Chapter 12 – Cole-Present
Chapter Twelve
YOU, ME, AND MEMORY LANE
COLE-PRESENT
Her words still echo in my mind, sharp and distinct. I want you in my life, Cole. I want what we had back.
They hit me with the force of a freight train. A sharp blow that knocks the breath right out of my chest. For a moment, I can’t even catch my breath, the words spinning in my head, colliding with everything else I’ve been trying to keep contained.
It’s like she reached into my soul, pulled out all the things I’ve been scared to say, and laid them bare in front of me. My emotions are a whirlwind. Hope, love, anxiety, confusion, and something else too, something I can’t quite place. But most of all, there’s this overwhelming sense of relief.
Like I’ve been treading water for years, and someone just threw me a lifeline.
I’ve been thinking about this moment for so long.
Wishing for it, hoping for it, wondering if it would ever come.
But no matter how many times I imagined this moment in my head, I never could’ve predicted how it would feel.
Her voice was so soft, so fragile. It was like a whisper, barely above the silence, and yet the weight of those words made my heart skip a beat.
There was nothing brash about them. No pride, no certainty, just a raw vulnerability that made everything else fall away.
No masks. No distance. Just here, completely open.
She didn’t just tell me she wanted me around.
No, this was different. She admitted she needed me.
That’s what hit me the hardest. She needs me.
After everything. After the years apart, the mistakes, the distance, she needs me.
And somehow, hearing those words from her makes everything else feel insignificant.
It’s the most beautiful, terrifying thing I’ve ever heard.
Because when someone like Kenna lets you in again, it’s not just a second chance. It’s a responsibility. And I can’t afford to let her down. Not again.
When I help her up from the couch, I’m struck by how light she feels in my arms. She feels like something fragile and delicate, a whisper of glass that could shatter with the slightest touch.
It’s like the weight that had been pressing down on her is lifting, even if just a little.
But even though there’s still pain in her movements, there’s something different about her now.
She’s more at ease, less burdened by the weight she’s been carrying, and I can feel it.
Her body relaxes against mine, her head finding its place on my shoulder like it’s always belonged there.
It stirs something deep and protective in me. Like I’d fight the whole damn world just to keep her here, like this, safe.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I murmur, my voice soft and steady, trying to keep the flood of emotions I feel from pouring out. I don’t want to overwhelm her, not now.
My throat tightens around the words. I want to say so much more. How much I’ve missed her. How scared I was that this moment would never come. But I swallow it all, holding back the confessions. It isn’t the time for that. This moment calls only for care.
Carrying her up the stairs, I move slowly, deliberately, careful to be gentle, every step feeling more significant than the last. I don’t want to rush, don’t want to break the moment, even though my mind is trying to race ahead, trying to process everything all at once.
But I can’t help it. Every step, every shift of her body against mine, feels like a piece of my heart is expanding.
With each second I hold her, my world feels fuller.
This moment, this feeling, this closeness.
Is everything I’ve been waiting for without even realizing it.
I memorize the curve of her shoulder against my chest, the way her breath catches every few seconds. Not from pain, but from quiet, aching trust.
When we finally reach her room, I lower her to the bed with the same tenderness.
She moves slowly, her movements stiff, and I help her peel off her clothes.
I can see the exhaustion in her eyes, but I try to make light of it, teasing her gently about how slow she’s moving—like she’s about to set a world record for the slowest person in the world's history.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement in them, a flicker of life. That’s all I want. Just one flicker at a time, until she shines again.
She laughs. A soft, weak sound that still makes my chest tighten with something I can’t name. It’s a genuine laugh, though, and I can’t help but smile. For the first time in hours, I feel like I can breathe again.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” she chuckles, a tired but warm smile flickering across her face. “I’ll get into bed, I promise.”
As I help her into her pajamas, I tuck the covers around her, my fingers brushing lightly over her skin as I adjust the sheets.
I linger for a moment, just watching her.
There’s something about the way she looks right now.
Vulnerable, drained, yet somehow still so incredibly beautiful, that tugs at me in a way I can’t put into words.
It’s like seeing her in a new light, as if for the first time.
I’ve seen her like this before, but this time, it feels different.
Maybe because now, I’m not just looking at her. I’m seeing her. All of her.
And I want nothing more than to stay in this moment.
All I want to do is stay with her, hold her, make sure she’s safe, but for tonight, I’ll settle for just being near her. Watching over her as she drifts into sleep.
I pull the covers higher, tuck them in around her with a soft, careful motion, and then I watch her close her eyes, her breathing deepening, the tension in her face easing as she falls into the quiet of sleep.
I sit down on the edge of the bed for what feels like hours, just watching her sleep. There’s a kind of peace about her in this moment—raw, fragile, but so incredibly peaceful. And I know she needs this time to rest, to recover. I won’t leave her. Not tonight.
I don’t even consider leaving her side. But eventually, I get up and move to the living room.
I don’t want to, but I want to at least give her the space she deserves.
Before I go, I crack the door to her room open just a little.
I want to be close, just in case she needs something.
I can’t stand the idea of being too far from her now.
I make a mental note of the small sounds. The soft click of her bedside lamp, the quiet rustle of the sheets, the faint hum of her breathing. I tuck them away like keepsakes. Evidence that she’s here. That I’m here.
The couch is uncomfortable, and sleep feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, but my mind is restless.
My thoughts keep returning to her words, to that confession, to everything we’ve shared.
I can’t shake the way it feels, like a door is opening between us that’s been closed for far too long.
