and can’t bear to leave unwritten.
The letter that will hurt the most.
The letter he’ll never see.
The letter that might break me more than losing him ever could.
Chapter
Twelve
Dax
Iknock because I don’t know how else to tell her I’m outside, because standing here with my heartbeat lodged in my throat feels like the closest thing to penance I’ve ever done, and because part of me is convinced she won’t answer. I knock even though the stupid little voice in the back of my skull keeps whispering that she shouldn’t — not after what I did, not after what I said, not after the way I tore us open and walked away like I wasn’t bleeding for her too.
But then the door opens — and she’s there.
Barefoot on the threshold, toes curling against the cold floorboards, drowning in an oversized hoodie that’s slipping off one shoulder, her hair scraped into a messy bun that’s already losing the battle against gravity, one sock missing like she got distracted halfway through putting her life together this morning. She looks tired in that soft, human way — not broken, just worn, like she didn’t expect anyone to show up and certainly not me.
And God help me, she’s so fucking beautiful my lungs miss a step.
My voice sticks. Actually sticks. Like my body forgot how to speak the moment those eyes found mine.
She arches a brow — unimpressed, guarded, but alive. “You’re early.”
“You’re… real.”
It falls out of me before I can reel it back in, before I can pretend like I’m composed or sane or not completely undone by just looking at her.
She blinks, slow, confused, like she’s trying to decide whether I’m joking or genuinely losing my mind on her doorstep.
I clear my throat, shifting the weight of the paper bag in my hands. “Sorry. Couldn’t wait.”
Her gaze drops.
To the bag.
To the steam escaping the lid of the takeaway cups, curling through the cool morning air like a peace offering she never asked for but I brought anyway.
“Is that coffee?” she asks, voice low.
“And pastries.” I lift the bag slightly, the corner of the warm paper brushing my knuckles as I hold it up like a white flag, like a promise, like a pathetic attempt at redemption wrapped in sugar and caffeine.
Her mouth twitches. Just a little. Like she’s trying hard not to let it happen — not to smile, not to soften — but there it is. The ghost of something warm flickering at the edges.
And for the first time in days, I breathe.
Properly.
Deeply.
Like oxygen isn’t something I have to fight for.
Like maybe — just maybe — she didn’t close the door in her heart when she closed it in my face.
Like I might still have a chance to fix what I broke.
Or at the very least… try.
