The house smelled like maple syrup and roasted coffee. Anthony was curled up beside Joe on the couch, deeply invested in a cartoon that involved dancing animals and questionable logic. Doc was in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the kind of relaxed joy I only ever saw on Sunday mornings.
I stood in the doorway for a second, just watching. My chest
ached in a strange, soft way.
This—this life we were cobbling together—was never the plan.
But it was good. It was warm. And it felt more and more like something worth
fighting for.
Doc caught me looking and smiled, spatula in hand. “Your kid
just demanded two pancakes shaped like planets. I hope you approve of Saturn.”
I smiled. “Only if it comes with rings made of blueberries.”
“Done.”
I poured myself some coffee and wandered into the study,
just to grab a blanket. That’s when I saw it—his leather-bound journal, cracked
slightly open on the armrest of the reading chair.
I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe it was longing. Maybe it was love, blooming awkward and unsure in my
chest like something not fully grown.
I sat. And I read.
Entry #143 – Two weeks before she came home
I dreamed about her again.
Not the hospital version, fragile and half-ghost. Not the
courtroom drama. Just… her. In my kitchen, holding Anthony like he was an
extension of her heartbeat. Laughing. Tired. Alive.
I think I’m in love with her. But it’s not the kind of love
that burns hot and reckless. It’s the kind that stays. The kind that
waits in quiet rooms and learns lullabies it didn’t grow up with.
I don’t need her to love me back right away. I just need her
to know she’s safe. And wanted. And home.
I’d marry her tomorrow if she asked me. I’d raise that boy
like he’s my own. But I’d rather live in this limbo forever than make her feel
trapped in a life she’s not sure she wants.
I love her enough to let her go, if that’s what it comes to.
But God… I hope it doesn’t come to that.
I didn’t realize I was crying until I felt a tear splash
onto the page.
The floor creaked, and I looked up to see Doc leaning in the
doorway, one hand holding a plate of slightly lopsided pancakes, the other
pressed against the wood frame like he was bracing himself.
“You found it,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” I said, my voice thin.
“I left it there on purpose.”
I blinked. “Why?”
He shrugged, setting the plate down and walking toward me
slowly. “Because I didn’t know how else to tell you what I feel without making
you feel like you owed me something.”
“I don’t feel like I owe you,” I whispered. “I feel like
I’ve already taken too much.”
“You haven’t,” he said gently, kneeling in front of the
chair. “You gave me back everything that mattered when you came home. You gave
Anthony a mother. You gave me a reason to believe in more than survival.”
I reached out and touched his face, fingers brushing the
stubble along his jaw. “You… you really love me.”
He laughed softly. “I know, shocker.”
I laughed too, and it felt good. Like maybe we were making
space for joy again.
“I’m not ready to say yes to forever,” I said, “but I think…
I think I’m ready to stop running.”
His eyes searched mine. “That’s all I’ve ever asked.”
We kissed slow and quiet, no urgency, just truth. And when
we broke apart, I rested my forehead against his and whispered, “Thank you. For
waiting.”
“I always will,” he replied. “But for the record… I hope I
won’t have to wait too long.”
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