I close my eyes against the sting in my chest.
I know what happened. I know what Leah showed him, the lies she fed him, the images he believed.
But knowing thewhydoesn’t erase thehurt.
Forgiveness isn’t always instant. Even when love is still there.
And Idolove him. Never stopped.
And somehow, after everything—he’s here.
God, is this real?
Last night feels like a fever dream. Like the edge of something too big to hold and too fragile to name. But this?
This moment—his arm around me, his breath in my hair, the steadiness of his body—It feels like a miracle.
I close my eyes again, afraid that if I open them too fast, the world will shift and I’ll find myself back in the dark. Alone. Cold. Shaking.
But I’m not.
I’m here. In his arms. And now he knows… all of it. Every broken piece I tried to bury. And still… He stayed.
Even cracked open by the truth—he’s still holding me like I’m whole.
I let that truth in. Let it settle. Let it wrap around the bruised corners of my heart. Because even if I’m still bleeding somewhere deep inside. Right now, I’m not bleeding alone.
I blink up at the sunlight beginning to filter through the curtains. Soft birdsong echoes from somewhere beyond the trees—the gentle hum of life waking up around us.
And I feel… home.
Not in a place. But inhim.
I shift slightly beneath his arm, careful not to wake him—but his grip tightens instinctively.
“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, gravelly and low.
I turn slowly to face him and my heart lurches.
He looks tired.
Not just from lack of rest—but fromcarryingsomething all night. Guilt. Regret. Maybe even grief. His eyes meet mine—and I search them.
Is the tenderness still there?
Does he still seeme?
Yes.
And something more. Something fragile and infinite. Pain. Love. A kind of reverence I don’t know how to hold.
“Good morning.” I whisper, my voice catching at the edges.
His hand comes up, brushing softly against my cheek, fingers tracing my jaw like a question. Then he pulls me closer, wrapping himself around me like he can’t help it.
He presses a kiss to my forehead. Gentle. Steady. Like a promise made in silence.
“It is good,” he says, voice warm against my skin, his eyes never leaving mine.
