Cleo Ashcroft
 

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The apartment was quiet when they came in. Not empty—just settled. The kind of quiet that belonged to a place that knew its owner well enough not to perform when someone new crossed the threshold.

Cleo kicked the door shut with her heel and dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the entry, the familiar clink grounding her. The lights were low already—one lamp on in the living room, warm and amber, casting soft shadows across canvases leaning against the walls. Paintings in various states of completion were everywhere: some stacked carefully, others abandoned mid-thought, colors still raw and unapologetic.

She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it up, movements automatic, like her body knew this space by heart. It was different from her childhood room—less history, more intention—but it carried the same quiet honesty. Nothing here was curated for anyone else.

She glanced back once, catching the way he took it all in without touching anything yet. Without assuming. That mattered more than she could explain.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said lightly, even though there was no apology in her tone. Just context. “I paint better when I don’t clean as I go.”

She padded into the living room, barefoot now, toes brushing paint flecks she never quite managed to scrub away. She set her phone on the coffee table, then leaned back against the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the space, arms folding loosely as if to say: this is it. This is me.

“You can sit wherever,” she added, softer. “Nothing’s precious.”

She turned toward the sink, filled two glasses with water, letting the sound run a little longer than necessary. When she handed one over, her fingers brushed his—brief, grounding. She didn’t pull away.

Cleo dropped onto the couch and tucked one leg beneath her, the other dangling loose. He sat beside her a moment later, close but careful, their shoulders touching naturally like distance had already been negotiated. The contact made something in her chest loosen—not rush, not ache. Just settle.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The city hummed faintly through the windows. A siren far off. A car passing. Inside, the air felt held, like the room itself was breathing slower.

Cleo stared ahead, then exhaled, long and unguarded.

“This is usually when my brain starts trying to narrate everything,” she admitted quietly. “So I’m trying not to let it.”

She shifted slightly, her hand resting on the cushion between them, close enough that their knuckles brushed. This time, she let it stay there. Open. Unclaimed.

She leaned back, head resting against the couch, eyes drifting half-closed. Being here—with him—didn’t feel like pretending. It didn’t feel like deciding. It just felt real in the way quiet truths always did.

“Okay,” she murmured to herself, more breath than word.

And they stayed like that—no rush, no expectations. Just two people in a lived-in room, letting the night unfold without forcing it into shape.

Cleo stayed quiet for another beat, letting the stillness stretch until it felt less fragile and more earned. The hum of the city outside softened into background noise, and the apartment settled fully around them, like it had decided he wasn’t an interruption.

She shifted on the couch, uncurling slightly, then glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Not searching. Not tentative. Just checking in.

“I can show you around,” she offered, casual but real. “If you want.”

She didn’t make it sound like a tour. No presentation. No pressure. Just an open door.

“It’s small,” she added, a hint of amusement threading through her voice. “But it’s… me.”

She pushed herself up from the couch and held out a hand—not tugging, not assuming he’d take it. Just there. An invitation.

“Living room you’ve already met,” she continued lightly, gesturing around at the canvases and paint-streaked corners. “Kitchen’s mostly functional chaos. Studio situation is… technically the dining nook, but we don’t have to call it that.”

She smiled, soft and unguarded now, the kind that only showed up when she felt at ease.

“And my room’s down the hall,” she finished, not loaded, not coy. Just honest. “If you want to see where I actually sleep instead of where I pretend to be productive.”

She waited—still, open—letting the choice be his, the way she always did when something mattered.

Ben followed her in slow.

There was no rush to his steps, no wide-eyed tourist awe, but she caught the way his gaze moved through the space—quiet, observant, tuned in the way only someone who really paid attention could be. He wasn’t scanning it like a stranger looking for context. He was reading it. Like he already understood that this wasn’t a space meant to impress, only to be known.

And he wanted to know it.

The canvases, the paint smudges, the coffee table half-swallowed by sketchbooks and books with cracked spines—it all felt like her. Not a version of her softened for guests. Her, unfiltered. A place she could breathe and sprawl and disappear when the world asked too much.

Ben didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t compliment the art. Didn’t joke about the state of the floor or ask about the books. He just let his eyes settle on it all for a beat longer than most people would, then looked back at her like that was the part he actually gave a shit about.

When she handed him the water, his fingers closed around hers for a beat too long. Not demanding—reassuring. A subtle, steady squeeze, like a yeah, I’m here. Then he followed her into the living room, sitting down beside her with the kind of closeness that wasn’t performative. It was like he didn’t even think about it.

