After a while, I whisper, “I lied earlier. When I said there was nothing new.”
He waits. Doesn’t push.
I reach into my bag and pull it out—the photo, already wrinkled from how tightly I’ve held it. I hand it to him without looking.
He goes still.
Then: “Ava… this was taken…”
I shift in his lap, keeping my eyes on the floor. “The day after Sandra’s incident. When we spent the night in your studio.”
He’s silent for a beat. His thumb brushes my back, slow and grounding. Then he leans back to look at me, the photo still in his hand.
“This is inside the building.”
“I know.”
“They saw that?” he says it low, more to himself than to me, but I nod anyway.
I watch the tightness bloom in his jaw. The way his eyes go dark. But it’s not anger at me. It’s fury—for me. For us.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because…” I swallow hard. “Because it was ours. That moment. And now it’s… not. And I hated how it made me feel. I didn’t want to feel ashamed of something that was so—so good. So intimate.”
He exhales slowly, folding the photo in half and sliding it into his back pocket. “You don’t ever need to feel ashamed of that. Or of us.”
“I know.”
His hand finds the back of my neck, warm and steady. “This changes things. I’ll take it to Kade tonight.”
“I figured,” I whisper, pressing closer. “I just… didn’t want to ruin the calm we’ve had.”
“Baby,” he says, brushing a kiss to my forehead. “There’s no calm if you’re scared. We handle it, together. That’s what we do.”
And just like that, the fear in my chest eases a little. Not because the danger is gone.
But because I’m not facing it alone anymore.
Elijah shifts slightly on the floor, adjusting so I’m fully straddling his lap now, my knees bracketing his hips. The warmlights above seem too cold for the way he looks at me—like I’m something sacred.
His palms cradle my face, thumbs gently tracing the curve of my cheekbones. I know what he sees. The tension is still clinging to my shoulders. The unshed tears caught in my lashes. But he never flinches. Never looks away.
“You’re so strong, baby,” he murmurs. “But you don’t have to hold everything by yourself anymore.”
My throat catches. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“You don’t have to know. You just have to let me help.”
And then he kisses me. Not demanding. Not possessive.
It’s slow. Tender. Reverent. His lips brush mine like a promise. One hand slips to the back of my neck, anchoring me. The other rests at the small of my back, not pulling, justthere. Holding me like I might float away otherwise.
I melt into him. Into his mouth. Into the soft groan that escapes him when my fingers slide into his hair. I kiss him back like I’m trying to rewrite the memory of that photo—like this is what I want imprinted on my skin instead.
His voice is rough when he finally pulls back. “You with me?”
I nod. “Always.”
