The sunlight was soft when I woke up, slipping through the curtains like a quiet guest. The apartment felt calm, but inside me, a storm was brewing.
Aidan was still asleep beside me, his breathing slow and steady, a quiet rhythm that filled the stillness of the room. For a long moment, I just watched him — the way his brow softened in sleep, smoothing out the usual lines of tension I'd seen so often on TV. His eyelashes rested lightly against his cheeks, and his lips were slightly parted, relaxed in a rare moment of peace. His hand lay gently on the blanket, fingers curled as if he was holding onto something fragile, maybe even the calm itself.
The soft morning light caught the sharp angles of his face — the strong jawline, the subtle shadows beneath his cheekbones — but in sleep, all the sharpness seemed to fade away. He looked less like the polished, perfectly controlled figure I'd always seen in headlines and more like someone quietly worn down by the weight he carried every day. There was a vulnerability there I hadn't expected — a humanity beneath the image.
It was hard to believe this man, the public figure who commanded attention and held the spotlight with ease, was real. But here he was, right beside me, close enough that I could almost reach out and touch him. Not a character on a screen, but a person — someone who could be soft and unguarded, someone who could simply exist without the world watching.
I wanted to reach out and hold onto that calm feeling for just a little longer. But my mind was caught up in the past, tangled with things I couldn't forget. The nightmare from last night kept coming back, bringing old memories I wasn't ready to talk about. There was a deep ache inside me — a pain that stayed even when I tried to push it away. It made it hard to feel safe or calm, no matter how close Aidan was.
Quietly, I moved out of bed, trying my best not to make a sound that would wake Aidan. The floor felt cold under my feet as I stood up. The apartment looked different in the morning light—quiet and still, almost like it was holding a secret that belonged only to me. Everything felt calm, but also a little strange, like the world outside hadn't fully started yet. The usual noise and rush were gone, and for a moment, it felt like this peaceful silence was just mine.
I went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter. My thoughts felt heavy, looping around the same questions. Could I let someone in? Could I stop pretending — not just for Aidan, but for myself?
Then, my phone buzzed on the table. I frowned and picked it up, surprised to see dozens of notifications.
Before I could think, I opened the news app.
The headline hit me like a punch: "Aidan Blackthorne Spotted — Not in Chicago but at Navarro's Apartment."
My heart stopped. The headline was bold and clear. And below it — pictures. Blurry but real. Aidan walking into my building. A grainy clip of him arriving late at night. Another of him leaving briefly to get groceries and returning with soup. Neighbors had taken the footage, sold the story, fed the machine.
The media had caught us.
It was everywhere.
Panic shot through me. My fingers tightened around the phone. This was supposed to be safe. Quiet. Private. Our space, away from cameras and questions. But now… now it was all over the internet.
Another buzz. A message from Jordan:
"Sophie, is this true? Are you okay? The campaign office is in chaos."
Chaos.
The word hit hard. I could already picture it — people shouting, scrambling, trying to control the story, trying to spin it before it spun out of control. My stomach twisted.
I didn't know what to say. I didn't even know what I felt. Fear? Shame? Anger? All of it, and more.
I felt exposed, like every wall I'd ever built had just fallen apart in an instant.
Behind me, I heard footsteps. Aidan had woken up. He came into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, still half-asleep. But the moment he saw my face — and then the phone in my hand — he knew.
His jaw tensed. "They found out," he said, voice quiet but steady.
I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.
He stepped closer and reached for my hand. "I'll fix this," he said, his tone calm but sure. "I'll handle the media. You don't have to worry."
I looked at him, shocked. "I'm the fixer," I said, my voice soft and unsteady. "I'm used to cleaning up everything — the problems, the messes. It's what I do."
He shook his head. "Not this time. This time, I do it. You've done enough, Sophie. You've carried more than your share. Let me take this one."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to say I could handle it. But something in his voice — the way he said it, like a promise — made me stop.
So I let him lead.
We spent the morning going over everything — every detail of what he might say, every question that might come, every angle the media might twist. The phone kept buzzing. The weight of it all was heavy. Exhausting. Like we were walking through fog.
Still, I kept looking at him. Watching. He wasn't the perfect version the world expected. He was tired. Worn. But he was here. And he was ready to stand up, not just for himself — but for me, too.
The day stretched on, full of uncertainty and tension. But even in the middle of the chaos, I felt something inside me begin to shift. Something slow and unfamiliar.
Hope.
Not the loud, shining kind. A quiet hope. A flicker. A sign that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't just another disaster. Maybe this was the start of something different.
I had spent so long behind walls — hiding, guarding, pretending. But for the first time in years, I felt those walls beginning to crack. Letting in just a little bit of light.
And maybe, just maybe, I was finally ready.
Maybe it was time to stop running.
Maybe it was time to start living.