Their shoulders touched.

And something in him settled.

The space felt good. Lived in. Honest. No staging. No cameras. No pressure to say something clever or lean into charm. Just warm light, late-night stillness, and her next to him.

When she said this is usually when my brain starts trying to narrate everything, a quiet, knowing grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. Not mocking. Just fond. Of course she did. Of course her mind didn’t let the moment just be—not until she fought it into stillness with the same hands that painted chaos onto canvas.

He wanted to say something. Something small. Gentle. Maybe even funny. But the moment didn’t need his voice.

So he stayed quiet too.

Their knuckles brushed. She didn’t move hers. Neither did he.

When she finally moved, rising from the couch and offering him a hand—not pulling, just inviting—his heart did that stupid thing it always did around her. That internal shift where everything stopped feeling temporary.

She didn’t ask for anything.

She just offered.

And so he took her hand.

Not dramatically. Not like it was the first time. Just a quiet gesture that said: I’m still here.

As she led him through the apartment, Ben kept his gaze soft, his grip steady. He listened to her narration, the way she talked about each room without dressing it up. Her words were light, but the meaning underneath was weighty, and he felt it. Felt her easing into him in increments, giving him pieces of her space the way she gave pieces of her heart—when she chose to, not when someone asked.

When she reached the hallway, he hesitated—not because he didn’t want to go, but because he knew what this meant. Knew she wasn’t dangling a possibility in front of him. She was inviting him into her life again. Not forever. Not defined. But present. Real.

She said my room’s down the hall, and something in his chest pulled tight and full all at once.

He looked at her then. Really looked.

Barefoot. Paint-smudged apartment. Unapologetically herself. And more his than any place he'd ever stayed longer than a tour stop.

His hand squeezed hers once. Then again.

And then, soft—no smirk, no sarcasm—just him:

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to see it.”

Not just her bedroom.
Her.

Where she slept.
Where she unraveled.
Where she didn’t have to explain the difference between being alone and being herself.

He stepped forward with her, still holding her hand, and followed her down the hallway like someone who knew exactly what he was walking into.

Not a hookup.
Not a fix.
Not a solution.

Just her.

And tonight, that was everything.

Cleo led him into her room with that same quiet certainty she carried everywhere else, but the moment the door opened, something in her shifted.

This space felt different.

More exposed.

Her bed sat slightly unmade, the quilt rumpled in a way that meant she actually slept there, not the polite kind of mess you could explain away. Morning light paintings leaned against the wall. Half-dried brushes in a jar on the dresser. And—too late—right there on the bed, the thick portfolio she’d meant to move before he ever saw it.

Her stomach dropped.

“Oh—shit,” she muttered, crossing the room too fast to look casual.

She scooped for it, arms clumsy, trying to gather the whole thing at once like she could will it into cooperation. But the strap slipped. The folder bent. And pages slid free, fanning out across the bed and onto the floor like they’d been waiting for air.

Loose sketches.
Studies.
Half-finished ideas.
Old charcoal.
New paint tests.

And some of them—

Her.

Him.

Not staged. Not idealized. Just moments. A shoulder. A profile. Hands she knew by muscle memory.

Her breath caught.

“God—sorry—” she said quickly, already dropping to her knees, heat rushing up her neck as she reached for the pages. “I didn’t mean—this thing is—”

She stopped talking because her words weren’t finding each other anymore.

Her brain felt like it had flipped sideways.

She gathered the nearest sheet, fingers trembling just enough to give her away, then another. She didn’t look up right away. Couldn’t. She could feel him close though—could feel the shift of him lowering down too, quiet and instinctive, helping without comment.

That somehow made it worse.

And better.

Her throat tightened as she reached for one page in particular, cheeks burning. She swallowed hard, pressing it back into the stack like that might undo the fact that it existed at all.

“I—” She tried again, then huffed a breath, shaking her head. “Sorry. My brain just… completely left the room.”

She risked a glance up then, just briefly. Not to explain. Not to justify. Just to check that he was still there.

He was.

Kneeling on her bedroom floor.
Holding one of her drawings like it wasn’t fragile, but like it mattered.

That nearly undid her.

She collected the last of the pages, tucking them back into the portfolio with more care now, slower, like she was acknowledging what she’d accidentally revealed instead of trying to erase it.

Her hands stilled.

She exhaled, long and shaky, sitting back on her heels.

Ben didn’t say anything at first.

Not because he didn’t have words—he always had words. But because this wasn’t a moment for them. This was a moment for seeing.

