“I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “Of that.”
He studies me for a long moment, then reaches out, covering my hand with his. His grip is weaker than it used to be.
“Honey,” he says, voice low, “after everything you’ve lived through, you don’t owe anyone your grief forever.”
A sharp, hot lump forms in my throat. I told him about Bryce during one of our many talks.
“You deserve moments,” he continues, “even if they scare you.”
I swallow hard. “You always know what to say.”
“Years of practice,” he says. “And a lot of mistakes.”
I squeeze his hand, committing the warmth of it to memory. “Get some rest,” I tell him. “I’ll be back later.”
He nods, settling back against the pillows. “Don’t take too long. I need you functioning.”
“I always am,” I promise.
As I step back into the hallway, the weight of everything presses in. I think of Colton’s arms around me, Frank’s fading strength, the quiet fear blooming in places I haven’t fully acknowledged yet.
I take a steadying breath and keep walking.
Somewhere between falling and holding on—this is where I am now.
Chapter Thirty
Colton
Sunday mornings are usually silent.
They’re the quiet aftermath of a week spent holding everything together. No alarms. No pager. No one needing anything from me. I’ve always liked that stillness. I’ve needed it.
But this morning, the silence feels … different. There’s movement in my kitchen.
I wake to the sound of the coffee grinder, the low hum, followed by a soft curse that makes something warm bloom in my chest before I even open my eyes.
Melissa.
I lie there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, listening to the subtle sounds of her moving through my space. Cabinets opening. A mug clinking against the counter. Bare feet padding across hardwood floors that have only everknown mine.
This is new. And yet, instead of feeling trapped by it, I feel … comforted.
When I finally get up, I pull on sweatpants and walk toward the kitchen doorway. She’s standing at the counter with her back to me, wearing one of my shirts. It’s an old gray one that I usually sleep in when I’m too tired to care. It hangs off her shoulder, the hem brushing mid-thigh, sleeves too long for her arms.
My shirt. My kitchen. My Sunday morning.
She turns when she hears me, smiling immediately.
“Good morning,” she says softly, like this is normal.
It shouldn’t be.
“You didn’t have to make coffee,” I say.
She shrugs, lifting a mug. “I wanted to.”
Something about the simplicity of that answer hits me harder than it should.