It’s a moment I’ll never forget, and I know it’s one that will stay with me forever.
I wake up before she does. It’s early, the sky still dark and the world hushed, and yet I’m wide awake.
The quiet of the house feels too heavy, like I’m waiting for something to happen, waiting for everything to settle into place.
But even as I lie on the couch, staring at the ceiling, I can’t stop the questions that are buzzing in my head.
What am I doing here? What are we doing here?
I’m happy, sure. But there’s a tightness in my chest, a restless tension that just won’t ease.
It’s been years since we’ve been this close, and things between us have never been simple.
That’s always been the thing with Kenna.
She gets under my skin, stirs up feelings I’ve never been able to control.
I’m not sure what this is, whatever’s happening between us right now, but I know one thing. I don’t want to ruin it.
Not when she finally let me back in. Not when she let me see the cracks in the armor.
The anxiety gnaws at me for a few minutes, but then I decide to cook. That’s something. It’s a way to show her I’m here.
I head into the kitchen and start digging through the fridge, pulling out whatever I need.
I’m making her favorite breakfast—salmon and cream cheese on a bagel.
It’s her go-to, and luckily she’s got everything here.
I even decide to try something extra. I make chocolate milk, the way she used to make it for me.
If I can get it right, maybe it’ll show her I still remember.
I stir the chocolate syrup into the milk, trying to make it just like she used to.
But when I take a sip, it’s not the same.
Something’s off. Not quite as good as hers.
I don’t know if I messed up the proportions or just didn’t mix it right, but it’s just..
.wrong. I shake my head and laugh under my breath, already knowing she’s gonna call me out on it.
Still, I pour it into her favorite mug. The one with the little crack near the handle, and place it gently on the table beside her plate.
Finally, Kenna comes into the kitchen, still a little groggy but clearly awake, her eyes blinking against the morning light. When she sees me, I can tell she’s surprised to find me here.
“You stayed,” she says quietly, her voice still rough from sleep.
It’s soft, almost uncertain. Like she didn’t really believe I would.
“Yeah,” I say, giving her a small smile. “Wasn’t gonna leave you alone. Figured you might need someone around.”
Her eyes linger on me for a second, and something shifts in her face. There’s gratitude there, but also something more. Something raw.
“Thank you. Really,” she says. “I needed you last night.” Her voice wavers just a little. “I miss you, Cole. More than you probably realize. And having you here again…it’s messing with my head. I love you. I always have. But I’m scared. Letting you in again. It’s not easy.”
Hearing her say it hits me hard. My chest tightens. It’s one thing to think she still cares, but to hear it out loud…it’s different. And yeah, I get it. I’m the reason for that fear. I put that there.
“I know,” I say, keeping my voice low. “And I’m not asking for anything big right now. We’ll go slow. Like you said, we can start with just being friends. No pressure. Just…spend time together. See where it goes.”
She nods, and for a second, she doesn’t say anything. Then that familiar smile pulls at her lips—the one I’ve missed more than I can explain.
“Well,” she says, her tone playful but warm, “I don’t work today. Wanna spend the day with me, Cap?”
The nickname hits me like a punch to the gut. Cap. She used to call me that back in high school. A nickname just for us. Hearing it now feels like opening a door I thought had been locked forever.
I can’t help but smile. “I wouldn’t want to spend my day any other way, Sunshine.”
We end up at the kitchen table, breakfast half-eaten, coffee in hand. The light through the blinds paints the room in gold. She’s across from me, quiet, sipping from her mug, and I keep sneaking glances like I’m checking to make sure this is real.
She’s twirling a piece of hair between her fingers, her eyes a little distant. Still thinking about everything, I guess. But she looks peaceful. And damn, she’s beautiful in the morning. Soft, real, like life hasn’t gotten to her yet today.
“The bagels turned out alright,” I say, trying to break the silence. “Still not sure about the chocolate milk though.”
She looks up, one brow raised, fighting a smile. “It was decent,” she says. “Definitely not like mine, but I’ll give you points for trying.”
I chuckle. “I’m gonna need a lesson. We should start a petition to get your recipe honored for national treasure status.”
She laughs, and it’s that full, easy laugh I haven’t heard in years. The sound fills the kitchen, and for a second, everything feels simple.
Then she sets her mug down and looks at me, her smile fading a bit. “I’ve missed this,” she says quietly. “Just…being with you.”
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Me too. A lot.”
We fall into a quiet that doesn’t feel heavy for once. It’s comfortable. Like we don’t need to fill the space with words. Just being here feels like enough.
When we finish breakfast, I get up to clear the plates, and she moves to help. She’s already talking about what we should do today, tossing out casual ideas, but I’ve already got something in mind. Something simple. Something that feels like us.
After we finish cleaning up, she grabs her purse and jacket, slipping into her shoes while I lean against the counter, watching her. I don’t mean to stare, but I do. She moves with a quiet confidence I’ve always admired.
“You ready?” she asks, glancing back at me. There’s a spark in her eyes, playful but soft.
I nod, smiling. “More than ready. Let’s see if I still remember how to show you a good time.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You always did set the bar too high.”
I grab my keys. “Thought we’d take a drive. Something familiar.”
She raises an eyebrow. “A drive?”
“Yeah,” I say as I hold the door open for her. “Little nostalgia never hurt anyone.”
She smiles and steps outside. The sunlight catching her hair just right.
And just like that, we’re off—no pressure, no big promises. Just two people trying to find their way back to something that once felt like home.