really.
He was here because this place felt… quiet.
Not the silence that pressed on you.
Not the awkward silence of a room full of people pretending to care.
It was the kind of quiet that didn't ask anything of you.
When he stepped into this shop, he didn't have to be the successful son, the perfect fiancé, the man carrying the weight of his family's expectations.
Here, he could just… be.
There was a strange peace in the way Amara didn't fuss over him, didn't try to make him stay, didn't ask questions she didn't care about.
Maybe that's what kept pulling him back.
The simplicity. The quiet.
She glanced at him now, her tone steady. "The dress is progressing fine."
He nodded, realizing he had nothing else to say, no real excuse to linger.
But he didn't move to leave.
Instead, he reached for one of the unfinished pieces on the table, his fingers brushing lightly over the fabric. "You don't decorate the shop much."
Amara barely looked up. "I don't have time for things that don't last."
"Is that why you don't keep friends around?"
She finally paused, her needle frozen mid-air. "That's a strange question."
"I just noticed. You're always here. Always alone."
Her gaze met his, sharp but not hostile. "Some people prefer it that way."
He should've apologized. Should've said something polite and left.
But something about her quiet walls made him want to ask more.
"Do you?"
"Prefer it that way?" she echoed.
He nodded.
Amara's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "It's safer."
Xavier didn't press her further. He didn't know why, but he respected that answer more than he expected.
They drifted into silence again. It wasn't heavy.
It was just there.
And maybe that's what he liked—the way she didn't fill the space with empty words.
But he didn't like her.
That wasn't what this was.
She wasn't warm. She wasn't inviting. She didn't even remember his name until recently.
But somehow, this small shop, this cold seamstress—felt… familiar. Like the quiet corners of an old house. Like something you return to, not because it dazzles you, but because it feels like home.
His home with Lilian was beautiful, expensive, planned.
But this… this was different.
He shook off the thought.
"You should go," Amara said softly, her eyes returning to her work.
He smirked lightly. "You always say that."
"Because you always stay too long."
"I'll take the hint."
Xavier turned toward the door, his hand resting briefly on the handle.
Before stepping out, he glanced back at her, still focused, still distant.
And for reasons he didn't dare explore, he felt lighter.
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