The cottage was quiet again. Not the heavy silence of uncertainty but the soft hush that follows connection. The kind that lingers after whispered confessions and shared breaths in the dark.
Ava sat cross-legged in the studio, the morning sun warming the floor beneath her. Max had stepped out for coffee and pastries, giving her a moment to herself. But her thoughts wouldn't settle. Not after last night.
She kept returning to the look on his face when she fell asleep in his arms. Gentle. Unafraid. Like he'd been waiting for someone to hand him that kind of quiet all his life.
When the door creaked open, she didn't look up.
"I come bearing buttery croissants and a slightly overconfident espresso," Max said, placing the bag on the side table.
"Perfect," she replied, still staring at the blank canvas in front of her.
He stepped closer, sensing her shift in energy. "You okay?"
She hesitated, then stood. "There's something I want to show you. But I don't know if I can explain it."
Max's smile softened. "You don't have to. Just show me."
Ava crossed the room, unlocking a small wooden cabinet in the corner. From inside, she pulled out a flat, cloth-wrapped canvas. It was older than her usual pieces edges worn, fabric fraying.
"This isn't part of any series," she said. "I painted it right after Jesse left. It was the first time I'd picked up a brush in months."
Max didn't say anything. Just waited.
She turned the painting around and placed it on the easel.
It wasn't large, but it felt enormous. A stormy seascape, wild and untamed, but in the centre a single figure standing barefoot in the shallows, facing away, wind whipping through their hair. The colours bled into one another, like emotion had melted into motion.
"She's me," Ava said softly. "But not the version anyone sees. She's the part of me that stayed behind when everything else moved on."
Max stepped closer, his voice quiet. "She's beautiful."
"I've never shown this to anyone. Not even Claire."
He looked at her then, really looked like she was a secret finally brave enough to be shared.
"Thank you," he said. "For trusting me with her. With you."
Ava swallowed the lump in her throat. "Sometimes I still feel like her. Like I'm facing the tide, unsure if I should let it pull me under or walk away."
He reached out, gently taking her hand. "Maybe you don't have to choose alone anymore."
She didn't realize she was crying until his thumbs brushed the tears from her cheeks. Not sobs just the quiet kind that escape when your heart is finally seen.
"I don't want to lose this," she whispered.
"You're not going to," he replied, stepping closer. "I'm here, Ava. With you. Whatever tide comes."
They stood in front of the painting together, hand in hand, sunlight warming their shoulders. And for the first time, Ava felt like that version of herself in the painting lonely, fractured, searching was finally beginning to turn around.