Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Angel
They don’t tell you what comes after the first bit of healing. Everyone talks about the break. The crisis. The night one of you walks out. The fight that splits you open. The big, dramatic moment where you either fall apart or claw your way back to each other.
But no one talks about the in-between. The days that don’t explode. Don’t magically mend either. The days where you’re just… learning how to exist together again. That’s where we are now. Not fixed, but still standing. And somehow, that takes more discipline than war ever did.
Stevie moves through the house differently these days.
Slower, more deliberate. Like she’s testing the ground beneath her feet before she puts her full weight on it.
She still takes her supplements. Still tracks her cycle.
But it doesn't own her anymore. The bottles aren’t lined up like soldiers waiting for inspection. They’re just… there.
She eats real meals again and sits at the table instead of hovering over the sink. Laughs sometimes, soft, and surprised, like she forgot how the sound feels in her throat.
The first time I hear that laugh again, I damn near stop breathing. Because it sounds like her. Not the brittle, frantic version. Just Stevie. I don’t push, hover or ask every five minutes if she’s okay. I just stay close. Turns out that’s harder than it sounds.
Because every instinct I have tells me to guard. To brace. To anticipate the hit before it lands. But healing doesn't work like that. Healing needs space.
We don’t fuck like we used to, and I don’t mean that in a bad way. There’s no schedule taped to the fridge, quiet glances at the clock, or stiffness when I touch her like she’s bracing for disappointment before we even start.
The first time we make love again without the weight of trying, it damn near undoes me.
It’s late. Rain tapping steadily against the windows.
The house is dark except for the soft lamp in the corner.
She crawls into my lap on the couch without a word, tucks her face into my neck like she used to when the world got loud.
I don’t move, not wanting to assume. Try to stop my mind racing ahead.
I just wrap my arms around her and breathe her in.
Her hair smells like vanilla shampoo and something warm and familiar.
“Angel,” she murmurs.
Not asking. Just saying my name. I tilt her chin up and kiss her slow. Careful. Like she’s something precious instead of fragile. When we end up in bed, it’s unhurried. Just skin and heat and remembering each other’s bodies like they’re familiar territory again instead of a map full of dead ends.
Her hands roam over my chest like she’s rediscovering something she thought she’d lost. Mine traces her hips, her back, and the curve of her waist.
Afterward, she stays curled against me. Doesn’t roll away; no reaching for her phone and disappearing into numbers. She just rests there, breathing slowly against my chest. That alone feels like a victory.
The club notices the shift too. Joker catches me at Havoc Security one afternoon, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
“You look less like you’re about to commit murder.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I mutter.
He laughs under his breath and claps my shoulder.
“Stevie good?”
“She’s… better,” I say carefully. “We are.”
He nods once, like he understands the weight of that distinction. Better ain’t fixed. But it’s movement. Carrie stops by later with Polly on her hip and that knowing look she’s perfected over the years.
Stevie doesn’t flinch when she walks in, make excuses. She hugs Carrie tight. Long enough that Carrie’s eyes shine when they pull apart. I watch from the doorway, arms crossed, chest full and aching in a way that doesn’t hurt. This is what healing looks like.
But peace makes you careless. Makes you think the worst is behind you just because the ground isn’t shaking anymore. I should know better. I’ve been in enough wars to understand that silence don’t mean safety.
The first crack shows up small. It’s a Tuesday. Nothing special. Stevie’s in the bathroom longer than usual, with the door closed. I hear the sink running, then stopping. Silence stretches. When she comes out, her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You, okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says too quickly. “Just tired.”
I let it go. Because I promised myself, I wouldn’t interrogate her every mood, and healing needs room, plus I don’t want to smother the calm we’ve found. But later that night, when she flinches as I brush my hand over her lower back, something twists deep in my gut.
“You hurt?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Just sensitive.”
The word hangs there. Sensitive. I don’t push her, even though I should. But I don’t.
Afew days later, Tank corners me behind the bar at the Trading Post.
“How’s Stevie?” he asks, casual like he’s askin’ about the weather.
“Good,” I answer. “Why?”
“Carrie said she seemed off yesterday.”
“She’s allowed to have off days.”
Tank studies me over the rim of his beer.
“Yeah. Just… don’t mistake quiet for fine.”
Because I’ve done that before, which makes me think about the bathroom door.
The too-fast smile and the way she’s been pressing a hand to her stomach again when she thinks I’m not looking—hope creeps back in when you’re not paying attention.
That’s the danger. Hope’s a tricky bastard.
It don’t knock. It just settles in your chest and starts rearranging things.
That night, I find her on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket, just staring out at the dark like it’s got answers written in it. The air’s thick and warm. Crickets humming somewhere in the distance. I sit beside her without saying anything. She leans into me, head on my shoulder.
“I’m scared to say this,” she whispers.
“Then say it anyway.”
She swallows. “Part of me feels better. Stronger. And part of me is terrified; that means I’m going to get hurt again.”
I kiss her temple. “That doesn't mean you’re doin’ it wrong.”
“It feels like hope is a trap.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “It is.”
She looks up at me. “Then why do it?”
I think about everything we’ve been through.
Every mile.
Every loss.
Every moment I thought I was gonna lose her for good.
About the empty hospital room.
The cold bed.
The silence between us that almost swallowed everything.
“Because livin’ without it is worse,” I say finally.
She studies my face like she’s measuring the truth in it.
Then nods slowly. I don’t say what I’m thinking.
That I’ve noticed the way she’s been counting days in her head again, how she pauses in the bathroom.
I catch her pressing her palm flat against her stomach when she thinks I’m distracted.
I don’t say that I’ve started counting too. Against my will.
That I know exactly how long it’s been since her last cycle, and I feel the ground shifting under us again. Because this time I don’t want panic to lead. I want steadiness. I want us.
But deep down, I know something’s building.
Healing ain’t a straight line.
Grief doesn't vanish just because you talk about it.
And hope, real hope, comes with teeth.
For now, though, she’s warm against my side.
Her breathing is slow, and her hand is tangled in my shirt like she’s anchoring herself. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned through all this, love isn’t the absence of pain. It’s choosing to stand there when the ground starts to shake again. And I’ll stand. Every damn time.