Stillness doesn’t sit right in my chest. Never has. It means there’s time to think and remember. And I’ve spent years keeping myself busy, keeping sharp. Muting it out.
But here, in this house that smells like peace, I feel it.
The guilt. The history. The hands I’ve used to hurt people.
I look around at the throw pillows and the faint glow of the hallway they disappeared down. Maybe Ned is right. This was never meant for someone like me.
Men like me don’t end up in houses like this. They don’t get good women or quiet mornings or kids who smile at them like they’re safe.
We end up with regrets and criminal records and blood under our fingernails that soap can’t touch.
I’ve done bad things that don’t balance out with the good in her life, even with the right intentions. Things I wouldn’t want her to know. Things I don’t want to say out loud, because if I do, maybe she’ll look at me and see what I am, not who I’m trying to be.
And she’d be right to walk away.
The couch shifts under my weight. I stare at the blank TV screen like it might give me an answer. Nothing. And the familiar ache creeps in to say:
You don’t get to have this.
You’re not meant for soft things.
Give him an angel and he'll find a wing to break.
Eventually, her faint footsteps on the hardwood return, leisured like she’s letting the moment stretch. She ambles intothe room bathed in the kitchen light, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a sleepy-kind-of peace.
Sable drops down beside me without a word, tucking her legs up and curling into my side. She presses her face into my chest and exhales, then pulls back just enough to kiss me. Her lips linger like she wants me to know this one really means something, but also like she knows I need this kiss to stay upright.
I run a hand through her hair, brushing it back from her face. “You relieved?”
She smiles. “Immensely. I worked that up in my head to be a lot more stressful. You were amazing.”
“Bash is amazing,” I say. “Kid’s sharp.”
“You were too.”
I pull her closer than I probably should. Her hand presses against my chest, her thumb moving in small circles over my shirt. She notices my hesitation—of course she does. We are attuned.
“What is it?” she asks.
I pause, but I don’t dodge. I don’t lie. Not with her.
“I want to give you a good reason to choose me,” I say. “You’ve rebuilt your life. You’re this grounded, bright, capable woman who doesn’t flinch when shit goes sideways. And I’m... a man with too many bruised knuckles and a past I still haven’t figured out how to carry without it bleeding all over the future.”
She stays quiet. Just listens.
“I used to tell myself the violence didn’t stick to me. That it didn’t count if I was doing it for the right reasons. But it gets inside you. Makes a home in the worst way. And the scariest part? Some days, I don’t even know who I’d be without it.”
Her thumb pauses on my chest.
“I want to be better for you. I am better with you. But there’s still this part of me that thinks one day you’ll wake up and realizeI was just a detour. That I don’t belong here. Not with you. Not in a house that smells like pancakes and laundry.”
I lift a hand to her jaw, tilt her face toward mine so I can see her eyes.
“I’m falling in love with you,” I say, quiet but certain of my words. “Fast. And I can’t stop it. Even if I’m not the kind of man you were supposed to end up with.”
She pauses—just for a breath—but it lands heavy in the space between us.
Then she pulls back, just enough to look at me, eyes level with mine and clear.
