Chapter 7 Ava #2
He does, slowly and carefully, staying on top of the blanket until I reach out, fingers brushing his. “It’s okay. I trust you.”
Elijah exhales like I just gave him the world. He slides under the blanket, careful not to touch me until I inch closer. I rest my head on his chest, and his arm wraps around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Silence stretches between us, not heavy now, but full. Full of questions neither of us are ready to ask. Full of hope we’re too scared to name.
“I’m still scared,” I admit, my voice small in the dark.
“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “So am I. But we’ll figure it out. No pressure, no timeline. Just us.”
I nod against him, tears prickling again—but not from fear this time. From relief. From the warmth of his chest, the beat of his heart, the feeling of finally being held not just by someone—but by him.
He doesn’t say anything. Just slides closer and pulls me into his chest. I go willingly—no hesitation this time. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt as he wraps his arms around me, holding me like I might break, but he’ll be there to catch every piece if I do.
And as I drift off in his arms, I think—that this is what falling feels like. Not chaos or panic. But safety. Peace. The quiet knowing that even broken things can be loved back to life.
We lay on the bed, still wrapped in that blanket, my head on his chest. He stays fully dressed, doesn’t try anything, just holds me like that’s all he ever wanted.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel safe. Not just in my house. Not just in his arms. But in us.
***
The first thing I register is warmth. The steady rise and fall of Elijah’s chest beneath my cheek. The scent of cedar wood and ink that clings to his clothes. His arm is wrapped securely around me, hand resting against my back like he never stopped holding me, not even in his sleep.
I blink a few times, trying to get my bearings. Morning light is just beginning to filter through the blinds, casting soft golden stripes across the living room floor. We’re still on the bed, tangled beneath the throw blanket, exactly where we fell asleep.
I don’t remember drifting off. Just the feel of his heartbeat and the way his voice anchored me through the storm inside my chest. And now, here we are. Still here.
I shift a little, just enough to look up at him. His eyes are closed, lashes resting on his cheeks, but his breathing changes. Slows, deepens. He’s awake.
“Morning,” I whisper, not wanting to disturb the quiet too much.
His lips twitch into a half-smile before his eyes even open. “Hey, baby girl.”
My heart gives a little stutter. He says it so naturally, like it belongs to me. Like I belong to him, and I want to.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks, voice rough with sleep, low and comforting.
I shrug, resting my chin on his chest. “Better than I have in days.”
“Good,” he murmurs, hand sliding gently up and down my back. “You were safe. I wasn’t gonna let anything touch you.”
“I know,” I say, the words catching a little in my throat. “Thank you, Elijah. For last night. For coming. For staying.”
His brow furrows slightly, like it hurts him that I even feel the need to thank him. “You don’t have to thank me, Ava. I’d show up every time. No matter what.”
My eyes sting again, but it’s a different kind of ache now. Less fear. More realization.
“What happens now?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
He looks at me for a long moment, like he’s making sure I really want the answer.
Then he brushes a strand of hair from my face and says softly, “Whatever you want. Like I said last night. We take it slow. Or we don’t take it at all.
But I’m not walking away, Ava. I'm not going anywhere. You’re not alone.
I'll be by your side as a friend or anything you want”
A tiny, trembling breath escapes my lips.
“I don’t want to slow down because I’m unsure,” he says, voice steady now. “I want slow because I want to savor every second with you, baby girl.”
His eyes darken with something deep and warm and sure. He leans down, not quite kissing me—just resting his forehead to mine again like he did the night before.
We lay there a little longer, wrapped in silence, in each other. The world is still waiting outside, but for now, there’s no rush.
Not when I’m exactly where I want to be.
***
The peace of earlier slips into something softer—lighter—by the time we move to the kitchen. I’m in Elijah’s hoodie, swimming in it really, and he keeps pretending not to stare every time the hem creeps up my thigh when I reach for something.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I tease, opening a cabinet a little too forcefully.
“Like what?” he asks innocently, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Like you’re currently stealing my favorite hoodie and looking better in it than I ever did?”
I roll my eyes, grinning as I pull down a box of pancake mix. “I’m not stealing it.”
“You’re literally wearing it while denying it.” He pushes off the counter and steps behind me, reaching for a mug from the shelf above my head. His chest brushes my back. “Don’t worry. You can keep it. But it’s a rental—you’ll have to pay in pancakes.”
I laugh, glancing at him over my shoulder. “Is that how your barter system works? Clothing for breakfast?”
“Only with you.” He winks and heads to the fridge, pulling out milk and eggs like he owns the place.
“Wow,” I say, pouring the mix into a bowl. “You’re just going to start cooking like you do this all the time?”
He grins. “I’ve made breakfast here before. You were just too busy avoiding me to notice.”
I pause, turning to face him. “That was... before.”
His smile softens. “Yeah. It was.”
There's a moment between us, thick with something new—something warm and full of possibilities. Then he wiggles the egg carton at me. “Want me to crack these or are you still pretending I’m just the guy who paints walls and fixes light bulbs?”
I raise a brow. “You forgot ‘tattoos feelings onto people for a living.’”
He grins. “Oh right. And now? I make pancakes too. I’m basically husband material.”
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, but I’m laughing as I hand him a whisk.
He leans in close, voice dropping just a little. “But you’re smiling.”
“I am.”
“And wearing my hoodie.”
“I am,” I echo, cheeks warm.
He bumps my hip with his. “That’s a win.”
We move around the kitchen like we’ve done it a hundred times—him teasing, me pretending to be annoyed when I’m actually enjoying every second. It’s easy. Comforting. Real.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re both starting to believe this could be the beginning of something worth holding onto.
