Ray's POV
She's sitting across the kitchen island, legs folded under her like a kid, wearing my hoodie that's far too big on her and sipping orange juice like it's the best thing in the world. She's got strawberry jam at the corner of her mouth, hair in a messy bun, and she's talking—again—something about how Sebastian needs a new hoodie because he "accidentally" wore hers and now it smells like her shampoo and he's refusing to return it.
She's glowing.
Not the glamorous kind, not the red-carpet, camera-flash type people expect from the founder of a million-dollar fashion brand.
But the kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that fills a space. The kind that makes you feel like home isn't a place, it's a person.
Her.
Ava.
God.
She doesn't even know.
Doesn't know that the way she furrows her brows when flipping pancakes makes my chest hurt. That her voice, even when she's complaining about something absurd, is my favorite sound. That I remember the exact day she started liking strawberry jam more than chocolate spread. That I still have her first sketch from when we were sixteen—the one she hated and tried to crumple but I saved anyway.
Doesn't know that I'd set fire to the world and smile doing it, if it meant she'd never cry again.
Doesn't know that every time she calls me "handsome cold boy", I pretend to roll my eyes, but inside, I'd bottle that voice and carry it forever.
Doesn't know that I love her.
Not in a fleeting, teenage daydream kind of way.
But in the way trees love the sun. Quietly. Always. Without expecting anything back.
She glances up and catches me staring.
"What?" she giggles. "Do I have jam on my face again?"
"Yeah," I murmur, grabbing a napkin and leaning forward to wipe it gently.
She freezes a little, then smiles, eyes soft.
"You're sweet, Ray."
I smile too.
But I don't say it.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
Because if loving her means watching her be happy—even if it's not with me—
I'll do it.
Silently.
Like I always have.