And I believe him. Not just because he says it with so much certainty, but because he’s Ledger. So far, I’ve learned that he keeps his promises. Every one of them—even the dirty ones.
Still, life has been anything but normal. We’ve been playing this game of pretending to be newlyweds, but the truth? It doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.
This morning, I woke up to the weight of his arm draped over me, his naked body pressed against mine, warm and now familiar. We’d made love, slow and unhurried, as if we had all the time in the world. The contract about doing it “at least twice” has long since been obliterated—we’ve surpassed that number without even trying. It’s almost laughable now, how we’ve settled into this rhythm, this closeness that feels so natural it scares me.
And yet, standing under the spray of the shower, the hot water streaming over me, I feel more like myself today than I have in weeks.
The steam swirls around me as I lean against the tiled wall, letting the heat loosen the tension that still clings to me. For the first time in days, my mind isn’t racing with questions or doubts. Instead, it’s filled with him. The way his hands move over my skin like I’m something precious. The way he looks at me, like I’m more than just someone he’s bound to by a contract.
Like I’m someone he chooses.
Like I’m someone he sees.
Like I’m someone he’s been waiting for all his life.
But the thought that lingers, intense and unrelenting, is whether I’m ready to believe it. Whether I can give him more of myself when there’s still a part of me terrified of losing everything.
I turn off the water, wrapping myself in a towel as I step out into the quiet of the bathroom. The smell of coffee drifts in through the door, a reminder that Ledger is just outside, probably waiting for me with that crooked grin and another plan to make today unforgettable.
And as I catch my reflection in the fogged-up mirror, I realize something I hadn’t dared to admit before.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to stop surviving. Maybe, for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m ready to live.
I step out of the bathroom, towel wrapped tightly around me, and head toward the closet. His closet. My clothes are hanging there now, mixed with his, like they’ve always belonged. Like I belong. The thought sends a strange warmth through me, equal parts comforting and terrifying.
I let my fingers skim over the fabrics until I find it—a soft, flirty dress that feels like a forgotten piece of me. I slip it on, smoothing it over my hips, and take a moment to catch my reflection in the mirror. It’s not just a dress. It’s a choice. A way to say I’m still here.
At the small vanity by the window, I pull out the make-up bag. A little foundation, a sweep of blush, a flick of mascara. Small touches, but ones that make me feel like I’m more than the girl who’s been surviving explosions and chaos. Today, I’m choosing to be me.
My hair falls loose around my shoulders, but I run my fingers through it, teasing out soft waves. It feels different, intentional. Like I’m taking back some piece of control, some piece of myself.
When I walk into the kitchen, Ledger is leaning casually against the counter, a mug of coffee in one hand. He’s shirtless, and my eyes drop to the defined ridges of his abs. God, they’re ridiculous—taut, sculpted, and completely unfair. I know exactly how it feels to run my fingers over them, to trace every line with my tongue while his hands explore me in return.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. Not when I haven’t even had breakfast.
Dragging my gaze upward, I catch the mess of his hair, sleep-tousled and unfairly sexy, but it’s his eyes that stop me in my tracks. They’re intense yet warm, tracking my every move like he’s cataloging every detail. His attention lingers just long enough to make my pulse race, heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks.
“You’re looking better,” he says, his voice smooth, that signature cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
But there’s more in his tone—a depth, a softness, something that feels dangerously close to reverence. It catches me off guard, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. He’s not just looking at me—he’s seeing me. And that’s more disarming than his abs, his smirk, or even the memories of last night could ever be.
I pause, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks under his gaze. “Thanks,” I reply softly.
He pours two mugs of coffee, sliding one across the counter toward me before taking the other for himself. Leaning back, he rests a hip against the counter, casual in a way that makes my heart stutter.
“You did your hair,” he says, his gaze sweeping over me again, lingering just long enough to make me fidget under his attention. “And the dress . . .” He takes a slow sip of his coffee, the smirk on his lips softening into something almost tender. “It suits you. You look . . . beautiful.”
The words hit me harder than I expect, settling somewhere deep, where my doubts usually live. I glance away, pretending to smooth the fabric of my dress, but his voice stays with me.
Maybe I can belong here. With him.
Maybe I already do.
“Don’t get too excited,” I say, rolling my eyes as I stir cream into my coffee, trying to downplay the moment. “I’m not back to normal yet.”
“You’re close,” he replies, his voice softer now, threaded with something that makes me pause. “I can see it.”
I glance at him, startled by the sincerity in his tone. It’s disarming, the way he says it—like he means it, like he sees something in me I haven’t even found yet. For a moment, I don’t know how to respond, the words catching in my throat.
