Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Colton
Sunday mornings with Melissa feel dangerous.
Not in a reckless way. In the quiet, insidious way that makes you forget you ever built walls in the first place.
She’s curled into my side on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, wearing her comfy cream sweatpants and white shirt.
The city outside is muted today, slower on Sundays, like it’s exhaling with us.
A mug of coffee sits forgotten on the table, steam long gone, and something low and meaningless hums from the television.
Neither of us is watching it.
She traces idle shapes on my forearm with her fingertip, not even realizing she’s doing it. The touch is absent-minded, familiar. The kind that assumes permission.
She shifts, stretching, pressing her face briefly into my chest with a quiet hum of contentment.
“This might be my favorite version of you,” she murmurs.
I glance down at her. “Lying horizontally?”
She chuckles. “Relaxed,” she corrects. “Unscheduled.”
I snort. “Highly overrated.”
She smiles, but doesn’t argue, simply settles back in like she’s exactly where she wants to be.
And that’s when my phone buzzes.
Once.
I ignore it.
A moment later, it buzzes again.
Melissa glances toward the sound. “You’re popular today.”
I don’t respond, my eyes fixed on the opposite wall. The third buzz comes less than a minute later.
She sits up slightly this time, propping herself on her elbow. “Is everything okay?”
I reach for my phone reluctantly and glance at the screen.
Aubrey.
Three missed calls.
A knot forms low in my stomach, immediate and familiar. My thumb hovers over the screen before I lock it and set it back down on the table, face down.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
Melissa studies me for a beat longer than necessary.
“It didn’t look like nothing,” she says gently.
I shrug, the movement stiff. “Just my sister.”
She doesn’t push, but she doesn’t look away either.
“Does she call often?” she asks.
I hesitate. “Sometimes.”
“And you usually ignore it?” she asks, still soft.
“I don’t ignore her,” I say, sharper than I meant to. “I just … don’t always answer right away.”
Her brows draw together slightly with curiosity. “Oh,” she says. “I didn’t mean it like—”
“I know,” I interrupt, already regretting my tone.
She sits up fully now, drawing one knee to her chest. The warmth that settled between us thins.
“I was wondering,” she says. “You don’t really talk about your family.”
I lean back against the couch, exhaling through my nose.
“They’re … complicated,” I say.
She nods. “I get that.”
There’s a pause.
“Do you ever think about talking to them?” she asks carefully. “About everything?”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
“I talk about things,” I say.
She tilts her head. “You talk about things with me. That’s different.”
I don’t respond right away because she’s right. And because I don’t want to open that door, not today, not when the quiet feels so fragile.
“I’m not ready for that,” I say finally.
She watches my face closely. “I wasn’t suggesting you do it now.”
“I know,” I say again, a little clipped. “I just … don’t want to.”
Something shifts in her expression, not hurt or fear, but understanding.
“Okay,” she says simply.
She reaches for her mug, takes a sip, then sets it back down, untouched. She doesn’t press. Doesn’t lecture. Doesn’t tell me what healing is supposed to look like.
And somehow, that makes the knot in my chest tighten instead of loosen because she gave me space. And I reacted like she didn’t.
Melissa shifts beside me, drawing her legs under her again, but she doesn’t retreat. She doesn’t close herself off. She gives the moment some much-needed air, like she’s letting it breathe instead of forcing it to behave.
The television murmurs on, some laugh track drifting through the room, wildly out of place.
I stare straight ahead, jaw tight.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say finally.
She turns her head toward me. “I didn’t think I did.”
There’s no challenge in her voice. No edge. Just honesty.
I swallow.
“I get defensive about them,” I admit. “I don’t always realize it until it’s already happening.”
Her gaze softens, but she doesn’t move closer. She lets me have the space I carved out, even though I didn’t ask for it delicately.
“I wasn’t trying to push you,” she says. “Or tell you what you should do.”
“I know,” I say again. The word feels heavier this time. Less automatic.
She studies me for a moment. “I was curious. About you.”
