Soft. Careful. Like something breakable.
“Guess we’re both still learning how to do this,” I murmured.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “But we’re learning together.”
That was the part that scared me the most. Together meant I could fail her in real time.
Slowly but surely, we found a rhythm. Not perfect. Just ours.
We cooked together most nights. I handled the knife work—hands steady, movements precise. It felt good to be good at something again. She hovered like I might slice myself open at any second, pretending she wasn’t watching.
We ate on the couch. Watched the news. Made fun of terrible commercials. I stole her socks because she wore the thick ones and mine were always disappearing. She stole my hoodie and never gave it back. We discovered several new uses for her massive shower.
Balance.
At night, my body betrayed me. Sometimes I’d jolt awake before I even knew I’d fallen asleep, lungs burning, heart racing like I was still under metal and smoke. Sometimes I’d hear rotor blades in the hum of the ceiling fan. Sometimes I’d see fire when I closed my eyes.
She never panicked. She’d press her palm flat against my chest, right over my heartbeat. “You’re home,” she’d whisper. “You’re safe.”
Home.
Safe.
Two words that still felt foreign in my mouth.
“I just had to get home,” I’d murmur sometimes, half stuck in whatever dream had dragged me under.
She never asked what that meant. She knew. Some nights, when I was drifting but not fully gone, I felt her tracing the scars on my arm. Light touches. Like she was memorizing them. Counting proof that I’d made it back. I never said anything. I just shifted closer until our foreheads touched. That closeness weighed more than any kiss. More than any promise. Eventually the apartment stopped feeling temporary. My boots stayed by the door. My toothbrush sat next to hers. My coffee mug—stained beyond redemption—claimed permanent territory on the counter. The air smelled like motor oil and her favorite candle. It shouldn’t have worked.
It did.
It wasn’t some fairytale version of survival. It wasn’t clean or shiny or Instagram-worthy.
It was real.
One night after dinner, we sat out on the balcony. The city hummed below us, lights scattered like someone had dropped a handful of stars. Rain hung heavy in the air. She leaned into me, head on my shoulder. We’d just showered together. My skin was still warm. For once, my head was quiet. No crash. No sand. No rotors.
Just breathing.
“You ever think we might actually be okay?” she asked.
I thought about it longer than I should’ve.
“Maybe,” I said finally. “Still feels like a second chance I didn’t earn. Like I’m living somebody else’s tomorrow.”
It was the truth.
Men better than me didn’t make it out of that valley.
Why did I?
Her head snapped up.
“Don’t you dare say you didn’t earn it,” she said, sharper than she meant. “You bled for this life. You clawed your way back. You get to have a tomorrow, Jackson.”
I kissed the top of her head. “Yes ma’am.”
She grumbled and tucked herself closer like she was claiming territory.
