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Chapter 32 - Episode 32 - Tue quiet we built

I woke up before she did.

The room was still, quiet in the way only early mornings can be, before traffic, before emails, before the rest of the world remembers it exists.

But she was there, curled on her side, her breathing slow, hair a tangled halo around her face.

Aurora.

There was a time, just a few weeks ago when she couldn't sleep through the night. She'd jolt awake at 2 or 3 AM, shaking, reaching for me like the dark was a wave about to drown her.

I'd hold her until she calmed down, whisper nothing in particular, just whatever words came to mind to remind her that she was here.

That she was safe. That i wasn't going anywhere.

But this morning… she was resting. Really resting.

And that felt like a small kind of miracle.

I slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake her, and walked to the kitchen.

I started a pot of coffee, listening to the familiar hum and sputter.

This routine had become our sanctuary. In between the chaos of court hearings, media noise, and the wreckage left behind by people who should've protected her, we found peace in the simple stuff—coffee, shared breakfasts, soft music while she sat beside me reviewing case files like she was part of my team.

Because she was. She is.

I poured a cup for her, black with a little oat milk, just how she likes it now.

She used to drink fancy lattes all the time, but lately, she said she preferred something simpler. "I like things that feel real," she told me once, and i understood.

A few minutes later, I heard her feet padding across the floor.

"Good morning," she mumbled sleepily, wearing one of my old college shirts that practically swallowed her whole.

She looked softer now, less brittle, less like someone trying to hold herself together with tape and good posture.

"Morning," I said, and handed her the coffee. "You actually slept."

She blinked, like she had to think about that. "Yeah… I did."

I pressed a kiss to her temple. "That's progress."

She nodded slowly, then leaned into my chest.

No words, just the weight of her head against my collarbone and the warmth of our quiet kitchen.

It wasn't fireworks.

It wasn't dramatic.

But it felt like home.

We didn't leave the condo much, not yet.

She wasn't ready. And i didn't push.

Instead, she came with me to work quietly, discreetly, no headlines.

I set up a little desk in my office for her, and she'd sit there with her laptop and a yellow legal pad, reviewing past cases, researching, asking sharp, thoughtful questions. She had a mind for details. For truth.

One of the interns asked me if she was "the Aurora Zobel." I didn't confirm or deny. I just smiled and said, "She's helping out."

They respected that.

My clients did, too. After everything that happened, my name started circulating more, especially since we won the Evangelista case. The media didn't get all the details, and I didn't need them to.

All i cared about was that Aurora was safe, and that Julius would never see the outside world again.

Still, the weight of it all lingered.

Sometimes, I'd catch her staring out the window, her eyes far away.

"Where'd you go just now?" I asked one afternoon, as we sat side by side reviewing some legal notes.

She gave a small smile. "I was just thinking… about how different everything feels."

"Different how?"

She turned to look at me. "Like… before, I was surviving. But now? I think i'm starting to live again."

I reached for her hand. Held it tightly. "You are."

One night, we sat on the couch eating takeout from her favorite Korean place, the one Nico always ordered from.

Speaking of Nico, he'd been spending a lot of time with Selena.

More than he admitted.

Whenever her name came up, he'd pretend to brush it off, but I could see it in his face. The way he softened a little.

The way he paused before answering.

"She likes spicy food," he said once, offhandedly, like that meant nothing.

But it meant something.

Selena was healing, too. Slowly.

She was back in her own place now, but she visited sometimes, and her friendship with Aurora remained solid.

They'd laugh over silly things, memes, fashion trends, their mutual hatred of anchovies on pizza. Things that felt normal. Things that helped.

There was one night Aurora said to her, "Thank you for surviving."

Selena smiled, teared up a little, and said, "Same to you."

Her parents called often.

They wanted her to come home. To rest. To travel, maybe.

But she said no.

"I want to be here," she told them. "This is where i feel safe."

They visited again the weekend after, bringing sinigang and way too many groceries. Her mom cried when she saw her daughter smiling, really smiling. Her dad pulled me aside and said, "Thank you, Lance. I don't know how to repay you."

I told him the truth. "You don't have to. I love her."

He nodded slowly, eyes misty. "Then just take care of her. That's all i ask."

Some nights, we still had moments of quiet breakdown.

Like the time we watched a crime documentary and a single line from the victim's mother made Aurora freeze completely. She put down her drink and just… sat there.

I turned the show off immediately.

"I'm okay," she whispered, but i pulled her close anyway.

"You don't have to be okay all the time," I said into her hair. "You just have to let me be here with you."

She buried her face into my chest and whispered, "I'm so scared sometimes."

"I know," I said. "But i'm not going anywhere."

Another afternoon, we sat on the balcony watching the sky turn a bruised pink.

She leaned on my shoulder. "Do you think we'll ever have a normal life?"

I turned to her. "I don't want a normal life. I want our life."

She laughed softly. "Good answer, lawyer boy."

We were healing, piece by piece.

No grand declarations.

No perfect fairytale.

Just slow, steady rebuilding. Trusting.

Learning how to breathe again, how to laugh without guilt, how to hold each other without flinching at the sound of a sudden car horn or loud knock.

One night, after brushing our teeth side by side in the bathroom, her in my hoodie, me in sweats, she looked at me in the mirror.

"I'm still a little broken," she said quietly.

I turned to her. "Then let's be broken together."

She nodded, tears brimming but not falling. "I love you."

"I love you more," I said, pulling her in.

And we stood there for a while, wrapped in each other, in a world that had hurt us both but hadn't managed to take everything.

Not our hearts.

Not our hope.

Not this quiet love we built from the ashes.

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