Her eyes search mine, panic surfacing. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” I say quietly. “Scared the shit out of me.”
I glance up at Mia, who’s watching us like she doesn’t want to blink. I nod once. “Can you give us a minute?”
She hesitates, then disappears into the back without a word.
I turn back to Ava, stroking her hair. “We need to talk, and I won’t lie—it’s not easy. But right now, I just need to know you’re okay.”
She doesn’t answer. She just looks at me. And I know—whatever I say next could change everything.
Ava doesn’t say anything right away. She just lies there, staring up at me like she’s trying to make sense of what’s real and what isn’t. Her breathing is still uneven, and I can feel the rapid thump of her pulse beneath my fingers.
I sit down on the edge of the couch, still holding her hand. My thumb moves in slow, steady circles over her skin, like maybe I can calm her that way—like maybe I can calm myself.
She swallows hard. “Did I... pass out?”
I nod. “Yeah. You scared me to death.”
A humorless smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “You’ve got a habit of doing that lately.”
Her lips twitch, just slightly, but she doesn’t laugh.
Her eyes are glassy. “It felt like I couldn’t breathe. Like everything just... caved in.”
I nod again. I know that feeling too well.
“I saw it happen,” I say quietly. “The second your thoughts started turning on you. I could see it in your eyes. You always go quiet when you’re scared.”
She looks away at that, ashamed.
“Hey.” I reach out, gently cupping her cheek so she’ll look at me. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut down on me.”
“I thought I was getting better,” she whispers. “I thought I was stronger.”
“You are,” I say, without hesitation. “You’re the strongest person I know. But even the strongest people crack under pressure. Especially when they’re carrying more than anyone else can see.”
Tears well in her eyes again, and she blinks quickly, trying to hold them back.
I don’t push. I just stay there, quiet and steady, until her breathing evens out a little. She’s still fragile, but she’s coming back to herself.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” she says after a long pause.
“I know,” I reply. “But I needed to. Because I can’t just love the version of you that’s smiling and confident and has everything figured out.”
I lean in a little closer. “I need you to know I love all of it—even the messy, scared, broken pieces. Especially those.”
Her gaze softens, but there’s still something unsettled behind her eyes.
I know what it is.
She can feel it. The shift. The thing I haven’t said yet—hanging between us like static in the air.
And I know I can’t avoid it any longer.
But for just a moment longer, we sit in the quiet. Her hand in mine. Her eyes locked on me. And I memorize it—this pause, this fragile stillness—before everything changes.
She’s waiting. Still. Calm. Patient in that way that terrifies me more than if she’d screamed or walked away.
