Chapter 25 Tiny Choices
The following three days slipped into a strange rhythm. I worked, went home, and avoided Ryder. He did the same. It was as though we had both agreed to circle each other, nursing our wounds in silence, close enough to feel each other's presence, but never daring to meet head-on.
After that evening, after the tears and the clinging embraces that wrung us both dry, we had calmed down enough to walk back home together. The air between us had been thick with things unsaid. Since then, Ryder had thrown himself into the workshop with an almost feverish energy.
Billy mentioned it casually, but his tone carried a hint of worry.
Ryder was "working on something," he said, though he wouldn't explain what.
The speed at which he was learning, pushing himself, was almost alarming.
Every time I passed the workshop door, I heard the faint whir of polishing wheels, the clean scrape of files against metal, and Ryder's low mutters of concentration. It wasn't noise so much as a rhythm.
At home, our interactions had shrunk to bare essentials: a nod in the kitchen, a murmured "good night," the sound of footsteps moving from one room to another.
And yet, even in that fragile distance, I could feel the gravity between us, like two magnets turned the wrong way, pushing apart, yet straining toward the moment when one of us would finally shift.
On the third day, I stood in the kitchen, blender humming, pouring a white smoothie into a glass.
The color reminded me of calmness, like a white flag raised between us.
I carried it with me, my mind still heavy from therapy earlier that afternoon.
My therapist had made me pause, made me see what I'd been doing: bracing myself so tightly against hurt that I couldn't move forward at all.
The truth was, the hurt was already there, pulsing.
Being near him might not erase it, but maybe. .. maybe it could start to mend it.
I pushed open the workshop door. Heat and the faint tang of solder drifted out, sharp and metallic, mingling with the sweeter notes of polish and resin.
The air shimmered with dust motes that caught the light, and everywhere I looked, benches gleamed with scattered gemstones, tiny files, spools of wire, and half-finished pieces catching the glow from the lamps.
It smelled of fire and silver, of creation itself.
Ryder was bent over the bench, sleeves rolled up, his hands steady as he worked.
When he looked up and saw me, his face broke into the biggest smile I'd seen from him in weeks.
"Heyy...That's my signature," he said, nodding toward the glass I held.
"Yeah, sorry," I replied with a small grin, stepping closer. "I had to borrow it today."
He raised a brow, wiping his palms on a rag. "It's white," he said, almost like a question.
I shifted the glass between my hands, feeling its cool weight. "Sharp, Sherlock," I laughed, though my voice trembled at the edges. "Yes, it's white. It's...a peace offering."
He tilted his head, the lines around his eyes softening. "So, what are you saying, Dec?" His voice gentled as he spoke, cautious but hopeful.
I swallowed hard, staring at the glass instead of him.
"I'm saying I'm tired. Tired of feeling pain, anger, hurt—all the time.
Tired of waiting... maybe we can change that.
" My fingers tightened around the glass before I added, quieter, "And also.
.. I'm sorry. For getting so intense with you the other night and maybe making it worse. "
He took the glass, his eyes unreadable but softer than they'd been in days.
"Don't apologize, Dec." His voice was steady, kind, almost too gentle for the heaviness in my chest. "You bottled those feelings for over a year. They were bound to come out."
I smiled, the air between us taut with something unspoken.
My eyes wandered to the workbench—a scattering of tools, a half-finished piece of glass, and, beside him, a small chain threaded with a pale gem that caught the light.
I moved suddenly to have a closer look and Ryder flinched and my chest twisted.
"Ryder..." I breathed, withdrawing my hand.
His eyes flicked up to mine, guilt written across them. "Sorry, Dec," he murmured quickly, shaking his head. "It's just... reflex. I don't even think about it. I—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening as though the words themselves were barbed wire.
"Don't apologize," I whispered, my throat raw. "Please don't." In that moment, my heart splintered for this man, for the reflexes that still claimed him like chains he couldn't yet shake.
And then suddenly, Ryder laughed. It broke out of him in a rush, shaking his shoulders until he had to brace a hand against the bench. The sheer absurdity spilled over him, unstoppable. "God," he wheezed between breaths, wiping at his damp eyes, "we are such a mess, both of us."
The sound was contagious, cutting through the heaviness like sunlight through storm clouds.
A sob-laugh broke out of me, messy and ungraceful, tears blurring my vision as I doubled over.
At least this was different from all the crying.
When the laughter ebbed into a softer quiet, I straightened and caught his gaze.
His eyes were red at the edges, his mouth still curved as if he couldn't quite let go of the absurdity.
"So, Ryder..." I said carefully, though my lips still trembled with leftover laughter. "Do you want to start couples therapy with me?"
He blinked, surprised but then his expression shifted, warmed, softened. A slow smile stretched across his face, crinkling his eyes in that way that always undid me. "Yes, Ven," he said with mock gravity, pressing a hand over his heart. "With pleasure."
The office was quiet, softly lit, with bookshelves lined in neat rows and a faint scent of lavender in the air.
I sat beside Ryder on the couch, not too close, not too far.
My palms were clammy, pressed against my thighs.
He looked the same, tense shoulders, restless hands, but his eyes flicked to mine, nervous and steady at once.
