Not heavy. Not tense. Just quiet.
He looks at me like he’s reading a page he’s seen a hundred times and still wants to memorize again.
“You look different,” he says softly.
I blink. “In a bad way?”
He shakes his head. “In alighterway.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. So I just step closer.
We stand in the kitchen, the dim light flickering above the stove. His hands rest gently on my waist, waiting—not pulling, not assuming—justthere.
“I told them,” I say. “About George. About how it felt. About how much you’ve helped me hold it.”
His eyes don’t move from mine. “Yeah?”
I nod. “And I told them I want to talk to someone. A therapist. For real this time.”
His breath catches for a second—small, almost imperceptible. But I feel the joy behind it like a wave.
“I’m proud of you,” he says. “So proud.”
“I’m not doing it just for me,” I admit. “I mean—Iam. But also… I want to be better forus.You deserve that. We deserve that.”
He shakes his head gently, but not in disagreement. Just with too much emotion to contain. “I never needed you to be ‘better.’ Just needed you to beyou.But I love that you’re choosing this. For yourself. For us.”
I lean in, pressing my forehead to his chest, and feel his hands come up to cradle my back.
We stay like that for a long moment—breathing each other in.
Then I pull back, look up, and finally say the thing I’ve been holding inside:
“Thank you.”
He blinks. “For what?”
“For not flinching. For staying. For letting me break and rebuild. For reminding me I’m allowed to be lovedwithoutbeing perfectly put together.”
His expression softens, eyes shining.
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he whispers.
“Loving you isn’t hard, Ava. It’s the most natural thing in the world.”
I kiss him—slow, sure, no urgency. Just softness. Just love.
It’s the first time in weeks I kiss him because Iwant to, not because I need reassurance or escape.
Just… because I love him.
When I pull back, we’re both smiling. Small. Safe.
“You feel okay?” he asks again, rubbing my back.
“I feel like I’m finally coming back to myself,” I whisper.
He leans his forehead against mine. “Then we’ll keep going. As slow as you need. As long as it takes.”
