I left Henry's apartment with a heaviness in my chest that clung to me all the way home. His words had been circling in my head like restless birds: "Secrets don't just vanish. They wait until you open the wrong door."
And yet, as I walked up the steps to my place, something inside me shifted. For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel the pull toward that door. Instead, I felt something else, quieter and stronger like a thread tying me back to where I truly belonged.
Her.
When I pushed open the front door, the house was soft with the glow of the living room lamp. The faint hum of the television reached me, accompanied by the opening score of one of Nina's favorite old movies. I didn't have to look to know which one; she played it every time she wanted comfort, every time she wanted to disappear into something familiar.
I stepped closer, and there she was curled up on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, her head resting against the pillow. She had fallen asleep somewhere between laughter and story, her chest rising and falling gently in rhythm with the soundtrack.
The blanket had slipped from her shoulders, leaving her body draped in soft light. The curves of her frame drew my eyes and held them. My heart stuttered in the way it always did when I remembered truly remembered how breathtaking she was. Not just the kind of beauty that could stop a room, but the kind that disarmed me in private moments like this. When her guard was down. When she was entirely herself.
I stood there longer than I should have, just watching her. It struck me then, almost violently, that I could ruin this. That if I kept chasing shadows, pressing against doors she begged me not to open, I could lose her. And nothing no answer, no truth, no ghost would be worth that.
I swallowed hard, the decision anchoring in me. I would stop. I would love her, and only her, and build something unshakable from it.
Quietly, I went upstairs, set my phone on the nightstand, and undressed. The shower steamed around me, washing away the weight of the day. For the first time in weeks, I felt a strange relief, like letting go of a burden I'd been clutching too tightly. By the time I stepped back into our room, towel around my waist, I knew what I had to do.
I reached for my phone. My thumb hovered over the number I had saved the one that had tempted me again and again, whispering promises of answers. Nora. The shadow of her name had lived in my pocket, waiting for me to break my promise.
Not anymore.
I pressed and held, deleting it from my contacts, my chest tight and strangely light all at once. My reflection in the darkened screen looked back at me, and I almost didn't recognize the softness in my own eyes.
I dressed simply and padded back downstairs. She was still there, the movie flickering across her sleeping face. I smiled faintly and reached for a throw blanket, the one she always complained was too thin but used anyway. I unfolded it carefully, ready to drape it over her shoulders.
But when I looked up again she was gone.
The pillow where her head had been still carried the dent of her presence, but the couch was empty. I blinked, scanning the room.
"Nina?" I called softly.
A rustle near the window caught my eye. There she was, standing barefoot, silhouetted against the glass. Her back was to me, her arms folded loosely, her posture taut in a way that made my chest ache.
Something about the sight struck me lonely and beautiful, like a painting you weren't supposed to see.
"What are you doing there?" My voice was gentle, curious.
She spun around, startled. Her eyes widened, and for a moment she looked like a child caught in a secret. Her lips parted as if words had slipped out of her grasp.
"I I was just… waiting for you," she stammered, her voice thin and breaking.
I smiled, moving toward her with slow, steady steps. "I'm home, my love," I said softly, coaxing her back into warmth. "Come. Let's watch the movie together."
Relief flashed across her face as if I'd pulled her from somewhere far away. She nodded quickly, almost too quickly, and crossed the room to sink back onto the couch beside me.
We settled in without words. The movie played on, its familiar rhythm wrapping the room in comfort. Every so often I caught her glancing at me, her eyes soft, questioning. She smiled faintly when our eyes met, as though she wanted to climb inside my thoughts and read them. I smiled back, hiding the truth—that I had been on the brink of ruin, that I had chosen her tonight over shadows she didn't know I had chased.
She didn't press. She just kept looking, again and again, each glance a little tether pulling me closer.
I rested my arm around her shoulders, and she melted into me, her hair brushing against my jaw, her warmth folding into mine. We sat that way for the rest of the movie, our laughter surfacing at old lines, our silence heavy in moments where the story stilled us.
When the credits finally rolled, she rose slowly, stretching with a small groan, ready to slip back into the bedroom. I caught her hand before she could move away, my fingers curling around hers.
"Babe," I murmured, looking up at her from where I sat. "Do you trust me?"
She froze. Her breath caught, and for a moment her chest rose sharply as if I'd taken the air from her. Then she rolled her eyes lightly, masking the tremor with playfulness.
"Ethan… you know I do," she said, almost scolding me for asking. Then her tone softened, breaking into something tender. "I trust you more than you do, baby."
Her words pierced me deeper than she could have guessed.
I swallowed, keeping my gaze locked with hers. "Then I promise you," I said quietly, with all the weight I had. "I'm gonna change. And everything else… it's going to be fine. Okay?"
Her lips parted, her expression trembling between doubt and hope. Then, slowly, she nodded.
I tugged her gently back toward me, and she came willingly, folding into my arms. Our mouths found each other, a kiss that lingered and stretched, minutes blurring into the soft press of lips and the quiet gasps of breath.
When I finally pulled back, my forehead rested against hers, I whispered, "Can we stay here tonight? On the couch?"
Her smile curved against my skin, warm and easy. "Anything, my love."
So we did.
We lay tangled together, the thin blanket half-covering us, the hum of the television fading into silence. Her heartbeat pressed steady against my chest, her breath warming the hollow of my neck. And in that fragile, beautiful moment, I let myself believe it believe that promises could hold, that love could be enough, that choosing her was all I'd ever need to do.
Even if, in the darkest corner of my mind, the shadows waited