“Okay,” he says, already turning back to his comic.
I straighten and reach for Ava’s hand without really thinking about it. She lets me, her fingers sliding into mine like this has become normal.
I lead her upstairs.
Neither of us says much. We are past conversation. Past politeness. Just tired in that bone-deep way that comes after adrenaline burns off.
In my bedroom I pull open a drawer and hand her a T-shirt and a pair of soft lounge shorts.
“They’ll be huge,” I warn.
“That’s probably a bonus,” she says.
She disappears into the bathroom to change while I swap my jeans for soft black shorts and an old training T-shirt. When shecomes back the clothes are, as predicted, much too big. The T-shirt hangs off one shoulder. The shorts are rolled twice at the waist.
She looks small in them.
Comfortable.
Dangerously domestic.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much,” she says, pushing her glasses up and giving me that tired, honest smile she only seems to have when she forgets to be self-conscious.
We climb under the duvet without ceremony. No seduction. No teasing. Just two people who haven’t slept enough.
She lies on her side facing me. I lie on my back for a second, staring at the ceiling, feeling the quiet of the house settle around us.
Then she shifts slightly closer.
Not dramatic.
Just… closer.
“You scared me yesterday,” she says softly.
I turn my head.
“I know.”
“I could hear it,” she admits. “You were trying to sound calm. You weren’t.”
“No,” I say. “I wasn’t.”
She studies my face like she is checking something.
“He’s okay,” she says, more to reassure me than herself.
“He is.”
I reach for her then. Not urgent. Just needing contact. My arm slides around her waist and she comes willingly, tucking herself against me because she fits there.
She takes her glasses off before curling up against me. Her hand comes to rest lightly on my chest. I can feel how tired she is in the way she melts into me.
“Thank you,” I murmur into her hair.
“You already said that.”
