It had been two months since Tessa's life unraveled. Two months of functioning like a machine. Each day, she woke up, went to work, and played the part of a woman who was fine. Her colleagues didn't notice the cracks beneath the surface—they didn't see how she barely ate or how her hands sometimes trembled when she thought no one was watching.
But when night fell, the mask slipped.
Every evening, she'd come home to the suffocating quiet of her apartment. She would stare at her phone, Lucas's name on the screen, her finger hovering over the call button. Questions clawed at her mind: Who killed Cassie? Why? But no matter how many times she scrolled to his number, she couldn't bring herself to call. The pain was too raw, the memories too vivid.
And yet, every night, Ash left her reminders that she wasn't entirely alone.
It started small. A bouquet of daisies—her favorite—waiting on the porch one morning, their petals glistening with dew. She frowned at the sight but brought them inside anyway.
The next night, it was a box of tea, the expensive kind she used to buy but had stopped treating herself to.
Then came the handwritten notes, slipped under her door in the middle of the night. Simple messages, scrawled in his familiar script: I know it's hard, but you're not alone.
She never responded, but she couldn't bring herself to throw the notes away. Instead, they piled up on her kitchen counter, a quiet testament to his persistence. The rain came suddenly one evening, drumming against the windows like the heartbeat of the sky. Tessa sat on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, staring at the storm outside. The sound was soothing, a rare reprieve from the noise inside her head.
It was then she noticed the movement on the porch.
Her heart sank. She already knew who it was before she pulled back the curtain. Ash sat on the steps, his dark hoodie soaked through, water dripping from his hair.
"Idiot," she muttered under her breath, letting the curtain fall back into place. She tried to ignore him, tried to convince herself it wasn't her problem if he wanted to get sick. But the longer he sat there, the harder it became to pretend she didn't care.
The rain had stopped by the time Tessa let Ash inside, but the air still carried the scent of it—fresh, clean, and grounding. She handed him a towel, watching as he dried his hair with slow, deliberate movements. He looked at her then, his eyes soft but searching, as if he could see every crack in her armor.
"You didn't have to sit out there," she said, her voice quieter now, almost apologetic.
"I did," he replied simply. "Because you matter."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Tessa felt her throat tighten, the weight of everything she'd been holding in threatening to spill over. She turned away, but Ash stepped closer, his presence steady and unyielding.
"Tessa," he said softly, his voice like a balm. "You don't have to carry this alone."
She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I don't know how to let it go. I don't know how to feel anything but this… emptiness."
Ash reached out, his fingers brushing against hers. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it sent a warmth through her that she hadn't felt in months. Slowly, she turned to face him, her defenses crumbling under the weight of his unwavering gaze.
"You're not empty," he said, his voice steady. "You're hurting. And that's okay. But you're still here, Tessa. You're still you."
The tears came then, hot and unrelenting, and Ash caught her as she broke. He held her tightly, his arms a sanctuary against the storm raging inside her. She clung to him, her sobs muffled against his chest, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself be vulnerable.
When she finally looked up, her face streaked with tears, Ash cupped her cheek with a tenderness that made her heart ache. His thumb brushed away the wetness beneath her eyes, and she leaned into his touch, craving the comfort he offered so freely.
"You're not alone," he whispered, his forehead resting gently against hers.
The space between them disappeared, and when their lips met, it was slow and deliberate, a kiss that spoke of patience and devotion. Ash's hands moved to her waist, steadying her as if she might slip away, while hers found their way to his shoulders, anchoring herself to him.
He didn't rush, didn't push. Every touch, every kiss, was deliberate, as though he was memorizing her, showing her with every movement that she was treasured. He guided her gently, his actions filled with reverence, as if she were something sacred.
For Tessa, it wasn't just about the physical connection—it was the way Ash made her feel seen, whole, and worthy of love despite the broken pieces she carried. In his arms, the weight of her grief didn't disappear, but it felt lighter, as though she didn't have to bear it alone anymore.
When the night finally gave way to dawn, Tessa lay beside him, her head resting on his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear, a quiet reminder that she wasn't alone. For the first time in months, she felt a flicker of hope—a fragile, tentative thing, but real nonetheless.