Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Colton
It’s been two weeks since I told her everything I’d spent most of my adult life keeping buried. Two weeks since I stopped pretending that control was the same thing as peace.
I don’t feel healed, but I do feel like a burden has been lifted.
Which might actually be worse in some ways because now I notice things. Like how quiet my apartment feels when she isn’t here or how much easier it is to breathe when she is.
Tonight, she’s sitting on the floor in front of my couch, legs tucked beneath her, hair piled messily on top of her head. She’s wearing one of my old T-shirts and a pair of socks that definitely don’t match. The coffee table is cluttered with plates from dinner and a half-empty bottle of wine.
We cooked together. That alone feels monumental.
She insisted on chopping vegetables even though she kept stealing pieces of bell pepper and cucumber, claiming she needed to “sample for quality control.” I pretended not to notice her eating half of what she was supposed to prep.
She pretended not to notice me watching her.
Now we’re halfway through a card game I don’t remember agreeing to play.
“You’re cheating,” I tell her flatly.
She looks up at me, eyes wide and innocent. “I would never.”
“You absolutely are.”
She scoffs. “You’re just mad because you’re losing.”
I glance down at the cards in my hand. “Statistically improbable.”
She grins. “Emotionally satisfying.”
I shake my head, a laugh slipping out before I can stop it. It startles me a little how easy it comes now.
When was the last time I laughed like this?
Not a polite chuckle. Not something brief and restrained. Real laughter.
Melissa watches me like she notices it too.
“Wow,” she says. “You do have a personality.”
“Don’t spread that around,” I reply dryly. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
She laughs and reaches over to steal one of my cards. I catch her wrist automatically, fingers curling around hers.
“Nope.”
She looks down at where I’m holding her, then back up at me. Something warm flickers between us.
“Colton,” she says gently, “this is supposed to be fun.”
“It is fun,” I say. “For me.”
She laughs again and gently tugs her hand free, scooting closer to the couch until her shoulder presses against my knee.
I realize then how different this feels from the way my life used to be.
There’s no countdown clock ticking in my head. No sense that I should be somewhere else. No itch to retreat back into work or distraction.
I’m just here. I’m present.
She wins the game, of course. Celebrates far too enthusiastically, then declares herself the champion and demands a prize.
“What kind of prize?” I ask.
She pretends to think. “Hmm. Dealer’s choice.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Dangerous.”
She grins. “I like to live on the edge.”
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, studying her. “I don’t.”
She sobers slightly, but there’s no tension in it. Only curiosity.
“You don’t have to,” she says quietly. “Not tonight.”
Something shifts in my chest. That’s when it hits me. I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact anymore.
For years, my life has been about endurance. Function. Getting through the next thing. There was always another crisis waiting, another chart to review, another night I could stay late so I didn’t have to go home and sit with myself.
But tonight? I don’t want to escape this moment. I want to stretch it.
I watch her as she gathers the cards, humming softly under her breath.
I haven’t taken a vacation in years.
Not a real one at least. Not something chosen for joy instead of obligation.
The realization settles heavy and strange, like discovering a missing limb you’ve been compensating for without realizing it.
Melissa looks up. “You okay? You just got … quiet.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous again,” she teases.
“Very.”
She shifts closer, resting her head briefly against my thigh. The contact is casual, like it belongs.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid of what it might mean.
She’s joined me on the couch, curled into my side now, the game abandoned somewhere between her winning and me pretending I didn’t care. One of her legs is stretched across mine. The television is on, but neither of us is watching it.
She smells like my soap. That shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
I rest my hand absently on her knee, thumb tracing slow, thoughtless circles. The motion is familiar already, instinctive.
“You’re quiet again,” she says.
I glance down at her, at the way her cheek is pressed against my chest, her eyes half lidded and relaxed. She looks safe here. Comfortable. Like she isn’t bracing herself for the other shoe to drop.
“I was thinking,” I admit.
She hums. “You do that a lot.”
“Occupational hazard,” I say, echoing myself from earlier.
She smiles faintly but tilts her head to look up at me. “What about?”
I hesitate because saying it out loud makes it real.
“I realized I don’t know how to stop,” I say.
Her brow furrows slightly. “Stop what?”
“Working,” I reply honestly. “Running. Filling every quiet moment with something productive so I don’t have to sit with myself.”
She doesn’t interrupt.
“I used to tell myself it was discipline,” I continue. “Commitment. Dedication. But lately, it feels like … avoidance.”
Her fingers curl lightly into my shirt at my waist.
“That’s a big thing to admit,” she says softly.
I nod. “I don’t think I would have noticed it if you weren’t here.”
Her gaze holds mine. “Does that scare you?” she asks.
The honest answer comes easier than it used to. “Yes.”
