Thank you so much for all the lovely feedback on the first chapter! You've made my day :) Without further ado, here is stage two, I hope you enjoy!

Again, all credit for the italicized and quoted passages goes to Reena Bakir, not me.


"Two. She'll look both ways before telling you she loves you under her breath and when she hugs you her eyes scan the empty room as if the walls had eyes and ears and mouths that could give you away."

It's two months in and ever since their first date Henry has been surer of this relationship than of anything else in his life so far. Confident that this is the woman he will spend the rest of his life with, certain of a future with her. He can't help but think of forever whenever he's with her, and the thought fills him with a sense of contentment and calm he didn't expect it to.

It's two months in and he knows they're serious. She has a spare key to his apartment — they rationalized it when he gave it to her, said it was for convenience's sake, so she could escape Becky and all the talk of Jane Austen, but really, it was another example of the depth of their bond. They know things about each other that no one else is privy to, the result of countless late-night conversations where they'd opened up to one another, piece by piece.

It's two months in and Henry knows he loves her, deeply, irrevocably, with every fibre of his being. He loves Elizabeth Adams, who is impossibly strong and incredibly smart and probably far too good for him, but thanks to some lucky coincidence, he gets to hold her, and kiss her, and feel like she's hung the stars and he's being given a private tour of the universe.

It's two months in, and he hasn't told her he loves her yet.

To the outside world, Elizabeth is a skyscraper, sharp-witted, whip-smart. She's fierce, she's passionate, she's caring, but never vulnerable. Except with Henry.

He's managed to slowly break down her walls, brick by brick, exposing the version of herself she'd tried so desperately to keep hidden for over half a decade.

She begins by telling him little things: stories of boarding school and younger brothers and horses and strawberry milkshakes. Her childhood love of Peter Frampton and the Ramones, how she went through a phase where she dyed her hair the colour of charcoal, how mathematics made sense and was logical and unquestionable and always fair.

Little things turned bigger — recollections of loss and longing and what it felt like to have your world upended before you were even ready to face it on your own — and bit by bit, she opened herself up to him in a way she'd promised herself to never do with anyone, ever again.

He's humbled by her honesty, honoured that she'd chosen him to trust, and determined not to make her feel like she isn't in control of this, of her own emotions. So he keeps his declarations of love silent, bubbling up inside, voiced only through kisses or glances or brushes of his knuckles against her cheek. Because he loves her enough to let her take this at her own pace and knows that whatever they have together is always enough.

They're lying under the covers in his bedroom, face to face, their breaths even. It's dark save for the moonlight, but just light enough to reflect in the whites of their eyes. He cups her cheek, strokes over her cheekbone with his thumb. She leans into his touch, reaches out to grasp his free hand and press it against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the soft fabric of his t-shirt. She scoots a little closer, closes her eyes at the feeling of his warm breath on her skin.

"You're beautiful," he whispers.

Inside, he shouts I love you at the top of his lungs.

He sees her eyes open and she blushes and he wonders what he ever did to deserve her. She's in a pair of old flannel pyjama bottoms and a UVa shirt, but to him, she's a vision. Always has been, always will.

She moves even closer, toes touching, legs tangling together. Gives him a once-over, tilts her head to the side as if she's making sure they're truly alone here, in his bedroom at half past one. She tucks her chin into the crook of his neck and whispers something under her breath — so softly he almost doesn't hear.

"I love you."

She pulls back a little immediately, ducks her head before scanning the room again, her face taking on a tense expression as she waits for his reaction. It's as if every corner of the room were trying to listen in but she wants so desperately for this to be private, just between them.

His face breaks into the widest smile she's ever seen and he pulls her toward him again, wrapping her in his arms and pressing kisses to her hair, her neck, her cheeks. Henry kisses her in earnest, hard and deep and he feels his brain going foggy. He's left with enough mental faculties to know he has to say it back first, has to react to the fact that she loves him and the feeling is more than he could ever have dreamed of. He pulls away, brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"I love you too."

They both have tears pricking at their eyelids but they couldn't care less, lying there in the moonlight on his bed. It's perfect. She loves him. He loves her. It's all that matters.

She realizes he's the first person she's uttered the words to since the day her world shifted on its axis. She feels a sudden need to say them again. This time, she's grinning, and there are no stolen glances at corners of the room. She maintains eye contact as she says it, with all the sincerity in the world.

"You make me brave, Henry McCord. And I love you."

tbc.