Curious.
Not demanding. Not impatient. Not trying to fix me or fast-forward me through something painful.
Just wanting to understand the man she’s sharing her Sundays with.
“I’m not there yet,” I say quietly. “With them.”
She nods. “That’s okay.”
Something in my chest tugs uncomfortably.
“I don’t want to watch you carry everything alone,” she adds. “Not because I think you’re doing it wrong. Because I know what it’s like.”
My gaze drops to the floor.
“I spent a long time pretending I was fine,” she continues. “That it was easier not to touch certain memories. But they don’t really go away. They get louder when you’re tired.”
I glance at her then. She isn’t talking about my parents. She’s talking about grief.
And she isn’t asking me to confront it. She’s telling me she recognizes it.
“I’m not asking you to open that door for me,” she says softly. “You get to decide when and how.”
The knot in my chest loosens a fraction.
“I wanted to know if you’d ever thought about it,” she finishes. “That’s all.”
I nod slowly.
“I have,” I admit. “More lately than I used to.”
Her lips curve into a small, understanding smile. “That makes sense.”
We sit quietly again, the earlier warmth returning in small increments, cautious but present.
She reaches for my hand this time, her fingers sliding into mine, like she’s asking permission without words.
I let her. The contact steadies me more than I expected.
“I’m sorry I snapped,” I say. “That wasn’t fair to you.”
She squeezes my hand once. “Thank you for saying that.”
I study her face, the calm in her expression, the lack of expectation.
It strikes me how different this is from every other woman who’s been in my life.
No games. No ultimatums. No emotional bargaining.
Just honesty and patience.
My phone buzzes again on the table.
Aubrey.
This time, Melissa glances at it and then back at me without comment.
The choice sits there between us.
I don’t reach for it.
Not yet, but I don’t shove it away either.
Progress, I guess.
She leans back into me, resting her head against my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her automatically. We fit together so easily.
She falls quiet again, the way she does when she’s content enough not to fill the space.
Her head rests against my shoulder, her weight warm and familiar, and for a while, we simply sit there. The television continues to play something inconsequential, but neither of us is paying attention. Outside, the city moves on without us, loud and alive and unconcerned.
This should feel peaceful … and it does. But peace has never been my baseline. Control has.
I rest my cheek lightly against the top of her head, breathing her in.
My phone buzzes again on the table.
I don’t look at it.
Melissa eventually shifts again, reaching for her mug, grimacing when she realizes it’s cold. “Gross,” she mutters.
I smirk faintly. “Tragic.”
She laughs softly and stands, padding toward the kitchen to reheat it. I watch her move through my apartment like she belongs there, like she’s always known the rhythm of the space.
It’s unsettling how natural it feels. I lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
Frank’s words echo in my mind, uninvited.
Avoidance isn’t peace. It’s just fear with better posture.
I used to think love was the thing that broke people.
Now I’m starting to understand it’s what reveals where you already are.
Melissa comes back, settling beside me again, warm mug in hand.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she says lightly.
I consider lying.
Instead, I say, “I’m realizing how easy it is to keep doing what I’ve always done.”
She nods slowly. “And how hard it is not to.”
I glance at her, surprised.
“I’m not asking you to change,” she continues. “But I don’t want you to disappear inside it.”
The words are gentle, but they land.
“I won’t,” I say, though I don’t fully know how yet.
She smiles softly. “That’s enough for today.”
She leans in, pressing a brief kiss to my jaw, and just like that, the moment passes.
But the awareness doesn’t.
I sit there long after she relaxes against me, staring at nothing, feeling the weight of the choices I’ve avoided for years pressing closer.
Because now there’s someone who notices when I retreat. Someone who doesn’t chase me but also doesn’t disappear when I pull away. Someone who fits into my life easily enough that I can’t pretend this is casual anymore.
I don’t need to decide everything today, but I do need to stop pretending I can keep things separate because sooner or later, the walls I haven’t torn down yet will matter.
And if I wait too long, I know exactly what I’ll lose.