Chapter 25 Lena
LENA
For a moment, everything in me goes quiet.
My father keeps staring at Gabe like the picture in front of him refuses to organize into something logical.
He looks at the mug in Gabe's hand, then at the blanket tossed on the couch, then at my socks.
Then he stares at Gabe again. His confusion tightens into something ominous, visible in the way his eyebrows look like they're about to go all the way up to his hairline.
I grip the door’s edge. "Dad… come in."
He steps past me, slowly, his jaw tight enough that I can see the muscles jump. His gaze moves through the living room, taking inventory of things he thinks he understands and things he clearly doesn't.
Gabe sets his mug down on a coaster. He stands, calm, steady, shoulders squared in that quiet way he has when he's ready to defend but not escalate. "Evening," he says.
My father answers with a curt nod. He isn't rude. He's suspicious. There's a difference, and I know both very well.
"Lena," Dad says, turning back to me. "Can we talk privately?"
I take a breath. "No. Not this time."
His brows lift. He wasn't expecting that.
I walk past him and stand near the arm of the couch, grounding myself with one hand. I'm not hiding. I'm not shrinking. I'm not explaining away something that doesn't need explaining.
Dad looks between the two of us again. "Is there a reason he's here tonight?"
"Yes," I say. "Because I wanted him here."
My father's shoulders stiffen. He opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again. "You brought him into your home? With your son asleep upstairs? After everything that's been said about you two?"
I feel heat bloom behind my eyes—not tears. Anger. "Said by whom?"
"You know how this town is."
"And I'm done letting that matter more than reality."
Dad exhales sharply, pacing once like he needs to reset himself. "I thought you were seeing someone else."
"I was trying to survive," I say. "There's a difference."
His head snaps toward me. "And now you think this is a good idea? Dating him? At your age? At his?"
Gabe doesn't interrupt. He stands still, hands at his sides, letting me handle my own father. That alone calms some part of me.
Dad goes on, "You know how it looks—"
"Stop," I cut in.
He blinks.
I step forward. "Everything you just said? Everything you're worried about? That's the problem."
His mouth presses into a flat line. "I'm trying to protect you."
"No. You're trying to control the narrative.
The same way you did when I got pregnant.
When I kept the baby. When I moved home.
When I tried to take photos full-time instead of going back to the office.
" My voice stays even, but inside, something hot pushes up my throat.
"You supported the version of me you wanted. Not the actual me."
My father's eyes flicker. He hates hearing that, mostly because he doesn't know how to refute it without sounding like a parent who never listens.
"Lena," he tries, "I'm not your enemy."
"Then stop acting like one."
A long, quiet beat sits between us.
Gabe finally speaks, his tone calm. "I'm here because your daughter asked me to be here. Not because I pushed myself into anything."
Dad turns to him, studying him the same way he studies broken tools in his workshop—like he's checking for flaws. "Are you taking advantage of her? Be honest."
"No." Gabe meets his stare without blinking. "I care about her. I care about her son. That's why I'm standing here."
That knocks my father off balance more than anger does. He frowns, confused, as if Gabe skipped a line in his script.
He shifts his attention to me again. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you don't listen," I answer, simple and true.
His shoulders sag for a second—a tiny crack in his certainty—but he straightens again. "And what about that man you went out with? Tom?"
Gabe's jaw moves at the name, but he stays quiet.
I push through the ache in my chest. "Dad, Tom… he wasn't what you thought. He was threatening me."
My father freezes. "Threatening?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
I swallow. "He knew about me and Gabe. And he kept implying he'd tell people. Twist things. Spread garbage about me. About what kind of mother I am. He said he'd make sure the town saw me the way he wanted."
Dad's face drains, then sharpens. "Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"
"Because I was tired," I say. "Tired of proving myself to you. Tired of being scared of disappointing you. Tired of thinking you'd look at me the way Tom wanted people to."
His eyes widen, and for a heartbeat, guilt flickers there.
I add, "And Gabe helped me handle it. He didn't ask for anything. He didn't insert himself. He listened. He protected me when I needed it."
Dad's gaze cuts to Gabe again, softer this time but still guarded. "Is that true?"
Gabe nods once. "Yes. I kept it clean. No threats. No force. Just evidence and making sure the women he hurt had a chance to confront him. Lena did most of it."
Dad stares at him for a long, strained moment. I can almost hear the gears turning in his head, weighing every worry against the reality in front of him.
Then he asks, quieter, "How long has this been going on?"
I open my mouth, but my voice fades before the words form.
Not because I'm ashamed.
But because I realize how long I've lived waiting for my father's permission.
Gabe steps closer—not touching, just close enough that I can feel the heat of him. "Long enough," he says. "And not long enough. Both."
