Chapter Twelve
YOU, ME, AND MEMORY LANE
COLE-PRESENT
Her wordsstill echo in my mind, sharp and distinct. I want you in my life, Cole. I want what we had back.
They hit me with the force of a freight train. A sharp blow that knocks the breath right out of my chest. For a moment, I can’t even catch my breath, the words spinning in my head, colliding with everything else I’ve been trying to keep contained.
It’s like she reached into my soul, pulled out all the things I’ve been scared to say, and laid them bare in front of me. My emotions are a whirlwind. Hope, love, anxiety, confusion, and something else too, something I can’t quite place. But most of all, there’s this overwhelming sense of relief.
Like I’ve been treading water for years, and someone just threw me a lifeline.
I’ve been thinking about this moment for so long. Wishing for it, hoping for it, wondering if it would ever come. But no matter how many times I imagined this moment in my head, I never could’ve predicted how it would feel. Her voice was so soft, so fragile. It was like a whisper, barely above the silence, and yet the weight of those words made my heart skip a beat. There was nothing brash about them. No pride, no certainty, just a raw vulnerability that made everything else fall away.
No masks. No distance. Just here, completely open.
She didn’t just tell me she wanted me around. No, this was different. She admitted she needed me. That’s what hit me the hardest. She needs me. After everything. After the years apart, the mistakes, the distance, she needs me. And somehow, hearing those words from her makes everything else feel insignificant. It’s the most beautiful, terrifying thing I’ve ever heard.
Because when someone like Kenna lets you in again, it’s not just a second chance. It’s a responsibility. And I can’t afford to let her down. Not again.
When I help her up from the couch, I’m struck by how light she feels in my arms. She feels like something fragile and delicate, a whisper of glass that could shatter with the slightest touch. It’s like the weight that had been pressing down on her is lifting, even if just a little. But even though there’s still pain in her movements, there’s something different about her now. She’s more at ease, less burdened by the weight she’s been carrying, and I can feel it. Her body relaxes against mine, her head finding its place on my shoulder like it’s always belonged there.
It stirs something deep and protective in me. Like I’d fight the whole damn world just to keep her here, like this, safe.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I murmur, my voice soft and steady, trying to keep the flood of emotions I feel from pouring out. I don’t want to overwhelm her, not now.
My throat tightens around the words. I want to say so much more. How much I’ve missed her. How scared I was that this moment would never come. But I swallow it all, holding back the confessions. It isn’t the time for that. This moment calls only for care.
Carrying her up the stairs, I move slowly, deliberately, careful to be gentle, every step feeling more significant than the last. I don’t want to rush, don’t want to break the moment, even though my mind is trying to race ahead, trying to process everything all at once. But I can’t help it. Every step, every shift of her body against mine, feels like a piece of my heart is expanding.With each second I hold her, my world feels fuller. This moment, this feeling, this closeness. Is everything I’ve been waiting for without even realizing it.
I memorize the curve of her shoulder against my chest, the way her breath catches every few seconds. Not from pain, but from quiet, aching trust.
When we finally reach her room, I lower her to the bed with the same tenderness. She moves slowly, her movements stiff, and I help her peel off her clothes. I can see the exhaustion in her eyes, but I try to make light of it, teasing her gently about how slow she’s moving—like she’s about to set a world record for the slowest person in the world's history.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement in them, a flicker of life. That’s all I want. Just one flicker at a time, until she shines again.
She laughs. A soft, weak sound that still makes my chest tighten with something I can’t name. It’s a genuine laugh, though, and I can’t help but smile. For the first time in hours, I feel like I can breathe again.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” she chuckles, a tired but warm smile flickering across her face. “I’ll get into bed, I promise.”
As I help her into her pajamas, I tuck the covers around her, my fingers brushing lightly over her skin as I adjust the sheets. I linger for a moment, just watching her. There’s something about the way she looks right now. Vulnerable, drained, yet somehow still so incredibly beautiful, that tugs at me in a way I can’t put into words. It’s like seeing her in a new light, as if for the first time. I’ve seen her like this before, but this time, it feels different.
Maybe because now, I’m not just looking at her. I’m seeing her. All of her.
And I want nothing more than to stay in this moment.
All I want to do is stay with her, hold her, make sure she’s safe, but for tonight, I’ll settle for just being near her. Watching over her as she drifts into sleep.
I pull the covers higher, tuck them in around her with a soft,careful motion, and then I watch her close her eyes, her breathing deepening, the tension in her face easing as she falls into the quiet of sleep.
I sit down on the edge of the bed for what feels like hours, just watching her sleep. There’s a kind of peace about her in this moment—raw, fragile, but so incredibly peaceful. And I know she needs this time to rest, to recover. I won’t leave her. Not tonight.
I don’t even consider leaving her side. But eventually, I get up and move to the living room. I don’t want to, but I want to at least give her the space she deserves. Before I go, I crack the door to her room open just a little. I want to be close, just in case she needs something. I can’t stand the idea of being too far from her now.
I make a mental note of the small sounds. The soft click of her bedside lamp, the quiet rustle of the sheets, the faint hum of her breathing. I tuck them away like keepsakes. Evidence that she’s here. That I’m here.
The couch is uncomfortable, and sleep feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, but my mind is restless. My thoughts keep returning to her words, to that confession, to everything we’ve shared. I can’t shake the way it feels, like a door is opening between us that’s been closed for far too long. It’s a moment I’ll never forget, and I know it’s one that will stay with me forever.