We’re halfway through flipping pancakes—Elijah is way too proud of his perfectly golden stack—when there’s a sudden knock at the door.
We both freeze.
He looks at me. “Expecting someone?”
I shake my head.
Elijah wipes his hands on a dish towel and gestures toward me with an exaggerated whisper. “Should I hide? Do you want me to do the ‘run out the back door in boxers’ thing? Classic secret romance move.”
I swat him with a spatula, laughing. “You’re fully dressed and you live ten minutes away. Nobody would believe it.”
He grins. “True, but it would make one hell of a story.”
The knock comes again—louder this time, and followed by a voice. “Ava? Are you alive? Did that horrible date guy kidnap you? Do I need to call in reinforcements?”
I blink. “Oh no.”
Elijah raises a brow. “Mia?”
“Yep.” I sigh, rush to the door, and crack it open just enough to peek out.
Mia stands there, hair pulled into a messy bun, holding two iced coffees like she’s delivering urgent emotional support. Her eyes go wide when she sees me. “You are alive! I was worried you fell off the planet after that disaster of a date—”
Her voice cuts off as she leans just enough to peek inside... and sees Elijah, flipping a pancake in my kitchen like he does this every Saturday.
“Oh. My. God.”
Elijah gives her a two-finger salute with the spatula. “Morning.”
“You stayed over?” Her eyes nearly pop out of her head as she turns to me.
“Nothing happened!” I blurt, mortified.
Elijah hums. “Unless you count emotionally rescuing her from a creep, watching over her like a guardian angel, and making pancakes from scratch... then yeah, nothing happened.”
Mia blinks. “This is so much better than the dating app guy. Can you be her boyfriend instead?”
I groan. Elijah, of course, smirks as if this is the best moment of his week.
“She’s working on it,” he says with a wink.
“I hate both of you,” I mutter, but my cheeks hurt from smiling.
Mia hands me a coffee and waves a hand dramatically. “I’ll go before I make this more awkward. But later? Full debrief. And I swear, if this ends up being a slow burn that lasts five more chapters, I will lose it.”
She turns and leaves with one last, exaggerated look over her shoulder.
I close the door and turn to Elijah, who’s now smug as hell.
“She’s not wrong,” he says, sliding a pancake onto a plate. “You should really consider making this a fast burn.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter, trying to hide my blush as I take a sip of the coffee. “Please shut up.”
He leans over and kisses my cheek. “Can’t. I like watching you smile too much.”
“By the way, how does she know that your date was a disaster?” – Elijah asks me while tapping his chin
“Because she has experience with this kind of stuff?” – I reply, but honestly, I think my friend is a witch or something.
“That’s true” – he says smiling while prepares our plates
The pancakes are done. Plates are stacked. The air smells like butter and cinnamon. But we haven’t touched our food yet.
Elijah leans against the counter, coffee in hand, watching me in that quiet way he does when he’s thinking too much.
I sit across from him at the table, fingers wrapped around my mug like it might keep the rest of me from shaking.
“Hey,” he says gently. “You okay?”
Elijah sets down his coffee, and the look in his eyes almost undoes me. “Ava...”
“I’m scared,” I whisper. “Because you matter. Because you see me. And when someone really sees you, they can hurt you. Break you.”
He crosses the space between us in two steps, kneels down beside my chair, and takes my hand.
“I get it. More than you know,” he says softly. “I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to convince myself to stay away, thinking maybe space was what you needed. But I was dying inside, Ava. Every minute you weren’t around felt... wrong.”
I look down at our hands. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist gently, like he’s memorizing it.
“I don’t need space,” I admit, my voice cracking. “I need you. Even if I’m terrified.”
He leans his forehead against my knee, breathing in slowly. “Then be scared. Be unsure. I’ll take all of it. Just don’t shut me out.”
Silence wraps around us for a moment—soft, full of everything we’re too tired to hide anymore.
I suck in a breath.
“Elijah...” I start, but words fail me. So instead, I slide off the chair and onto the floor with him. My arms wrap around his neck, and I bury my face against his shoulder.
He holds me like I’m something precious. Not fragile. Just... worth being held.
“I’m still figuring things out,” I murmur.
He nods. “We’ll figure them out together.”
“Baby, you’ve been walking barefoot for so long, just because you’re afraid the other shoe will drop. Like if you let yourself be happy—really happy—it’ll all fall apart.”
I open my mouth to argue, to deny it, but I can’t. Because he’s right. I’ve spent so long preparing for disappointment, for heartbreak, that I forgot what it feels like to just stand still and let something good touch me.
He leans in, brushing his knuckles down my cheek.
“I’m not the past. I’m not the people who hurt you, or the ones who left. I’m the guy who stayed. Who keeps showing up. Who will keep showing up—even when you’re scared. Even when you’re pushing me away.”
Tears sting my eyes, blurring his face.
“I don’t know how to stop expecting the worst,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to. Just don’t run when something good shows up in front of you.”
He presses his forehead to mine.
“You don’t have to walk barefoot anymore, Ava. You don’t have to be ready for the worst. Just let yourself feel something good, just be happy."
My lip trembles, and I close my eyes.
“What if I fall?”
His voice is a breath against my skin.
“Then I’ll catch you.” - he says and he leans down and kisses me. The kiss is slow, but full of all the things he knows I'm not ready to hear or to believe.
And in that moment, I believe him.
Not because he promises it perfectly, but because he means it. Because even if we crash, he’ll be right there beside me in the wreckage—helping me build something new. Something that feels a lot like home.
And there, in the middle of my kitchen floor, surrounded by cold pancakes and half-drunk coffee, something that had always felt impossibly out of reach starts to feel real.
Not perfect. But real. And real is more than enough.