The next time Max showed up at the bookstore, Ava met him at the door before the bell could jingle.
"Come with me," she said.
He blinked. "Should I be concerned?"
"Probably," she said, already turning away.
They walked in silence, the town giving way to tall pines and quiet streets as she led him up a narrow trail behind a row of houses. A small cottage waited at the end weathered blue siding, crooked chimney, a porch that creaked beneath their feet.
Ava unlocked the door with a worn brass key, pausing in the threshold before pushing it open.
"This was my grandmother's place," she said. "I use it now. For painting."
The air inside smelled faintly of turpentine and sea salt. The living room had been emptied of furniture except for an old easel, scattered brushes, and canvases leaned like soldiers against the walls.
Max stepped in carefully, as if afraid to disturb something sacred.
The room was lit with soft natural light from a skylight above. One of the canvases caught his eye a half-finished piece in warm, moody tones. The brushstrokes were bold, almost angry in some places, tender in others. It was a coastal cliffs cape but not a literal one. It felt like standing on the edge of something invisible.
"You painted this?" he asked.
Ava nodded. "I haven't shown anyone. Not since… not in a long time."
Max walked slowly around the room, taking it in without speaking. There were portraits, too faces with blurred features and eyes that knew too much. Abstracts in shades of longing. A single painting of a woman curled in a chair, her outline dissolving into a fog of blue.
"They're incredible," he said softly.
"They're messy," she countered.
"Messy is incredible."
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to feel exposed. "I used to think art was something you showed people. Now I think maybe it's just something you survive."
Max looked at her, not the paintings. "Maybe it's both."
His voice was quiet, but the room seemed to echo with the words.
Ava turned away, suddenly restless. She picked up a brush, dipped it in a jar of cloudy water, and wiped it clean on an old towel. "I don't know why I brought you here," she murmured.
"Yes, you do."
She froze.
Max stepped closer, but didn't touch her. "Because letting someone in isn't always about trust. Sometimes it's just about being too tired to keep the door shut."
Ava looked up at him, heart thudding like a drum behind her ribs.
"I'm not asking for everything," he said. "Just a crack in the door."
A beat passed. Then another. And then she whispered, "It's already open."
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the glass panes. But inside, something quiet and brave began to bloom between them.