And he saw her.

Not just the blush on her cheeks or the tremble in her fingers. Not just the panic in her voice or the way she tried to fold the moment back into something manageable. He saw the why beneath it. The part of her that had quietly, painstakingly made space for him in the margins of her world—without ever intending to show it.

He looked down at the drawing still in his hand. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t meant to be. It was better. It was real.

His shoulder. Her memory of it. The way the lines bent not for symmetry, but for truth.

And something in his chest cracked a little.

Because this wasn’t fan art.
This was muscle memory.
This was care.

Still kneeling, he glanced over at her—really looked. She was sitting back on her heels, trying to collect herself in the quiet aftermath of exposure, and there was a vulnerability in her posture that made his throat tighten. Not because she looked breakable, but because she looked brave.

So he shifted closer, slow and unhurried, until his knee bumped gently against hers.

And when he spoke, his voice was low—not reverent, but honest.

“Cleo.”

Just her name. Steady. Sure.

He held out the drawing he still hadn’t put down—not to return it like something borrowed, but to offer it back like it was part of something shared.

His eyes didn’t waver.

“This isn’t something you have to apologize for.”

A beat.

“It’s something you get to feel proud of.”

Another beat. Softer now, but unwavering:

“And I’m honored as hell to be in it.”

He wasn’t smiling, exactly. But there was something in his expression—open, unguarded, full—that made it clear he didn’t see this as a misstep. He saw it as her. Another room she hadn’t meant to open, but had.

And now he was standing in it.
Still choosing to stay.

He let the drawing rest between them, the page crinkled just slightly from where her hands had gripped it.

Then, quieter:

“I don’t care if it’s unfinished. I don’t care if I look like I haven’t slept in a week. I love that you saw something in me worth remembering.”

His voice caught slightly, just enough to make it real.

“I always see it in you.”

And this time, when he reached for her hand—ink-smudged fingers and all—it wasn’t to anchor her.

It was just to be there.

No fixing. No performance. Just presence.

Cleo’s breath stuttered when he said her name.

Not sharply. Not like a break. Just enough to give her away.

She let his words land without interrupting them, the way she always did when something mattered—letting them move through her instead of bouncing off. Proud of. Honored. Those weren’t words she’d ever expected to hear attached to something she’d done quietly, almost privately, like a habit she’d never meant to explain.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the drawing when he held it out, but instead of taking just that page, she pulled the whole portfolio back toward her. Not abruptly. Just decisively. The folder slid between them, settling into both their laps because of how close he was sitting now—knee to knee, shoulder nearly touching. There was no room for distance anymore, and she didn’t try to create any.

She rested her palms on the cover for a second, grounding herself in its weight.

“I don’t usually mean to keep them,” she said finally, voice quiet but steady. “The drawings, I mean. Sometimes they’re just… a way through something.”

She swallowed, eyes dropping to the worn corner of the portfolio before lifting back to him.

“There are days when the memories get loud,” she went on, more honest than careful now. “Not in a sad way. Just—persistent. Like my brain doesn’t know where to put them, so they keep circling.”

Her thumb traced an absent line along the edge of the folder, muscle memory more than thought.

“And sketching slows it down,” she said. “It gives my hands something to do while my head catches up.”

She didn’t look away this time.

“You’re… always there,” she admitted, softer. “Not front and center. Just—background noise that never really fades out.”

A small, rueful breath escaped her.

“I draw you because my brain won’t let me forget you,” she said simply. Not dramatic. Not apologetic. Just true. “And sometimes that’s the only way I can make it quiet enough to breathe.”

She shifted closer without realizing it, the portfolio tilting slightly as their legs pressed together. The intimacy of it hit her a second later, but she didn’t pull back.

“I’m not trying to hold onto a version of you that doesn’t exist,” she added, almost like she needed him to know that part. “I’m just… letting the memories go somewhere safe.”

Her gaze softened then, something open and unguarded in it.

“And if that means you end up on paper sometimes,” she finished, “it’s because you were real to me. You still are.”

She rested her hand lightly over his on the portfolio, ink-smudged fingers brushing his skin.

Cleo’s hand stayed where it was—light over his, the contact steadying her more than she expected. She didn’t rush the next part. She never did when it mattered this much. She let the quiet stretch just long enough to make sure she wasn’t saying it out of reflex, or nostalgia, or fear of losing the moment.

Then she looked at him. Really looked. Not searching his face for reassurance—just meeting him there.

