The sun slants gently through the curtains, painting lazy gold lines across the wooden floor. The morning is quieter than yesterday—less charged, more fragile. Like the calm after a storm neither of them fully understands.
Sam makes coffee in the kitchen. Abigail sits on the couch, legs tucked under her, staring into nothing. She's wearing his shirt now. It hangs loose on her frame, sleeves half-swallowed by her hands. Her damp hair curls at the edges, and the scent of his shampoo clings to her skin.
Neither of them says much. The silence isn't heavy, just hesitant. Unsteady.
When he brings her a mug, their fingers brush again. This time, slower. More deliberate. She looks up at him.
And he sees it— the tremble in her mouth. the war behind her eyes.
He sits beside her, careful. Leaves a little space. Not too much.
"I don't know what this is," she says. Her voice is hoarse. Honest. "But it scares me."
Sam nods. "I know."
She breathes in. Looks down at her coffee. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to be someone who just… falls into the next person's arms."
"You're not," he says, gentle but firm. "You didn't fall. You came to me. There's a difference."
Her eyes welled up. She sets the coffee aside and curls her hands in her lap.
He reaches for her then, slow as dusk. Places his hand over hers. Doesn't squeeze. Just… rests there.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks.
She nods, barely.
And the kiss that follows is nothing like the last.
It's not a spark—it's a match being struck in a dark room, small and careful. His lips brush hers like a whisper. Her hands move up to his shoulders, anchoring herself in him. She doesn't cry at first.
But when the kiss breaks, and their foreheads rest together—
That's when the tears come.
He pulls her close, arms wrapping around her. She presses her face into his chest.
"I'm sorry," she says, voice shaking. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"You don't have to," he murmurs. "You're here. That's enough."
And in the stillness of that morning, with her tears soaking his shirt and his arms holding her together, something small and brave and terrifying begins to bloom.
Love. Out loud, this time. Not whispered. Not buried. But real.