Chapter Fourteen First Light #2
“You don’t even know what I’d do next,” I say, because it feels important; she has all the ugly pieces up front.
“I could screw this up. I could fall on my face. I could… I don’t know, crash your couch for a week, and realize I can’t function out here and go find some crappy job three towns over just to get my head straight. ”
She nods. “You could.”
“You could wake up in a month and realize letting an ex-con into your house was the worst idea you ever had,” I add.
She tilts her head, considering. “I let you have cinnamon rolls and my blanket. I think my judgment’s okay so far.”
“Mara,” I say, voice low.
“Jax,” she replies, just as quietly.
“You’re not signing up for an easy thing,” I warn.
“I know,” she says. “But I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for… real.”
Something thuds behind my ribs.
She takes a breath, then continues, voice gentler now.
“You said in one of your letters that you didn’t believe in second chances,” she says. “That you thought those were for other people. People who messed up less. People who didn’t have records and scars and bad memories.”
I remember writing that. A night when the walls felt too close, and the future felt too far.
“I believe in them,” she says. “For me. For you. For us, if we decide to make that a thing.”
“Us,” I repeat, the word foreign and familiar all at once.
“Us,” she confirms. “Could be we figure out we’re better as friends. Could be we crash and burn. Could be we… I don’t know. Figure it out slowly, like normal people do when there aren’t court dates and trauma and Christmas tree metaphors involved.”
I snort softly at that. “You think we’re normal?”
“Absolutely not,” she says. “But we can fake it until we’re ready to be honest about being completely weird together.” A laugh bursts out of me, and it feels… good.
Real.
Not forced.
I lean back in my chair, look at her, and realize something: For the first time since I walked out of that prison, I feel like I’ve stepped into something solid. Something real. Something true. Something earned, not given out of guilt or obligation.
I push my plate aside and stand up. She watches me, chin lifting slightly, like she’s bracing for something.
I move around the table, slow, giving her time to stop me if she wants to.
She doesn’t. When I reach her, I don’t rush in or grab at her.
I plant myself in front of her, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her knees against my jeans.
“Stand up,” I say softly.
A question flickers in her eyes. “Why?”
“Please,” I add.
She searches my face for a second, then pushes her chair back and stands.
She’s close now. Bare feet. Oversized sweater.
Eyes that have seen too much and still choose kindness.
My hands lift almost of their own accord.
I thread one around the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at her nape.
I don’t pull. I just rest my forehead against hers. Her breath catches.
We stay like that for a moment, the world shrinking down to shared air and shared heat and the gentle thud of our hearts trying to sync.
“Say it again,” she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.
“What?” I murmur.
“That you don’t have a plan,” she says. “That you don’t know what happens next. That you’re… here. With me. That you’re still choosing this even if it’s messy and uncertain and…”
“Mara,” I interrupt. “I’m here.”
I take a breath, everything tight and open and terrifying. And then I say it.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I want.”
The words leave me and hang there, fragile, and strong, both at once. Her shoulders sag with the weight of a breath she’s been holding for months. Her hands slide up, fingers curling lightly in the fabric of my T-shirt over my ribs, like she’s anchoring herself.
“Okay,” she says, voice shaking just a little, tears brightening the edges of her eyes. “Okay.”
We stand there, foreheads pressed together in a kitchen that smells like cinnamon and second chances, letting the moment settle.
Then, slowly, giving her every opportunity to move, I tilt my head just a fraction.
She doesn’t pull back. Her lips brush mine, soft, hesitant, a question asked in the language of contact instead of words. I answer it.
It’s not a long kiss. Not some dramatic, sweeping thing that belongs in a movie.
It’s tentative and gentle and a little clumsy because my hands are shaking, and her nose bumps mine.
But it’s real. And when we break apart, her eyes search mine again, and this time what I see there isn’t just hope.
It’s belief. In me. In us. In the possibility that two broken people can build something that doesn’t fall apart at the first sign of a crack.
She smiles, small and wobbly.
“Want another cinnamon roll?” she asks, because of course she does.
I laugh, the sound thick with everything I can’t say yet.
“Yeah,” I say. “I want.”
Her fingers slip into mine as she leads me back to the table.
And as we sit together, sharing food and bad jokes and more truths than I thought I’d ever say out loud again, I realize something else: For the first time in a very long time…
I’m not waiting for life to happen to me. I’m choosing it. With her.