uncertain. Sophia stood near the doorway, her fingers lightly brushing against the strap of her bag, unsure if she should step further inside or retreat. Damien had called her here, yet now he looked at her as though unsure what to say.
He cleared his throat and motioned toward the sofa. "You can sit, if you want."
Sophia nodded, her legs stiff as she lowered herself onto the couch. The room was warm, filled with the soft scent of cinnamon and something else she couldn't place—maybe a cologne he'd once worn during happier days.
Damien remained standing, his arms folded, gaze flickering toward the floor. "I didn't mean for things to get so distant."
Sophia looked up. "Then why did you let them?"
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. But then he let out a breath, one that sounded like it had been trapped inside for far too long. "Because I didn't know how to handle what I felt. I thought pushing you away would make it easier."
"For you," she said quietly. "Easier for you."
He winced. "Yes."
Sophia folded her hands in her lap, the ache in her chest deepening. "And what about me? Did you ever think about how I felt, waiting, hurting, wondering what I did wrong?"
Damien's gaze finally met hers. "Every day."
They stared at each other, the distance between them heavy with unsaid things. It wasn't anger that filled the silence—it was longing, regret, and the raw edges of love that had never truly disappeared.
"I didn't stop caring, Sophia," he said, his voice rough. "I just stopped knowing how to show it."
Sophia rose slowly from the couch. "Then maybe we should stop pretending we can go back."
Damien's eyes darkened. "I'm not asking to go back. I'm asking… if there's still a way forward."
His words surprised her, slicing through the wall she'd built around her heart. For weeks, she'd dreamed of this moment—an apology, an explanation, a reason. But now that it was here, all she could feel was uncertainty.
"What changed?" she asked.
Damien took a step forward, the weight of his admission pressing on every word. "I saw you smiling at that café opening. Genuinely smiling. And it hit me… that I was the one who took that from you. I let my fear cost us something real."
Sophia's heart beat louder. The memory of that evening—the laughter, the hope, the sense of being alive again—flashed through her. She had smiled, not for show, but from something real inside her beginning to stir.
"I didn't smile for you," she said honestly.
"I know," Damien replied. "And that's what scared me the most."
She didn't know how to respond. Part of her wanted to walk out, to protect what was left of her pride. But another part—the part that still dreamed, still believed—stood still, waiting.
"Do you want coffee?" he asked suddenly, breaking the tension.
Sophia blinked. "What?"
"Coffee," he repeated, already moving toward the kitchen. "Like old times, remember? You always said I made it better than any café in town."
A small laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "That's because you used three spoonfuls of sugar."
He glanced back with a half-smile. "And you always complained but finished the whole cup."
Sophia let her guard lower, just a little. "Fine. One cup."
In the kitchen, Damien moved with quiet familiarity, pulling mugs from the cabinet and setting the kettle on the stove. The scent of ground coffee beans filled the room, and with it, fragments of their shared past floated back—lazy Sunday mornings, arguments turned laughter, kisses stolen between sips.
"Why now, Damien?" she asked softly from the doorway. "Why reach out now, after all this time?"
He didn't turn around. "Because I saw what we had turning into something we might forget. And I didn't want to forget. Not you. Not us."
The vulnerability in his voice chipped away at her anger, revealing the ache beneath.
"People don't change overnight," she said.
"I'm not trying to change overnight," he replied. "I'm just trying to stop pretending I don't care."
When he turned around, coffee in hand, his eyes searched hers for something—maybe hope, maybe permission. He handed her the mug, their fingers brushing briefly. The touch sent a current through her, unexpected and familiar.
They sat in silence, sipping slowly, letting the warmth settle between them.
"You always did know how to make things complicated," she murmured.
"I was afraid of how simple you made love feel," he admitted.
Sophia turned to him, her voice steady. "I'm not the same girl who needed your validation, Damien. I found strength in the silence you left behind."
"And I lost mine in it," he said. "But maybe we're both better for it."
She studied his face—the regret, the hope, the quiet plea not to be dismissed. The years had hardened some parts of him, but softened others. She could see that now.
"I'm not saying I forgive you," she said carefully. "But maybe I'm willing to listen."
"That's all I'm asking," he said.
A quiet smile passed between them—not a promise, but the start of a new chapter.
Sophia rose first, placing her empty cup on the table. "I should go."
Damien nodded, walking her to the door. "Thank you for coming."
She hesitated before stepping out. "We'll see where this goes. But no more disappearing, Damien."
"Never again," he promised.
As she stepped into the cool evening air, something inside her felt lighter. It wasn't resolution, not yet. But it was movement—like a crack in ice, small but sure, hinting at thaw.