Her fingers twist in her lap, and guilt cuts sharp through me for disturbing the peace we’ve found. But the men in group keep telling me that avoiding it isn’t the same as dealing with it.
“Sorry,” I add quickly. “I know it must be hard—”
“It’s not that,” she cuts in, shaking her head. “I do think about it. A lot.” She exhales slowly. “One of the women, I can’t remember which, said it would haunt me.” She lifts her eyes to mine. “But it doesn’t.” She pauses before adding, “I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad he can’t hurt anyone else. Most survivors don’t get that kind of peace.” Her voice steadies. “The fact it was my hand that stopped him . . . it gives me that.”
Something warm and unexpected swells in my chest. Not pride that she killed him, but relief that she’s not drowning in it. That he isn’t living rent-free in her head.
I offer a small smile, turning my palm upward. She slides her hand into mine, and I curl my fingers around hers.
“I’m glad too,” I say quietly. “I hated thinking he might be giving you nightmares.”
We sit in silence, something we’ve become comfortable doing lately.
After a few minutes, I drop my feet to the floor. “I should let you sleep.”
I still when her hand slips around my wrist. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to stay in here tonight, with me.”
My chest twists with love for this woman, that she finally trusts me enough to lay beside her.
I slide back against the headboard. “Sure,” I say casually, like this isn’t huge.
She smiles, nodding. “Great.”
A few minutes pass, then she turns to face me.
“I went back to therapy.” My brow furrows. I hadn’t realised she was struggling. “Not because of Liam,” she rushes to clarify. “Not really.” She sighs, frustrated. “I feel . . . ready.”
I wait.
“When I’m around you,” she continues, “I feel things again.” My heart slams, but I keep my expression calm. “And I didn’t know if that was normal, so I asked.” She looks down at her hands. “She said we all heal differently, at different speeds.” Her voice softens. “I thought I’d never feel ready again.”
When she looks up, her eyes hold something new. “And I wondered,” she says carefully, “if . . . if you wanted to try kissing me.”
I barely breathe.
“You can say no,” she adds quickly. “There’s no pressure. I just—”
I lean in, cupping her cheek gently, grounding us both. “Yes,” I whisper.
Her lips curve into a shy smile. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
We hold each other’s gaze. My thumb strokes lightly over her cheek as I move closer, slow enough that she could stop me at any point.
She doesn’t.
Our lips meet, soft, brief, reverent. I pull back just enough to check her reaction.
Her eyes are closed, her breathing shallow.
“Again,” she whispers.
This time, I linger, pouring everything I’m not saying into the kiss. When I pull back, her eyes flutter open.
Her hands rise, cupping my face. This time, she leans in first, fitting us together with certainty. When her tongue brushes my mouth, a low sound escapes me—something relieved, something undone.
When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, her breaths uneven.
