“Because she was also there,” I say, frustration creeping in. “She didn’t leave often. She was always around.”
“But was she…there?” he asks quietly. He frowns, “Being around and being there for you isn’t the same, sunshine.”
“But…” I try to argue slowly.
“You were a child,” he continues, his voice steady, grounding. “Children don’t measure presence by proximity. They measure it by attention. By love.”
My throat tightens again. “And you didn’t get that,” he adds, not as an accusation, but as a simple truth.
I shake my head slightly. “I got enough.”
“You got what you had,” he corrects gently. “That doesn’t mean it was enough.”
My chest aches. “Any human craves that,” he says quietly. “Love. Attention. Being seen.” I look down again, blinking back the tears that refuse to fall properly. “You’re not wrong for missing the person who gave you that,” he murmurs.
Something in me breaks just a little at that. Just…enough to let something softer through. I press my face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—something clean, something warm, something that feels like safety in a way I don’t fully understand.
“I’m still mad at you,” I mumble against his chest.
“I know.”
“You did something very stupid.”
“I know.”
“You scared me.” His hold tightens slightly.
“I’m sorry.” I close my eyes.
And for a moment—Just a moment—I let myself stay there.
When I pull back, it’s slow. Reluctant. He looks down at me, something soft still lingering in his eyes. I don’t overthink it this time. I just lean in. And kiss him. Gently. His hand lifts to my cheek, thumb brushing lightly against my skin as he kisses me back.
And for the first time in a long time—I don’t feel like I’m holding myself together. I feel like I’m allowed to fall a little. And I know for sure this time, he’ll be there when I do.
CHAPTER 46
ARYAN
I never thought I’d be the kind of man who knows where the spare mugs are in someone else’s kitchen. Or which switch in her living room flickers if you press it too hard. Or that the faint creak in her bedroom door isn’t a problem—it just needs to be pushed a little harder at the bottom.
Her apartment doesn’t feel like someone else’s space anymore. It feels… known.
Familiar in small, quiet ways.
The faint smell of coffee that never really leaves. Books stacked in slightly uneven piles. A throw blanket that always ends up half on the floor by the end of the night.
Her.
“Sit,” she says, already moving toward the couch.
I raise a brow. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
She doesn’t look at me when she says it, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at her mouth.
I drop onto the couch beside her anyway. “What are we watching?”