Dad looks between us, and something in his face shifts. He isn't softened. He isn't convinced. But he isn't attacking anymore. He's adjusting. Recalculating.
He scrubs a hand over his face. "I came here to talk about the dinner. Someone told me you humiliated Tom."
I laugh once. "He humiliated himself. We just gave him an audience."
Dad frowns again, confused, irritated, fatherly, all mashed together. "I don't know what to do with all of this."
"You don't have to do anything," I say. "Just don't make this harder."
He searches my face. The girl he raised. The woman he keeps forgetting I grew into.
"I want you happy," he says quietly.
"I am," I answer.
His gaze flicks to Gabe. "I don't know how to feel about this."
"That's fine," I say. "You don't have to feel anything yet."
He lets out a slow breath. "We'll talk more."
I nod. "We will."
He steps back toward the door, pausing once more when he looks at Gabe. Something unreadable settles in his eyes.
Then he leaves.
The door closes behind him, and the house exhales.
I stand very still, hand still on the knob.
Gabe walks up behind me, his voice low. "You okay?"
I look up at him. "I'm more than okay."
His brow lifts a little, cautious, like he thinks I might fall apart any second.
So I show him I won't.
I grab the front of his shirt and kiss him—hard, hungry, like every part of me has been pulled toward him since the night he first walked into my chaos. He inhales fast against my mouth but kisses me right back, steady hands sliding to my waist, grounding me as much as he pulls me in.
Something in me cracks open. Maybe it's relief. Maybe it's joy. Maybe it's because, for the first time in a long time, I'm not choosing safety or silence. I'm choosing him.
I break the kiss only when I need air, my forehead pressed to his. "You're the only thing that feels right," I whisper.
His eyes close, like those words land somewhere deep.
When he opens them again, there's a look there I've never seen on his face—not even when he held Jace's hand walking into the park, not even when he carried me into his room like I was something he didn't want to put down.
This is deeper.
He cups my jaw. His thumb traces a line under my lip, gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. "Lena," he says, voice thick, "I don't want to wait anymore."
"For what?" I ask, breath shaking.
He exhales through his nose, slow and certain. "For a life with you."
My stomach drops. Not fear—something bigger. Warmth that rises so fast, my eyes blur.
He shifts his hand from my jaw to my cheek, brushing a tear I didn't realize had escaped. "I know how it sounds," he says. "Fast. Messy. Complicated. But nothing in my life has ever felt as sure as you do."
More tears slip. I don't stop them. He wipes them anyway, tender, patient.
"I want to build something," he continues. "With you. With Jace. I want to be the one he runs to when he needs a light fixed or a bully handled or a science project partner who actually knows what he's doing. I want to wake up in this house with you every morning and fall asleep here every night."
My breath catches. My knees go weak enough that he steadies my hips without even thinking.
"You two are the only place I want to be," he murmurs. "And I don't want it unofficial anymore. I don't want it fragile. I don't want you ever wondering if I'll stay."
He pauses, searching my face like he needs permission to say the next words.
And then, quiet but fierce, "Marry me."
The air leaves my lungs. A sound breaks out of me—half laugh, half sob. My hand covers my mouth. I'm shaking. Not because I didn't see this man falling for me. I saw that long before I let myself believe it.
I just never imagined he'd want… this.
He pulls my hand down from my lips and brings it to his chest, right over his heartbeat. It thumps against my palm like it's trying to answer for him.
"I'm not trying to fix your life," he says. "I'm asking to be part of it. All of it. The hard parts. The good parts. The parts that scare you. I want all of it if you'll let me."
Tears spill faster.
He leans in until our foreheads touch, his breath warm against my cheek. "Say something."
I laugh through the tears. "Gabe… I don't even… I never thought anyone would choose me like this."
"I'm choosing you," he says. "Every version of you. The one who bakes at midnight. The one who works herself tired. The one who cries in the shower sometimes. The one who fights for her kid like a lion. The one who still thinks she has to earn love when all she ever deserved was real love."
I break. Full-on break. My hand goes to his face, and he leans into it like he's been waiting for that touch his whole life.
"Yes," I whisper, voice shaking. "Yes. Yes, I'll marry you."
He laughs under his breath—a stunned, full-body sound—and pulls me into his arms. I melt into him, tears soaking into his shirt, his arms wrapping around me like he'll never let me go again.
He lifts me slightly, just enough that my toes leave the ground for a heartbeat. When he sets me back down, he kisses my forehead, my cheeks, the corners of my mouth, each one slow and reverent.
"You sure?" he asks against my skin, voice raw.
I hold his face between my hands. "I've never been more sure about anything."