Unwritten Fate [BL] Chapter 187: The Night Before the Doors Open

As the final light settled across the bookstore, Billy took a slow step back, lifted his phone, and snapped the photo.

One single fra.

It captured everything—the tall wooden shelves, the warmth in the lighting, the soft reds and blues of the armchairs, the polished gleam of the piano in the corner.

The space looked like sothing out of a dream.

But more than that, it looked lived-in. Ready. Loved.

He opened the chat and typed nothing at first.

Just attached the photo.

Then, after a beat, he added:

"We did it."

He sent it.

The ssage ticked read within seconds.

Camilla was first to reply. A long pause followed by:

"Leon... it’s beautiful. You made this? You really made this?"

Then his mother followed.

"I’m crying. I’m so proud of you, darling. So, so proud. This... this is everything."

"It looks like a ho for souls."

Billy read their words in silence, his lips parting slightly, eyes soft. He didn’t reply right away.

Artur leaned over from behind the counter. "Everything okay?"

Billy nodded once, slowly. "Yeah... they saw it. They’re proud."

Artur smiled. "Of course they are."

Billy blinked, then quietly locked his phone and placed it face down on the counter—like he was sealing that mont carefully, tucking it into mory.

There was no need to say more.

The love had already arrived.

As Billy slipped his phone into his pocket, he turned back toward the room one last ti.

The bookstore stood still now—lights dimd, shelves hushed, the air holding the scent of wood, old pages, and sothing faintly sweet, like the last trace of a candle snuffed out.

He looked at Artur, then at Sam, who was wiping his hands on a cloth, finishing the last bit of dusting near the front shelf.

Billy stepped closer. "Thank you," he said, voice soft but sincere. "For everything. I couldn’t have done this without either of you."

Sam grinned, leaning back slightly. "It was a ss when we started. Now? It’s a place people will want to stay in."

"Yeah," Billy nodded, eyes warm. "It feels... real now."

Artur looked at him, amused. "So does that an you’re officially a bookstore owner?"

Billy smirked. "Guess I am."

They turned off the lights, one by one. The glow faded behind them, leaving the windows painted with faint reflections of the night outside.

As they stepped out into the cool air, Sam stretched his arms over his head. "Alright, I’ll leave you two to head back. I’m cutting through the west path—it’s quicker for ."

He gave a lazy salute, the kind only Sam could pull off without sounding ironic. "See you tomorrow, boss."

Billy chuckled. "Goodnight, Sam."

"Night, man," Artur added.

With a brief wave, Sam turned and disappeared down the sloping path, his footsteps crunching softly over the gravel until they faded behind the hedge.

Billy and Artur walked in unhurried silence.

The sky above was fading into a deep navy, and the village was winding down—just the occasional window still lit, casting soft golden squares onto the empty street.

Billy’s arm brushed against Artur’s once, then again, and without a word, their hands found each other naturally.

No squeeze. No pull. Just stillness—warm and sure.

Ho was waiting.

And for once, there was no rush.

By the ti they reached the house, the last of the daylight had lted into the trees.

The porch light was on—soft and golden—casting a familiar glow on the old wooden steps.

Billy gave a long exhale as he stepped inside, shoulder brushing against Artur’s just slightly.

His body ached in that good way—earned from a full day’s work.

The scent t them before anything else. Sothing warm. Sothing slow-cooked.

Artur blinked. "Wait... is that—"

"Beef soup," Billy murmured, recognizing the gentle fragrance of herbs, root vegetables, and sothing slightly smoky.

They followed it into the kitchen.

Mr. Dand stood at the stove, still wearing his thick-knit cardigan, sleeves slightly pushed up.

A pot simred behind him, steam curling into the air.

"There you are," he said without turning, his voice carrying that calm, familiar weight. "I was about to co get you two. Thought maybe the books carried you off."

Billy smiled, slow and tired. "They almost did."

Artur chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck. "We got everything in place, finally. Sam helped."

Mr. Dand turned then, glancing over his shoulder. "I figured you’d rope soone into helping." He gestured toward the table. "Sit. Eat. Then collapse if you must. You look like you’ve been moving shelves with your bare hands."

