After lying in our aftermath for what feels like hours, Donovan finally moves. He rolls me off him, careful but wordless, and yanks his suit pants back on. His eyes sweep the mess for his shirt, finding it in a crumpled heap by the table.
He doesn’t say a thing when he crouches to grab my dress. Just slips it over my shoulders and helps me into it, his hands lingering for a beat longer than necessary. Then he lifts me—like I weigh nothing—and carries me out of the studio.
Through the hall, into my parents’ house—my house. Ansel and Theo look up from the couch, eyes full of questions they don’t voice. My head stays tucked into Donovan’s shoulder, not willing to meet their gaze.
His steps are soundless on the carpeted stairs. In my bedroom, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and sets me gently on the counter. He turns the tap, lets the tub fill with steaming water, and then sprinkles in my favorite soaking salts.
When he comes back to me, his hands are steady, unhurried, slipping me out of my paint-smeared clothes. I’m glad he does—my limbs feel heavy, useless. He undresses himself next and, without a word, lifts me again.
The heat of the bath wraps around us as he lowers us into the water. His chest is firm against my back, his arms folding around me like a shield. The scent of turpentine still lingers faintly in my hair, mixing with the salt and steam.
The water soothes the sting of dried paint against my skin, the heat loosening the knots in my shoulders. Donovan’s arms never leave me, his chest solid against my back, his fingers tracing idle circles over my forearm beneath the surface.
Neither of us talks. There’s nothing to say that doesn’t feel too small for today.
When the water begins to cool, he stands, wraps me in a thick towel, and then dries himself. He dresses us both in soft cotton—one of his worn shirts for me, boxers for him—then leads me to the bed.
I sink into the mattress, and he follows, pulling the blankets up around us like he’s tucking me away from the world. His arms tighten around me, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
“I love you,” he murmurs, lips brushing my hairline. “I’m here. Always. Whatever you need.”
I don’t answer, but my fingers find his and squeeze. He kisses my temple, my cheek, and the curve of my jaw, each one slower than the last.
“You’re not alone, Stella,” he says, the words low and certain, like a promise he’s sworn a thousand times.
And for tonight, I let myself believe him.
Stella
Ijolt awake from a hellish nightmare; my breath is ragged, the sound of it too loud in the stillness. My heart is pounding like I’ve been running for miles. The shadows on the ceiling tilt and sway as I force myself to focus, to remember where I am. Donovan is beside me, deep in sleep, one arm curled loosely over my side. The moonlight filtering through the blinds lays silver stripes across his bare back. His breathing is slow, steady, as if nothing in the world could touch him here.
I slip from the bed with careful steps, the carpet cool beneath my feet. My hands ache for something warm, something to hold. In the kitchen, I set the kettle on and listen to the water heat, the faint hiss like the static hum of my nerves. Steam curls into the air as I pour it over a bag of chamomile, the scent blooming soft and floral.
Mug in hand, I pad to the living room. My papa’s chair waits by the hearth, and I sink into it, pulling his blanket around me. The blanket is soft in that worn, lived-in way, rich with the scent of his cologne—cedar and smoke laced with the quiet sweetness of home.
My gaze drifts upward to the portrait above the fireplace—Papa, Mama, and me. I must have been seven. My grin in that photo is gap-toothed, my hair curled and pinned back with a pearl barrette.
I remember the day in perfect detail.Mama fussed over me, making sure the bow at the back of my dress sat just right. The fabric was layers of tulle so puffy I could barely sit, but I didn’t care—I felt like a real princess. Papa stood nearby in a suit so sharp it could cut, his tie perfectly knotted, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Mama swept down the stairs in a deep blue dress, her perfume—jasmine and something warmer—leaving a trail in the air.
The photographer was running late, and Papa put on music to fill the wait. The first notes drifted from the old record player, and I ran to him, my shiny black shoes tapping against the hardwood. “Papa, dance with me!” I’d begged.
He scooped me up without hesitation, setting my little feet on top of his. His hands were steady and strong as he held mine, guiding us into a slow sway. I can still feel the rhythm of his steps, the way the vibrations hummed through the floor into my body. The song wrapped around us—We’ve shared the years, We’ve shared each day, I love you, Daddy, But I found my way. His favorite version of Changes is the one Ozzy sang with his daughter.
Even now, the memory is so vivid I can almost hear my giggles echoing off the walls.
My eyes sting. Tears slip hot and fast down my cheeks. When my vision clears, I notice the envelope sitting on the coffee table—the one Preston left.
The front reads:To: Stella Love: Papa
My fingers hover over it. The paper is thick and smooth—his usual stationery, always chosen with care, the kind that said everything about his taste without him ever needing to explain.
I trace the loops of his handwriting, the way theSin Stella curls like a treble clef. My throat tightens, and I press the envelope to my chest, inhaling the faint scent of his blanket as if I can pull him closer through ink and memory.
The fire in the hearth has burned down to glowing embers, casting a dim, flickering light across the room. The walls seem to lean in, the silence pressing against me like the whole house is holding its breath.
With shaking hands, I slide my finger under the flap. I gently pull the letter from the envelope, not realizing I’m about to feel the first of so many changes.
Vince
