55. Maeve
Maeve
Sometimes I still wake up expecting to forget. Not forget who I am. Forget that I'm allowed. Allowed to choose what I wear. Allowed to call my mother simply because I miss her.
Allowed to spend an entire Saturday wandering through bookstores with Rachel and Sloane before ending the afternoon on Rachel's back porch, laughing so hard at one of Wheels's stories that iced tea came out of my nose.
Healing isn't dramatic the way I'd imagined it would be. There wasn't a single morning where I opened my eyes and realized I wasn't afraid anymore.
Instead, it happened quietly. One ordinary day at a time.
The panic that used to tighten my chest every time my phone rang eventually disappeared altogether.
I started seeing my parents several times a week, usually for dinner, and my mother had quickly rediscovered her favorite hobby of trying to send me home with enough leftovers to feed a small army.
Which Wheels had an uncanny ability to know when she did.
He would be sitting in our kitchen by the time I got home.
Every hug lingered a little longer than it used to.
Every goodbye ended with him reminding me to call if I needed anything.
Keaton noticed the changes before I did.
He stopped asking if I was sleeping well because he already knew the answer from the way I smiled at breakfast. He still texted me whenever the team deployed, and I stayed with Rachel whenever Grayline left town. It wasn't because he asked me to.
It was because I knew it helped him breathe a little easier.
Love, I'd discovered, wasn't always grand gestures. Sometimes it was simply making life easier for the person who made yours better. Of course, I have never told him I love him. The thought that he might not love me back carries too much anxiety to allow me to say the words to him.
I glance toward the kitchen as the coffee pot finishes brewing. The apartment has changed over the last few months. Not because we'd tried to make it look different.
Because we'd accidentally filled it with us. My favorite mug sits beside Keaton's. A blanket permanently lives on the couch because one of us always falls asleep watching movies.
There are books stacked on the end table beside the reading chair we picked out together, and sometime last month Keaton quietly cleared an entire shelf in the bathroom without saying a word.
He'd simply made room. Just like he'd made room for me.
The front door opens behind me. I don't jump anymore. I just smile.
"Morning." Keaton's voice carries through the apartment as he slips his shoes off beside the door after his run.
He crosses the room before I've even finished pouring my coffee, wrapping one arm around my waist and pressing an absent-minded kiss against the side of my head.
"Morning."
His phone vibrates against the kitchen counter. Neither of us pays much attention to it. Another vibration follows almost immediately. Then another.
The smile slips from his face. Not dramatically. Just...professionally. I recognize the expression now.
Mission.
He reaches for the phone, his eyes scanning the screen. Whatever he reads changes something behind his glasses. He locks the phone before I can ask.
"I have to go."
The words aren't unusual. Grayline leaves all the time. Still, something about the way he says them feels...different.
He steps toward me, cups my face, and kisses my cheek. "I'll be back soon."
"Okay."
He doesn't move. Instead, two fingers tap once against his thigh. Pause. Then again.
I've learned what that means. He's trying to figure out how to say something.
"What is it?"
His shoulders rise with a slow breath. "I need to ask you something." I wait. His gaze drops briefly to the floor before returning to mine. "I dislike this request."
A small smile pulls at my lips. "I know."
"No." He shakes his head once. "I mean... I genuinely dislike asking it."
I stay quiet.
"It isn't because I believe you require permission to go anywhere.
You don't." His words come carefully now, as though he's editing each one before it leaves his mouth.
"I also recognize that asking creates the possibility that you'll interpret it as an attempt to influence your decisions, which would be objectively unfair considering—"
I step closer and slide my hands into his. "Keaton."
He exhales. "If..." His fingers tighten around mine. "...if you stayed here today..." Another pause. "...it would make it significantly easier for me to focus on what I have to do."
The honesty in his voice steals my breath. Not because he's asking me to stay. Because he's trusting me enough to admit why.
I smile. "Would it help?"
He nods once. "Yes."
I lift onto my toes and kiss him softly. "Then I'll stay."
His forehead rests against mine for just a second. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For understanding the difference."
"The difference between what?"
He smiles—small, almost shy. "Protecting you..." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "...and trying to control you."
My heart squeezes. "I know the difference now, Taibhse."
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then he kisses me once more, grabs his keys, and walks out the door.