I wasn’t just surviving the questions. I was enjoying the fact that someone actually wanted to know the answers.
She clung to me until we both collapsed onto the bench in a heap, breathless from laughing. My chest hurt in the best way; her giggles still spilling into my shoulder as she tried to catch her breath. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed like that: full belly, no filter, the kind that left me lightheaded.
When the noise settled, it was just us. Her weight still against me, her curls brushing my jaw, both of us sinking into the quiet. I pulled her around until she straddled my lap. My arms slipped around her waist, holding her there without thinking.
She shifted slightly, her hand flattening against my chest, right over my heart. It thudded harder under her touch, and I knew she could feel it. Her laughter faded, replaced bythat look, the one that always leveled me: soft, curious, too damn knowing.
“You know, you always joke when you don’t want to answer,” she murmured, not accusing, just observing, her fingers fidgeting slightly with a loose thread on her sleeve as if trying to rein in her nerves.
“Maybe,” I admitted, my thumb brushing absently over her hip. “Some answers aren’t easy to give.”
Her eyes softened, and for a second I thought she might push again, but she didn’t. She just nodded, her lips curving in the faintest smile. “That’s okay. I’ll wait until you’re ready.”
Her words landed heavier than she probably intended. No one had ever said that to me before. Not my mom, not my ex, not anyone. Most people either pushed or walked away when I went quiet. But she stayed. Her steady gaze told me she wasn’t going anywhere, forcing my jaw to unclench just a little. Her presence was a kind of quiet bravery I wasn’t used to.
A memory flashed up, sharp and raw: the day I signed divorce papers, signing away promises left behind with the emptiness. But now, with her beside me, that loneliness didn’t stand a chance. She stayed. That changed everything, and I felt myself come undone, just a little.
I bent, pressing my forehead to hers, breathing her in. She smelt of warmth and sweetness, like coconut lotion and a hint of vanilla from whatever candle she burned in her apartment. My chest tightened, and before I could stop myself, I whispered, “You make it harder to keep the walls up.”
Her breath hitched, her smile soft but certain. “Good,” she whispered back.
The bench creaked beneath us, familiar now, a quiet reminder of where we started and how far we’d come. It didn’t startle us anymore. Instead, it echoed the comfort and trust we’d built, holding the weight of authenticity between us.
We stayed there breathing each other in, the world aroundus fading to nothing. My fingers slid into her curls, hers curled tighter against my chest, and when her lips finally found mine, it wasn’t playful anymore. The distant sound of cars thickened the quiet, a gentle hum beneath the night. But even amidst that fear, I couldn’t pull away; the moment held us suspended, both tender and terrifying in its intimacy. I wasn’t afraid of being seen. Not with her.
The laughter slowly ebbed, replaced by the soft hum of the porch light flickering above us. She tucked her legs under her and looked at me again with that same curiosity.
“Do you ever get tired of me asking questions?” she asked.
I tipped my head back, pretending to groan. “C’mon, don’t you ever run out?”
She smirked. “Nope. It’s kind of my thing.”
I shrugged. “Guess I’d rather just… be here. With you.”
Her face softened, voice threaded with care. “My questions aren’t just small talk. It’s how I understand, how I connect.” She picked at a loose thread on the blanket, eyes drifting somewhere far away. “Maybe that’s why I want to be a therapist. I spent years wishing someone would ask the right questions. Not to fix me, just to see me. So now I keep searching, trying to give what I always needed.”
Her words settled inside me, stirring something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time. I just watched her, the porch light painting soft gold across her skin.
“You do that,” I said finally. “You make people feel seen.”
Color bloomed across her cheeks. “I just… want to understand you.”
I brushed my knuckles against her knee. “Careful, Beautiful. Keep asking like that, and you might actually get past my walls.”
Her laugh was quiet, caught between teasing and tenderness. “That’s the point.” I grinned, leaning closer until our shoulders touched. “Good luck, then.”
We sat together in the hush of night, porch light flickering, shadows shifting across her face. My breath slowed, and I noticed how my shoulders seemed to drop, releasing a tension I hadn’t realized I was holding. For once, I didn’t feel the urge to fill the silence. Maybe the questions didn’t need answers yet. Maybe it was enough that she kept asking, and that I wanted her to.
Chapter Nineteen
Camille
We’ve been on several dates now. Spent late nights laughing on my porch, and today, Hunter decided it was time to test my limits and take me out on his motorcycle. If anyone else had suggested it, I would have flat-out refused. My anxiety never allowed for things that felt reckless. I liked seat belts, four doors, and safety ratings. But with him? Somehow, the word “no” never made it past my lips. He’d already earned a kind of trust I didn’t give easily.
So here I was listening to the rumble of his Harley, its sound deep and commanding as it rolled down my street. My stomach churned with a mix of anticipation and fear.
He pulled up with easy confidence, the kind that comes from being one with the machine. My heart raced as I eyed the bike sitting at the curb like a beast, all black steel and sharp chrome. This thing looked like it ate miles for breakfast and spat them back out in smoke. Small pops of purple flashed against the black, showing a glimmer of his personality.
