Instead, I take a slow sip of coffee, the warmth steadying me before I finally speak. “I have an appointment tomorrow. With a counselor.”
Ledger raises a brow, his expression unreadable. “Good. You need it.”
“Wow,” I deadpan, fingers tightening around my mug as I take a slow sip, trying to appear calm. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But what about you? Are you taking care of yourself? Because you were in that explosion too, Ledger.”
He snorts, shaking his head with a faint smirk. “I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it. I’m just glad you’re talking to someone. You’ve been through a lot, Gale.”
“You too,” I shoot back, refusing to let him deflect. “Any news about you visiting a counselor?”
He hesitates, his smirk fading into something more subdued. Finally, he takes a deep breath and nods. “Yeah,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “I’ve actually talked to someone. Twice this week, in fact.”
I blink, surprised but relieved. “Twice? Wow.”
“Don’t act so shocked,” he teases, but there’s a vulnerability behind his words that makes my chest ache.
“I’m not shocked,” I say, softer now. “I’m proud of you. I know how hard it is to talk about . . . all of this. I mean, I’ve been avoiding it.”
He shrugs, his gaze dropping to his coffee. “It’s not easy. But it helps. And I want to be there for you, Gale. I can’t do that if I’m not willing to face my own shit too.”
His honesty renders me quiet, his words sinking deep, stirring emotions I can’t fully grasp. Finally, I break the silence. “I think I need the counselor to help me sort through everything. Not just the explosion, but . . .” I pause, the enormity of it all catching in my throat. “But this. Us. What if this isn’t real?”
His eyes snap up to meet mine, the intensity in his gaze making my pulse quicken. “You think this is just about the trauma?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, my fingers tightening around the mug. “That’s the problem. What if I’m confusing what I’m beginning to feel for you with what I’ve been through? What if I’m holding on to you because you make me feel safe, and not because . . .” I trail off, the rest of the sentence too raw to finish.
“Not because you actually want me,” he finishes for me, his voice low, steady, and without an ounce of judgment.
I nod, a lump forming in my throat.
He sets down his coffee and moves closer, his hand brushing mine. “Gale, listen to me. Whatever you’re feeling, we’ll figure it out. Together. But don’t discount what we have just because it started during a chaotic time.”
“It’s not that simple,” I whisper, looking away.
“Maybe it’s not,” he agrees. “But it doesn’t mean it’s not real. I don’t want to invalidate your feelings, but I beg you not to invalidate mine—or everything we lived.”
The sincerity in his voice pulls me back, forcing me to meet his gaze. “I don’t want to mess this up,” I say, my voice barely audible.
“You won’t,” he says firmly, his hand squeezing mine, his voice unyielding yet gentle. “We won’t. And even if you try, I’m not going anywhere, darling. So talk to the counselor, sort through it all, but know this—what I feel for you isn’t going anywhere either. Though, you need to believe in yourself, in us, a little more.”
He pauses,leaning casually against the counter, his mug still in hand, but the intensity in his gaze pins me in place. “I’ve been thinking about you since Italy. That kiss . . . it wasn’t just a moment—it stayed with me. You stayed with me. It was brief, sure, but not brief enough to forget your lips—or everything we shared that night.”
The words feel like a punch to my chest, knocking the air out of me. Italy. Almost two years ago. His words slice through my defenses, dragging me back to that moment. The warmth of the sun, the scent of cypress trees, and his lips—soft yet commanding, like they were asking me to stay, to see what this could become.
I thought I’d imagined it meant more. I thought I’d been foolish to hold on to it, to let that kiss linger in my mind like a secret too fragile to share.
And now, he’s telling me he carried it with him all this time. That I’ve been a part of him since then.
My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the hum of the fridge and the distant sounds of the city outside. Eighteen months. How does someone hold on to something for that long? How does someone feel something for that long?
My chest tightens—not with fear this time, but with the enormity of it all. If he’s been carrying this, if I left a mark, then maybe this isn’t just about the explosion or the chaos we’ve been through. Maybe this started long before Birchwood Springs.
The kiss that wasn’t just lips meeting lips, but a connection—like a promise lingering in the quiet between breaths. Like a spark setting off a fire we were both too afraid to name.
The kind of kiss you don’t just remember.
The kind you never stop feeling.
I swallow hard. “I didn’t think you remembered it that well. I thought . . . I thought it was just a kiss.”