She smiles gently. “Good.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It is,” she says. “It means you’re paying attention.”
I stare up at the ceiling.
“When I was younger,” I say slowly, “I thought if I stayed busy enough, focused enough, I wouldn’t feel things as sharply.”
“And did it work?” she asks.
“For a while,” I admit. “Or at least I convinced myself it did.”
She shifts, turning fully toward me now, her knee pressing into my thigh.
“And now?”
I look at her—really look at her.
“Now I notice when I’m tired,” I say. “I notice when I’m lonely. I notice that I haven’t taken a real vacation in years.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Years?”
“I honestly don’t remember the last one,” I say. “Not a conference. Not a donor dinner in a different city … an actual vacation.”
“That’s … not healthy,” she says carefully.
“I know.”
She studies me for a moment. “Do you want one?”
The question is simple, but something about it cracks open a door I didn’t realize was closed.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I do.”
Her smile grows. “Where would you go?”
I shrug, deflecting instinctively. “I don’t know. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere slow.”
She tilts her head, considering. “You don’t strike me as a beach guy.”
I snort. “I burn.”
She laughs. “Figures.”
“I think I want to walk,” I say. “Eat. Drink wine without checking my phone every five minutes.”
She hums thoughtfully. “That sounds nice.”
“It sounds impossible,” I admit. “Which is probably how I know I need it.”
She reaches up, brushing her thumb along my jaw in a gesture so gentle that it almost undoes me.
“You don’t have to earn rest, Colton,” she says. “You’re allowed to want things.”
Wanting things has never been the problem. Letting myself have them has.
I swallow, something tight in my chest loosening just slightly.
“I’d want to take you,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches. “Me?” she asks.
I nod. “If you’d want that.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me like she’s weighing something.
Then she smiles. “I would.”
Relief washes through me, slow and steady. The idea settles between us slowly.
She’s still turned toward me, her hand resting lightly on my chest, fingers splayed, like she’s grounding herself there. I can feel the warmth of her palm through my shirt.
“I know where I’d want to go,” I say finally.
Her eyes brighten. “Where?”
“Italy.”
The word hangs there.
She blinks once. Then again. “Italy?”
I nod. “Tuscany. Small towns. Vineyards. Places where dinner takes hours and nobody cares what time it is.”
Her mouth opens slightly, surprise written all over her face.
“I want to taste wine with you,” I continue, the words coming easier now that I’ve said them once. “Walk through places that don’t feel rushed. Sit somewhere beautiful and … just be.”
She exhales, a soft, disbelieving laugh escaping her. “That sounds unreal.”
“It’s not,” I say. “It could be ours.”
Her excitement flickers, bright and genuine, and then something cautious slips in.
“Colton,” she says gently, “I can’t afford half of that.”
I shake my head immediately. “I didn’t ask you to.”
Her chin lifts, stubbornness I’ve come to recognize already in her eyes. “I wouldn’t feel right letting you pay for everything.”
I turn toward her fully now, wanting her to hear this without distraction.
“Melissa,” I say quietly, “for years, I’ve had all of this money, access, opportunity … and no one to share it with. No one I wanted to build memories with.”
Her throat moves as she swallows.
“This isn’t about control,” I add. “Or obligation. And it’s not me trying to impress you.”
She searches my face, clearly weighing whether to believe me.
“I want to do this for you,” I continue. “For us. I finally have someone I want to enjoy it with.”
The room feels still, like it’s waiting.
She lets out a slow breath. “I don’t want to feel like I owe you anything.”
“You don’t,” I say firmly. “You don’t owe me a damn thing. Just come with me.”
She studies me for a long moment.
Then she smiles softly. “Okay,” she says. “But I’m paying for something.”
I laugh, the sound warm and unrestrained. “Of course you are.”
She points a finger at me. “Nonnegotiable.”
“Fine,” I concede. “You can buy the gelato.”
She laughs, leaning into me again, her head resting against my shoulder like it belongs there.
For so long, my life has been built around survival but sitting here with her as we plan a future that exists purely for joy, I feel hope bloom in my chest.
Hope.
I look down at her, at the woman who didn’t demand promises or perfection, only honesty and presence.
Two weeks ago, I was terrified of what letting her see me would cost. Now, I’m starting to understand what hiding from life has already taken.
“I haven’t done this before,” I admit quietly.
She tilts her head to look up at me. “Done what?”
“Wanted a future,” I say. “Instead of just enduring the present.”
Her expression softens.
“Well,” she says gently, “we can start with wine.”
I smile, pressing a kiss into her hair, breathing her in.
For the first time in a long time, the road ahead doesn’t feel like a storm to brace for.
It feels like a future to walk toward. Together.