When the click of the cabinet latch finally sounded, I could breathe again—but barely. He turned back, leaning on the doorframe, watching me like he wasn’t sure if he should reach out or give me space. “You ok?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Youneverhave to apologize to me.”
For a long time, neither of us moved. The space between us was full of ghosts, but at least this time, they weren’t winning.
The first week was a minefield. He tiptoed around like a houseguest. Asked if he could open the fridge. Asked if he could order food to the house for us. Folded his blanket every morning and stacked it neatly on the edge of the bed like he was checking out of a motel.
By day three, I snapped. “You live here,” I said, standing in the doorway with my coffee. “You don’t have to act like a guest.”
He flashed that crooked grin that made my ribs ache. “Just trying not to mess it up.”
I wanted to tell him I’d been trying not to mess it up too—but that would have meant admitting how much he mattered. So I just rolled my eyes and handed him the extra mug I had poured for him.
Our mornings became a quiet rhythm. He used the last bit of cereal; I scowled and stole the bowl when he wasn’t looking. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across his face. The smell of caffeine and clean laundry filled the space between us, and for a few breaths, it felt like peace.
But the ghosts didn’t stay gone for long.
Sometimes I woke before him and found him sitting at the edge of the bed, cane leaning against his knee, staring at nothing. His shoulders were tense, jaw set.
“You ok?” I’d ask. I already knew the answer but I asked anyways.
“Yeah,” he’d say without looking at me. “Just… ”
I knew that tone. The one people used when silence felt like punishment. I reached for him, running my hand down his back. “Nightmares fucking suck.”
His laugh was dry but he lay back down and held me like I was the only thing keeping him afloat.
By the second week, we started bumping into each other’s habits.
He left his boots by the door—mud tracks and oil mixed on his soles and tracked across my rug. My cute rug that changed with the seasons and holidays. I bit my tongue, then spent an hour scrubbing when he wasn’t looking. He insisted on fixing the leaky faucet himself; I came home to a half-disassembled sink and water pooling on the floor.
We argued over small, stupid things but underneath the frustration, there was laughter trying to find a way out.
Little by little, we started fitting together again.
He’d started using my bathroom like it was his own, which shouldn’t have bothered me, except one morning he walked out with steam curling around him and nothing but a towel slung low on his hips.
I was sitting on the bed, cup of coffee in one hand and an invoice in the other. I looked up at him, forgot how to breathe, and brought the invoice to my lips like I was going to drink it. I hadn’t realized what I had done until he gave me a crooked grin.
He was still thinner than I remembered, scars fading but not gone, his hair damp and curling at the edges. But it wasn’t the body that stopped me—it was the look on his face when he realized I was staring. A flicker of the boy he used to be, the cockiness. The sexy smirk.
“What?” he said, voice still rough from sleep.
“Nothing,” I muttered, eyes definitely not on the towel. “Just…you missed a spot.”
He chuckled, winking at me. “Wanna help me get it?”
I sputtered, then pretended to be very interested in my mug while my pulse did stupid things.
He worked part-time at the garage, came home smelling like motor oil and exhaustion. I worked late on Willows Harbor paperwork. We orbited each other—close enough to touch, cautious enough not to burn.
Sometimes, when I was typing at my desk, I felt his eyes on me. Not in a way that trapped me—just quiet awe. Like he couldn’t quite believe I was real.
One night he leaned against the doorframe, watching me finish a donor call. “You know you’re amazing, right?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
