chapter 7
485 Words
She woke tangled in sheets that didn’t belong to a bed, skin cooled by the pale light of morning bleeding through the loft window. Her body ached — not from exhaustion, but from remembrance. Every part of her felt like it still carried his touch. Every breath was too full of him.
Jason was asleep beside her.
Still, for once.
Face turned to the wall, jaw softened in a way it never was when he was awake. He looked younger. Like time hadn’t touched him yet. Like guilt and grief hadn’t hollowed out the spaces behind his eyes.
But Ava wasn’t fooled.
She sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around her, not out of modesty — there was nothing modest about what happened last night — but out of need. Protection. Armor. Habit.
Last night had been a storm.
No words. Just hands. Just mouths. Just a thousand apologies they didn’t know how to say.
And now…
Now it was morning.
And morning never lied.
She looked at him — really looked. He was here. Physically. Breathing. Warm. Real.
But what did it mean?
She stood, quietly, legs trembling beneath her. She found her shirt on the floor and pulled it on, trying not to shake. Her reflection in the window glass startled her.
She looked undone.
Not just physically.
Emotionally.
A door creaked behind her.
“You’re leaving?” Jason’s voice, low and hoarse.
She didn’t turn. “Just getting dressed.”
A pause.
“You always run right after?”
That one hit.
She turned slowly. “Do you always follow a storm by pretending it didn’t happen?”
He winced.
Ava crossed her arms. “Last night wasn’t a promise, Jason. It wasn’t forgiveness. It was raw. That’s all.”
He stood, dragging on his jeans, his shirt. “It didn’t feel like ‘just raw.’”
She looked at him then — really looked. “Because you still think love can fix things.”
“And you still think it can’t,” he shot back.
“I know it can’t. Not when it’s built on old wounds and half-healed scars.”
“So what now?” he asked. “We just pretend we didn’t—?”
“No.” Her voice was steady now. “We remember it happened. And we figure out if that’s the beginning of something, or the end of whatever was left.”
Silence stretched between them again — their old companion.
But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full of something real. Something honest.
Jason walked to the edge of the loft, leaned on the railing, stared down at the gallery below.
“I’m not leaving,” he said quietly.
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t believe him yet.
But she didn’t tell him to go, either.
Because part of her — the part still aching from his mouth on her skin — wanted to believe.
- Writer