“If you ever doubted it,” she said quietly, voice firm in a way that surprised even her, “if you ever wondered whether I thought about you—about us—”

She paused, breath catching, then pushed through it.

“That year we spent together meant more to me than I could ever put into words.”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t stop.

“It wasn’t just time,” she continued. “It wasn’t just memories or places or versions of ourselves we don’t get back. It changed how I move through the world. How I love. How I know when something is real.”

She glanced down at the portfolio between them, then back up.

“I measure things against it without meaning to,” she admitted. “Not because I’m stuck there. But because it showed me what connection can feel like when it’s honest. When it’s gentle. When it doesn’t ask you to disappear to survive it.”

Her fingers curled slightly against his hand, grounding herself again.

“I’ve had other moments since,” she said. “Good ones. Real ones. But that year?” A small, shaky breath. “It set the bar. For how deeply I’m willing to feel. For what I won’t pretend is enough.”

She leaned in just a fraction, voice lowering.

“So no,” she finished softly. “You were never just someone I used to know. And that time was never just something I remember.”

Her eyes held his, clear and unwavering now.

“It’s part of me. It always will be.”

She didn’t say it to bind him to anything.
She didn’t say it to reopen wounds.

She said it because it was true—and because she trusted him enough to hear it without needing to fix it.

And then she went quiet again, staying close, letting the weight of what she’d finally said exist between them without taking anything back.

Ben hadn’t moved.
Not when the portfolio shifted. Not when her knee bumped his. Not even when the weight of what she’d just said landed like something sacred between them.

He stayed exactly where he was—shoulder nearly touching hers, hands still open, eyes fixed on her face like he didn’t want to miss a single flicker of what passed through her.

And it wasn’t just the words.
It was the way she said them.

Like truth was something alive between her ribs, finally brave enough to step into the light.

He could feel the echo of it in his chest. That year. That version of them. Not perfect, not clean. But real. The kind of real that builds foundations under your skin before you even know you’re building anything.

And now—here—on her bedroom floor, with charcoal dust between their palms and the space between them gone, he realized he hadn’t let it go either. Not really.

He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing—not in confusion, but in quiet reverence. His voice, when it came, was low and a little hoarse, the way it always got when he meant something down to the bone.

“I used to think I imagined it.”

His eyes didn’t drop.
Didn’t shy.

“I’d replay certain nights—dumb ones, random ones—and think, there’s no way it felt that big to her too. Not like it did to me.”

He gave a quiet, almost self-deprecating breath of a laugh, glancing down at the edge of the portfolio between them, thumb brushing against hers like a tether.

“I thought maybe I just built it up in my head. Like I made it mean more than it did.”

He looked back up, gaze catching hers again.

“But I didn’t.”

A beat. His voice gentled further.

“You just said it better than I ever could.”

He reached up then—not rushed, not dramatic, just intentional—and tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear, the back of his fingers brushing her cheek like a grounding wire.

“You were it for me,” he said simply. “And not in a pedestal way. Not in a fairytale way. Just… in the way where, for the first time in my life, I felt known.”

A pause. His throat moved with the weight of it.

“And I’ve met other people. Good ones. Honest ones. But it’s like you said—” He exhaled, shaking his head a little. “That year? It set the bar. For everything.”

He smiled then—not bright or cocky, but soft and steady and Ben. Like he wasn’t afraid of how much this moment meant.

“I still measure by you, Cleo.”

Her name sat warm in his mouth, familiar and full of years that hadn’t dulled its weight.

He didn’t lean in yet. He didn’t crowd her.

He just held her hand a little tighter. Stayed right where he was.

And then, quieter:

“You let me live in your pages.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, more felt than shown.
“Well… you’ve lived in mine too.”

He reached for his phone, pulling it from his pocket—not to break the moment, but to hand it to her.

The screen was already open.

Photos.
Folders.

And one at the top labeled simply: Cleo.

Inside—
Pictures he’d taken without ever planning to show them.
A blurry sidewalk photo of her boots mid-step.
The light catching her wrist when she reached for something in a café.
Her name half-written in a notebook next to a lyric idea he never finished.
A voice memo from the night they stayed up until 3 a.m. talking about nothing and everything, the background quiet but unmistakably her.

He let her look.
Didn’t narrate.
Didn’t explain.

Just let the truth breathe.

“You were never just a season,” he said, softer now. “You were a blueprint.”

And finally, finally, he leaned in.
Not to claim anything.
Just to let his forehead rest against hers the way it used to when the words felt too big.

He stayed there, still and sure, eyes closed.

