She sets her plate down, wipes her fingers on a napkin, and leans forward slightly. Not enough to crowd me. Enough to make it impossible to look anywhere else.
“You have more than that,” she says.
I glance at her, wary. “Yeah?”
“You have me,” she says.
The words are simple. But the way she says them, steady, calm, like a fact, not an offer, knocks the breath out of me.
“If you want,” she adds, a beat later. “Only if you want.”
My brain goes quiet. For a second, all the noise, the old voices, the warnings, the instincts that tell me nothing this good is meant for someone like me, fade out. It’s just her. Sitting in front of me in an oversized sweater, hair messy, eyes clear. I look at her for a long time.
Searching for doubt. For hesitation. For the flinch people get when they offer something they’re not entirely sure they’re willing to give. Her eyes don’t flinch. Her hands don’t shake.She’s nervous, yeah. I can see that in the way her fingers twist the edge of the napkin. But she’s not taking it back. She’s not playing.
“You don’t even know what I’d do next,” I say, because it feels important; she has all the ugly pieces up front. “I could screw this up. I could fall on my face. I could… I don’t know, crash your couch for a week, and realize I can’t function out here and go find some crappy job three towns over just to get my head straight.”
She nods. “You could.”
“You could wake up in a month and realize letting an ex-con into your house was the worst idea you ever had,” I add.
She tilts her head, considering. “I let you have cinnamon rolls and my blanket. I think my judgment’s okay so far.”
“Mara,” I say, voice low.
“Jax,” she replies, just as quietly.
“You’re not signing up for an easy thing,” I warn.
“I know,” she says. “But I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for… real.”
Something thuds behind my ribs.
She takes a breath, then continues, voice gentler now.
“You said in one of your letters that you didn’t believe in second chances,” she says. “That you thought those were for other people. People who messed up less. People who didn’t have records and scars and bad memories.”
I remember writing that. A night when the walls felt too close, and the future felt too far.
“I believe in them,” she says. “For me. For you. For us, if we decide to make that a thing.”
“Us,” I repeat, the word foreign and familiar all at once.
“Us,” she confirms. “Could be we figure out we’re better as friends. Could be we crash and burn. Could be we… I don’t know. Figure it out slowly, like normal people do when therearen’t court dates and trauma and Christmas tree metaphors involved.”
I snort softly at that. “You think we’re normal?”
“Absolutely not,” she says. “But we can fake it until we’re ready to be honest about being completely weird together.” A laugh bursts out of me, and it feels…good.
Real.
Not forced.
I lean back in my chair, look at her, and realize something: For the first time since I walked out of that prison, I feel like I’ve stepped into something solid. Something real. Something true. Something earned, not given out of guilt or obligation.
I push my plate aside and stand up. She watches me, chin lifting slightly, like she’s bracing for something. I move around the table, slow, giving her time to stop me if she wants to. She doesn’t. When I reach her, I don’t rush in or grab at her. I plant myself in front of her, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her knees against my jeans.
“Stand up,” I say softly.
