Nora smiled—not brightly. Not easily. But with something like respect. “Then,” she said, “that’s exactly where we’ll begin.”
“Okay.”
An hour later, Anthony was waiting when I stepped out of the building. My first therapy session was over, and I was exhausted in ways I hadn’t expected.
His black truck was pulled up along the curb like it belonged there—solid, quiet, a dark shape against the washed-out afternoon. He wasn’t leaning against it the way he used to when he felt confident. He wasn’t pacing, either. He just stood a few feet away from the driver’s door, hands tucked into the front pocket of a worn gray hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to take up room in my life again.
The familiar hoodie was one I loved on him. Soft. Broken in. The sleeves were pushed up just enough to show his wrists, faint veins, the pale line of an old scar. He’d pulled the hood up, probably for warmth, but it also felt like armor—something to hide behind without fully disappearing.
The sight of him did something quiet but seismic inside me. Not relief exactly. Not safety. More like the ground shifting just enough to remind me I was standing on something solid again.
He looked up when the door closed behind me. His deep brown eyes went to my face immediately—not my arm, not the way I held myself, not the places I’d learned to protect. Me. His gaze searched, careful and restrained, like he was checking for permission just by looking.
When our eyes met, his mouth curved into something small and uncertain. Not a smile he was proud of. Just one he couldn’t quite stop.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was soft. Lower than usual. Like he’d sanded the edges off it.
“Hey,” I answered.
That was it. No questions. No,are you okaythat neither of us knew how to answer yet. No apologies shoved into the space between us. Just the acknowledgment that we were standing in the same moment, breathing the same air.
“Ready to head home?”
It was a simple yet complicated question. The house hadn’t felt like home in a long time. I felt more like I was squatting in my past than living in the present when I was there. But for now, it was all I had.
“Sure. I’m beat.”
The wind cut through my jacket, sharp enough to raise goosebumps along my arms, and Anthony noticed immediately. He shifted closer without comment, angling his body just enough to block the worst of it. Not shielding me completely. Just enough to help.
As we walked to the truck, his hand hovered near mine for half a second—an almost-touch. He waited. Always waiting now.
I closed the distance myself, threading my fingers through his. The contact was simple. Warm. Real. My chest tightened anyway.
He squeezed once, a quiet punctuation.I’m here. You’re here.That was enough for now.
The house smelled like garlic and olive oil when we got back.
It hit me the moment the door closed behind us—warm, familiar, grounding. Anthony moved through the kitchen with an ease that felt intentional, like he was anchoring himself through motion. Chopping. Stirring. Tasting. The steady rhythm of it filled the space where words didn’t need to go yet.
I sat at the counter, sling resting against my ribs, watching him like I was relearning the shape of something I used to know by heart. The way his shoulders shifted when he reached. The way he leaned his hip into the counter absentmindedly. The hoodie still on, sleeves pushed up now, dusted faintly with flour.
“How was it?” he asked, not looking at me.
I appreciated that more than he probably knew. No pressure. No demand for a performance. I thought about Nora’s office. The muted light. The quiet way she’d let silence breathe without rushing to fill it.
“She didn’t try to fix me,” I said slowly. My voice sounded strange to my own ears—unused, careful. “She just… didn’t disappear when I said the hard parts.”
Anthony nodded, knife still moving. “She sounds good.”
“She said grief teaches your brain the wrong math,” I added. “That it messes with how you measure worth.”
The knife paused against the cutting board. “That tracks,” he said quietly.
I swallowed, my throat tightening. “She said I learned early that love either consumes or vanishes.”
This time, he set the knife down completely. Turned to face me fully, like the moment deserved his whole attention.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Not rushed. Not defensive. Just true. “I fed that fear. I know I did.”