“Whatever this is now,” he whispered, “whatever it becomes… I don’t want to hold it like I’m scared to break it.”

He pulled back enough to look at her again—really look.

“I want to hold it like it’s real.”

And then, without pressure or presumption, his hand stayed over hers, steady and warm, letting her decide what came next.

Because she’d let him into the truth.

And now he was letting her lead the way forward.

Cleo didn’t rush to fill the space after he finished.

She stayed where she was, forehead still near his, fingers curled loosely under his hand like she was grounding herself in the simplest truth available: he was here, and he was real, and nothing about what he’d just shown her felt imagined.

Seeing her name on his phone did something quiet and devastating to her. Not in a breaking way—more like a deep exhale she hadn’t known she was holding. Proof, not of obsession or longing, but of continuity. Of care that hadn’t needed an audience.

She swallowed once, steadying herself, then lifted her eyes to his.

“I know,” she said softly. Not defensive. Not embarrassed. Just honest. “I know what that year was.”

Her voice didn’t shake, but it carried weight—the kind that came from having held something precious with both hands and learned exactly how heavy it was.

“And if this was just about us,” she went on, fingers tightening just slightly in his, “if it was just you and me and the way we fit when everything else goes quiet… I would do anything to be with you again.”

She let that land. Didn’t soften it. Didn’t dress it up.

“But your world scares me,” she admitted, and there it was—the truth she’d circled for years without naming. “Not you. Never you.”

Her free hand lifted, resting briefly against his chest, right over his heart, like she needed him to understand the distinction.

“It’s everything around you,” she said. “The noise. The access. The way people think loving your work means they get a piece of you.”

A pause. Her brows knit, not in anger, but in something closer to grief.

“And when I was with you… some of them thought that meant they had access to me too. Like proximity was permission.”

She looked down for a moment, gathering herself, then back up—eyes clear, unwavering.

“Not everyone,” she said quickly, fairly. “Most people were kind. Normal. Human.” A breath. “But enough weren’t. Enough felt entitled. To my time. My body. My reactions. My silence.”

Her thumb brushed once over his knuckles, grounding herself again.

“I don’t want to live braced all the time,” she said. “I don’t want to measure every room for exits or wonder if being seen next to you means being swallowed whole.”

She met his gaze fully now, vulnerability open but not fragile.

“I love you,” she said plainly. “I don’t think that ever stopped being true. And part of loving you is knowing that your life is louder than mine, and asking myself—honestly—if I can live inside that without disappearing.”

She leaned in just slightly, enough that their foreheads touched again, breath warm and shared.

“I’m not saying no,” she murmured. “I never was.”

A small, sad smile touched her mouth.

“I’m saying I’m scared. And I don’t want to pretend I’m braver than I am just to prove something.”

She stayed there, close, present, hand still in his.

“I needed you to know that wanting you has never been the problem,” she finished quietly. “It’s figuring out your world while not having a panic attack.”

She didn’t pull away.

She let the truth sit between them—tender, complicated, and real—trusting that if anyone could hold it without breaking, it was him.

Ben didn’t move right away.

Didn’t pull back.
Didn’t fill the quiet with apologies or promises he knew he couldn’t keep.

He just let the weight of what she said settle. Let it sit there between them, real and heavy and earned.

Their foreheads still touched, breath shared. But something inside him shifted—something that wasn’t about fixing her fear, or undoing the past, or trying to make the noise of his life smaller than it was.

It was about understanding.
Respect.
Love that wasn’t performative or possessive.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful.

“I don’t want you to be brave for me.”

His hand turned under hers, fingers lacing through like muscle memory.

“I don’t want you breaking just to stay close.”

He drew in a breath, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist as if to remind himself she was really there.

“You were never a condition of my life,” he said quietly. “You were the constant. You still are. But my world…” He exhaled. “It is loud. And messy. And selfish in ways I can’t always control.”

He pulled back just far enough to see her face, eyes dark with something tender and sure.

“And I love it,” he admitted, voice steady but soft. “I love what I do. The chaos of it. The work. The parts that keep me up at night and make me feel like I’m chasing something that matters. I can’t pretend I want to give that up, even for something as good—as right—as you.”

It hurt to say.
But not as much as it would’ve hurt to lie.

His jaw flexed for a second, not with tension, but with restraint.

“But I hate that it hurt you,” he said, finally letting it crack. “That being next to me made you feel small, or hunted, or used. I hate that the worst parts of what I love ever touched you.”

His fingers tightened slightly in hers.

