Her lashes fluttered once, then stilled. Out cold.
Her breathing evened out, slow, peaceful, the kind that only happens when someone finally lets go of everything weighing them down.
And my chest… did this weird thing. That tight, burning ache that wasn’t pain, but wasn’t calm either.
I turned my head again slightly to look at her face. She looked different when she was sleeping. Softer, as if the world hadn’t touched her yet. The little crease between her brows was gone. No walls, no guarded eyes. Just Aurora, real, raw, unguarded.
Honey’s paw twitched against her arm, and I gently adjusted the blanket so it covered both of them.
She didn’t stir. Just nuzzled closer.
Her head was right against my shoulder now. My hoodie was probably soaked with her warmth, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t moving. My arm rested carefully along the back of the couch, not touching her, but close enough to feel the faint rise and fall of her breathing against me.
I looked down once more.
Aurora asleep. Honey asleep. Both of them curled up against me as if I were something safe.
I wasn’t safe.
But they acted as if I was.So I want to be, I want to always be safe for my two girls.
“Sleep well, Princess,” I murmured quietly, almost to myself.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Aurora
Something heavy rested against the top of my head. Warm. Steady.
It took me a moment to remember where I was: a soft blanket, the quiet hum of the TV still playing something half forgotten, and a faint vibration against my arm. Honey, purring.
Then I felt it. The slow rhythm of breath beside me.
Joshua.
His head had tilted at some point during the night, resting gently on top of mine. And somehow, I didn’t move. I should’ve. I should’ve sat up, pulled away, pretended like this never happened. But I didn’t. I just stayed still, eyes half-open, letting my gaze trace the window where the morning light spilt through faintly.
Last night came rushing back: the bike ride, the cold air biting at my skin, the view from the top of the hill. His voice said his name after I’d said mine.Friends.
That word still echoed softly in my chest.
I had told myself that once the ride was over, I’d let go. That I’d keep my promise to myself, to stop getting attached, to stop giving pieces of myself to people who’d only ever shattered them.
But then his hands were on my thighs, grounding me. His voice—steady, low—telling me I was safe. I actually believed it.
So how do you walk away from something that feels like safety after years of chaos?
I couldn’t.
He wasn’t the same Joshua who spat cruel words and glared as if I were beneath him. He was quieter now. Softer. He cooked, he fed a stray; he made me laugh without even trying; he looked at me like I was human again.
Ever since New Year’s, it’s been different.
And now it’s been two weeks, two weeks of laughter and quiet meals. Of Honey’s tiny paws climbing over our laps, of little moments that made me forget who he used to be.
People don’t change overnight.
But maybe he did.
