There was something sacred about the late afternoon light in
Ava's cottage the way it filtered through the gauzy curtains and settled over
everything like a blessing. It was a golden hour made for slow hands, soft
glances, and quiet truths.
Max sat on the floor with his back against the couch, Ava
tucked between his legs, her head resting on his chest. They weren't saying
much. They didn't need to. Outside, the gulls called to each other over the
waves, and inside, their hearts had finally begun to sync into something
steady.
Ava shifted slightly, turning her face toward the curve of
his neck. "You smell like cedar and coffee."
"You smell like paint and oranges," he murmured back. "And
maybe a little bit like danger."
She smiled, tracing the stitching on his shirt. "What kind
of danger?"
"The kind that ruins you for anyone else."
A breath caught between them. That magnetic stillness, again
the one where the world narrowed down to fingertips and eye contact.
She looked up at him. "Why are you being so good to me?"
His answer was immediate. "Because I want to. Because you
let me see you."
Ava sat up slightly, folding her legs beneath her as she
faced him. "You keep doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Saying things that feel like poems."
He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Maybe you
bring out the poet in me."
They studied each other for a moment, no distractions, no
deflections. Just two people finally lowering their last lines of defence.
Then Ava lifted her hand and gently touched the scar above
his eyebrow a thin, pale crescent she'd noticed but never asked about.
"Skateboarding," he said. "Age thirteen. Thought I could
jump a picnic table. Spoiler: I couldn't."
She laughed softly and leaned forward, pressing her lips to
the scar. "Brave. Or stupid."
"Little of both."
Her fingers moved to his collarbone, tracing the edge of him
like she was learning a map. "You hide things behind jokes," she said.
"So do you," he replied gently.
She didn't deny it.
He took her hand and brought it to his heart. "Feel that?"
She nodded.
"That's yours. No joke. No line. Just truth."
Her throat tightened. She didn't know how to say thank you
for something like that. So she kissed him instead. Slowly. Carefully. Not like
the stormy kiss from the other night, full of urgency and fear but a kiss that
asked Can I trust you with this? And received the answer Yes.
They moved to the bed later, not to rush anything, but to be
closer. To learn the shape of each other's silences. To let skin and breath
speak in ways their hearts weren't ready to articulate out loud.
And when they finally fell asleep tangled together, it
wasn't because the world outside had stopped spinning.
It was because, for the first time in a long time, they had
chosen to be still with each other.