“I would never ask you to come back into that noise if it means disappearing. Not ever.”

A beat.

“But if what we had—have—only gets to exist once in a while…”

He swallowed, eyes searching hers like they held more years than he could ever say aloud.

“I’ll still take it.”

No bitterness.
No guilt.

Just truth.

“If all I get are moments,” he continued, “quiet ones, hidden ones, ones where you let me in just long enough to breathe again—then I’ll show up every time. No conditions. No expectations.”

He glanced down at the portfolio still balanced between them, then back at her.

“And if the only place I get to live in your life is in the lines you draw when the memories get too loud…” A small smile ghosted across his face, tender and wrecked. “Then damn, Cleo. That’s still more than most people get.”

His free hand rose to her face, brushing gently along her cheek, reverent.

“I love you,” he said. Quietly. Fiercely. Without hesitation.

“I don’t need a spotlight on it. I don’t need to post it, prove it, or parade it.”

His thumb rested at the edge of her jaw.

“I just need this. You. Here. Letting me love you however you’ll let me.”

And then, with all the softness he could give, he pressed his forehead to hers again, holding her there—not to anchor her, but to be anchored by her.

No demands.
No pressure.

Just him.
Still hers.
Even now.

Cleo felt the words land one by one, not like blows, but like stones set carefully into place. A foundation. Something solid enough to stand on without asking her to contort herself to fit it.

Her head dipped again when he said he loved the chaos, the work, the life he’d chosen. She nodded—not because she was conceding, but because this was the truth she’d always carried with her. The one she’d learned how to hold without trying to change its shape.

“I know,” she said softly. “I always knew.”

Her voice didn’t break, but it thinned—like she was walking a careful line between honesty and self-preservation.

“I never wanted to be the reason you dimmed anything,” she continued. “Not your work. Not the noise. Not the parts of you that feel alive.” A breath, slow and steady. “I just needed to know I wasn’t imagining how hard it was to stand next to it sometimes.”

She leaned into his touch when his hand brushed her cheek, eyes closing briefly—not to escape, but to let herself feel the steadiness of it. Him. The way he loved without asking her to perform or prove or stay louder than she was built to be.

“I don’t feel small with you,” she said quietly. “I felt small with everything else that came with it. And I didn’t know how to say that without it sounding like I was asking you to choose.”

Her fingers tightened around his, grounding herself in the present—ink smudges, paper, the quiet hum of her apartment.

“And I won’t disappear,” she added. “Not for you. Not for anyone. But I can stay… like this.” She gestured subtly between them, the space that was somehow both narrow and infinite. “Honest. Intentional. Real.”

She opened her eyes then, meeting his gaze fully.

“I love you too,” she said, without hesitation, without ceremony. “And I don’t need it to be loud or visible or understood by anyone else.”

A small, tender smile surfaced—sad and hopeful at once.

“If this is what it looks like,” she continued, “moments we choose, quiet ones we protect, a love that knows when to step back so it doesn’t break us…”

She nodded, once, certain.

“Then I can do that. I want to do that.”

She rested her forehead against his again, breath syncing, the world narrowing to the space they shared.

“Just don’t ever think you’re a burden to me,” she whispered. “Or that loving you was a mistake.”

She stayed there with him, not asking for more than he was offering—but not shrinking what she felt either.

Cleo didn’t give herself time to think it through.

Thinking had always been the thing that slowed her down, the thing that built walls where there didn’t need to be any. Right now, all she felt was the steadiness of him in front of her—the way his presence filled the quiet without overwhelming it, the way his honesty had made room instead of closing doors.

So she moved.

Not abruptly. Not desperately. Just with intention.

She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his eye first, the kind of touch that felt more like care than want. Then another to the bridge of his nose, lingering there for a beat, breathing him in like she needed the reminder that this was real and not something she’d imagined herself back into.

Her hands lifted then, slow, sliding around his neck. Her fingers threaded into his hair without urgency, just familiarity—muscle memory taking over where fear usually lived.

When she kissed his mouth, it was gentle at first. Unrushed. The kind of kiss that carried everything they hadn’t said without trying to consume it. She stayed there, close, foreheads brushing again when she pulled back just enough to breathe.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke, half-murmured against his lips, the words almost a smile.

“Well,” she said softly, thumb brushing at the nape of his neck, “you’re here.”

A small exhale, warm and honest.

“We might as well not waste it.”

And she kissed him again—not to escape the truth, not to pretend the world outside didn’t exist, but because this moment did. Because they did.

And for now, that was enough to choose.