"We did," Artur muttered under his breath, dragging a chair out.

Billy gave a small laugh as he slumped into his seat.

The warmth of the kitchen wrapped around him like a soft blanket.

He hadn’t realized just how hungry—or exhausted—he was until that mont.

Mr. Dand served generous ladles of soup into deep ceramic bowls, along with thick slices of buttered bread.

No fanfare. Just simple, hearty comfort.

As they began to eat, no one said much. They didn’t have to.

The clink of spoons, the occasional sigh, and the low hum of the evening news drifting in from the living room filled the quiet in a way that felt just right.

Billy caught Artur’s eye across the table, and they shared a tired smile—wordless, knowing.

Tonight, there was nothing more they needed.

Tomorrow, the festival would co.

But for now... they were ho.

The stew was warm. Rich and slow-cooked. It filled the room with a scent that made the tiredness in their bones loosen just a little. No one rushed.

They ate in unhurried silence, the kind that didn’t feel empty—but full, like they were letting the day settle around them gently.

Billy cradled the bowl in his hands, elbows resting on the worn kitchen table.

He took small spoonfuls, letting the flavor linger.

Across from him, Artur had gone quiet again, eyes lowered to his plate but not quite focused.

His lashes cast soft shadows, his fingers absently tearing a piece of bread.

Mr. Dand sat at the end of the table, humming sothing low under his breath—an old folk tune maybe.

He didn’t say much, only refilled their bowls when needed and passed around more bread without being asked.

At one point, Artur glanced up. "Ten o’clock tomorrow, right?" His voice was low and thick with exhaustion.

Billy nodded. "Ten sharp." He paused, eyes flicking toward Mr. Dand. "Think anyone will co?"

Mr. Dand smiled around his spoon. "Word’s been going around the village faster than gossip. You’ll have a full house before noon."

Billy gave a small smile, but it didn’t reach all the way to his eyes. "I hope so."

"You don’t need to hope," Mr. Dand said, reaching for his cup. "You built sothing beautiful. People feel that."

The clock on the wall ticked on, steady and soft.

Outside, the wind had stilled, and the air had grown cooler.

Night had wrapped itself around the house like a heavy blanket.

Billy leaned back in his chair, hands folded on his stomach. "I think I’ll sleep like the dead tonight."

"You better," Artur said, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t look at him, just kept his gaze on the candle flickering faintly on the table between them.

Billy studied him for a mont. The curve of his mouth, the faint color in his cheeks from the warmth of the room. "You okay?"

Artur shrugged. "Just tired."

But Billy knew. There was sothing else in the quiet between them.

A kind of fragile peace before the storm. He didn’t press. Instead, he let the mont breathe.

Mr. Dand pushed his chair back, the legs scraping softly against the tile.

He gathered the empty bowls into his hands, the faint clink of ceramic breaking the comfortable silence.

"I’ll clean up," he said, waving them toward the hallway. "You two go rest. Tomorrow’s big."

Billy rose from his seat but lingered a step closer, his fingers curling and uncurling at his side before he spoke. "Thanks for dinner. Really."

Mr. Dand glanced up from the dishes, and for a mont, his eyes softened in that quiet, fatherly way that never felt forced.

The corners crinkled with a warmth that reminded Billy of hearthlight.

"Go," he said gently. "Sleep. And tomorrow... enjoy what you’ve made."

Artur stepped in beside Billy, the faint sll of woodsmoke and soap clinging to him.

Without a word, he guided Billy toward the dim hallway, their footsteps muted against the worn planks.

They didn’t talk much as they moved through the house, the lamps dimd one by one.

Just the rustle of clothes, the creak of floorboards, the sound of the wind brushing against the windows.

When Billy finally sank into bed, he stared at the ceiling for a long mont.

The quiet buzz of nerves stirred beneath his skin, but it wasn’t fear anymore.

It was hope.

Outside his window, the village slept, its rooftops tucked under the dark. Morning waited sowhere just beyond the trees.