“It took time,” I say. “A lot of it.”
He pulls me closer, resting his chin against my head. “Thank you for trusting me with that.”
“Thank you for listening,” I reply.
We sit like that for a long while, wrapped together, the past acknowledged, but not overwhelming the present. I feel lighter for talking about it with him. Not because the grief is gone, but because it’s being held by someone else too.
“I don’t regret loving him,” I say quietly. “And I don’t regret being here now.”
Colton’s breath catches almost imperceptibly.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.
I settle back against him, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull me. For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel terrifying. It feels open.
The conversation doesn’t end so much as it settles.
There’s no neat conclusion, no bow tied around it. Just a quiet understanding that something important has been shared, and neither of us wants to be the first to disturb it.
Colton doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He simply pulls me closer, his arm firm around my shoulders, anchoring me there against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat now. It’s steady and strong. I realize how rare it is for him to let himself be this still.
This version of him feels different. Less guarded. Less sharp around the edges.
I shift slightly, my fingers resting against his shirt, tracing an absent-minded line along the fabric. It’s a small thing, almost unconscious, but I feel the way his body reacts—a subtle inhale, a tightening of his hold.
“You don’t talk about him like it’s only pain,” he says eventually.
“I don’t want him to be only that,” I reply softly. “He was so much more.”
His thumb moves slowly along my arm, grounding, soothing. “You’ve done a lot of work.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I say. “Either I learned how to carry it … or it would’ve swallowed me.”
He presses his lips to my temple, lingering there. It’s not a kiss meant to lead anywhere. It’s reverent. Careful.
I close my eyes. This is the part that scares me.
Not the memories. Not the grief. But the way my body relaxes so completely with him like this. The way my mind quiets instead of racing. The way it feels natural to lean into someone again, to be held without preparing for the worst.
I don’t want to want this so much.
“I’m glad you told me,” he murmurs.
“Me too,” I admit. “I don’t usually talk about it like that.”
“Why?”
I hesitate. “Because people either get uncomfortable … or they feel sorry for me.”
“And I didn’t?”
I lift my head to look at him. “No. You just listened.”
An unreadable flicker crosses his expression.
“I don’t always know how to do that,” he says quietly.
“You did tonight.”