Dr. Klein sat back in her chair, her gaze steady but not unkind.
She let the quiet breathe for a few moments before speaking.
"Before we talk about the relationship now, I want us to step back.
Both of you walked into your relationship before, carrying baggage.
It's important to name it, otherwise it will keep slipping into your present without you noticing. "
Her eyes turned first to Ryder. "Ryder, let's start with you. What kind of baggage did you bring with you?"
Ryder shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening.
His hand flexed against his knee as though grounding himself.
"The abuse," he said finally, his voice low but steady.
"It rewired me. I learned not to trust. Not to believe I was safe.
Even now, I catch myself waiting for the blow, even when it's not there. "
Dr. Klein gave a slow nod, jotting down a note on her pad. "So the abuse taught you to withdraw and to hide behind a mask. Is that what you're saying?"
He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Yeah. Exactly that."
Then Dr. Klein's attention shifted to me. "And you, December? What about you? What baggage did you bring into this relationship?"
I hesitated, heat pricking at my skin under her steady gaze.
Finally, I drew in a breath. "Low self-esteem," I admitted quietly.
"I grew up believing I had to earn my place—that love wasn't unconditional.
I thought if I was good enough, quiet enough, agreeable enough, I would be wanted.
So I stayed silent, even when I was hurting.
I kept pretending everything was fine because I didn't think I deserved more. "
Dr. Klein's tone stayed professional, but there was compassion in her steadiness. "So, you tolerated what felt intolerable."
I nodded, throat tight.
Dr. Klein leaned forward slightly, her voice low but precise.
"Do you see what was happening between you?
" she asked. "Ryder, your instinct was to hide.
December, your instinct was to stay silent.
Together, those two reflexes built a pattern—secrets, silence, avoidance.
You weren't just reacting to each other.
You were reenacting survival strategies you both learned long before this relationship even began. "
Ryder's jaw tightened. "But still," he muttered, "I caused the destruction of our relationship."
Dr. Klein folded her hands, her tone steady but gentle. "Ryder, you've been carrying a lot of blame for how things ended between you. Why is that?"
He kept his gaze low, shoulders tense. "Because it's my fault. My secret, my past. The abuse I didn't tell her about. I put her in danger and she had no idea."
Dr. Klein tilted her head, leaning in a fraction closer. "Okay, what if Mira decided to just go away and you decided to go official with December, do you truly believe your relationship would have worked back then?"
He looked up, startled, as if the question had never occurred to him. Slowly, his eyes shifted to me. "Would it have, Dec?"
The answer came before I could stop it. "No."
Ryder blinked, shock crossing his face. "No?"
My voice shook, but I forced it steady. "Ryder.
.. even if that had happened, I'd always feel something was wrong with me—for you to have kept me a secret.
But I wasn't honest either. I lied by omission.
I kept things from you, things that cut me deep.
I never told you how much it hurt to be hidden.
.. how small, worthless, humiliated I felt.
I swallowed it all because I wanted us to work so badly.
Some nights... I'd cry quietly beside you, just so you wouldn't hear. "
His face crumpled, every line etched with pain. "Dec..."
"And you wouldn't have told me about Mira... even if she disappeared, would you?" I asked.
"No," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would've been too ashamed, too guilty to say anything."
"And I... I wouldn't have told you how horrible these months have felt... being your secret girlfriend." I added.
Dr. Klein let the silence linger before speaking again.
Her voice softened, but it carried weight.
"Do you hear what's happening here? Both of you were hiding.
Ryder, you hid your abuse and fear. December, you hid your needs and your hurt.
Together, you created a relationship built on silence and secrecy.
Can you see how that shaped the foundation between you? "
I nodded, barely able to breathe. "Yes."
"That's why we have to be clear," Dr. Klein said.
"This isn't about fixing the old relationship.
You're not patching up a broken house, you're building something new.
From the ground up. New parameters. Not rules born out of fear or survival, but ones you both choose together.
That means honesty instead of hiding. Naming the pain instead of swallowing it.
Reaching for each other instead of retreating.
These aren't tricks; they're the architecture of your new bond. "
I felt a tremor move through me, as though her words had touched something raw and hidden, "But what if the old reflexes keep showing up?"
Her gaze softened. "They will show up. Reflexes are scars, and scars don't vanish.
But healing means you respond to them differently.
The goal isn't to erase your past, but to learn how to notice when it surfaces, to pause, and to repair together.
That commitment—that practice—weakens the old reflexes over time.
That's how trust grows. Not overnight. Not in one grand gesture.
But in hundreds of small, faithful moments. "
She leaned forward. "And I want to give you an exercise to start stacking those safe experiences.
" She looked between us. "Every night this week, before you go to bed, I want each of you to share one moment where you either felt trust or fear with the other.
Just one. If it was trust, acknowledge it, let it be seen.
If it was fear, name it gently without accusation.
The point isn't to solve it in that moment.
The point is to practice speaking it aloud.
You'll be training your nervous systems that honesty doesn't equal danger, and that being heard can be safe. "
Ryder nodded slowly, gripping my hand a little tighter. I exhaled, feeling the weight of the task, but also strangely, hope. For the first time, it felt like we weren't dragging the ruins of our old life behind us. We were sketching the outline of something new.