Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Galeana
Seattle has been a blur of moments, vivid and fleeting, each one pulling me closer to something that feels almost real.
Almost.
In the days since the explosion, Ledger has been determined to give us something close to normal. We’ve walked along the waterfront at Pike Place Market, eaten fresh oysters at Elliott’s, and explored the Chihuly Garden and Glass exhibit, where I stood mesmerized by the way light twisted through the delicate sculptures. He took me to Kerry Park, insisting the view of the city’s skyline would take my breath away—and it did, though not nearly as much as watching him grin when I admitted he was right.
“It’s not much,” he’d said more than once, his voice tinged with a mix of guilt and determination. “But we’ll plan the best trip soon. The ultimate honeymoon. I’ll make this up to you, Gale. I promise.”
And I believe him. Not just because he says it with so much certainty, but because he’s Ledger. So far, I’ve learned that he keeps his promises. Every one of them—even the dirty ones.
Still, life has been anything but normal. We’ve been playing this game of pretending to be newlyweds, but the truth? It doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.
This morning, I woke up to the weight of his arm draped over me, his naked body pressed against mine, warm and now familiar. We’d made love, slow and unhurried, as if we had all the time in the world. The contract about doing it “at least twice” has long since been obliterated—we’ve surpassed that number without even trying. It’s almost laughable now, how we’ve settled into this rhythm, this closeness that feels so natural it scares me.
And yet, standing under the spray of the shower, the hot water streaming over me, I feel more like myself today than I have in weeks.
The steam swirls around me as I lean against the tiled wall, letting the heat loosen the tension that still clings to me. For the first time in days, my mind isn’t racing with questions or doubts. Instead, it’s filled with him. The way his hands move over my skin like I’m something precious. The way he looks at me, like I’m more than just someone he’s bound to by a contract.
Like I’m someone he chooses.
Like I’m someone he sees.
Like I’m someone he’s been waiting for all his life.
But the thought that lingers, intense and unrelenting, is whether I’m ready to believe it. Whether I can give him more of myself when there’s still a part of me terrified of losing everything.
I turn off the water, wrapping myself in a towel as I step out into the quiet of the bathroom. The smell of coffee drifts in through the door, a reminder that Ledger is just outside, probably waiting for me with that crooked grin and another plan to make today unforgettable.
And as I catch my reflection in the fogged-up mirror, I realize something I hadn’t dared to admit before.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to stop surviving. Maybe, for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m ready to live.
I step out of the bathroom, towel wrapped tightly around me, and head toward the closet. His closet. My clothes are hanging there now, mixed with his, like they’ve always belonged. Like I belong. The thought sends a strange warmth through me, equal parts comforting and terrifying.
I let my fingers skim over the fabrics until I find it—a soft, flirty dress that feels like a forgotten piece of me. I slip it on, smoothing it over my hips, and take a moment to catch my reflection in the mirror. It’s not just a dress. It’s a choice. A way to say I’m still here.
At the small vanity by the window, I pull out the make-up bag. A little foundation, a sweep of blush, a flick of mascara. Small touches, but ones that make me feel like I’m more than the girl who’s been surviving explosions and chaos. Today, I’m choosing to be me.
My hair falls loose around my shoulders, but I run my fingers through it, teasing out soft waves. It feels different, intentional. Like I’m taking back some piece of control, some piece of myself.
When I walk into the kitchen, Ledger is leaning casually against the counter, a mug of coffee in one hand. He’s shirtless, and my eyes drop to the defined ridges of his abs. God, they’re ridiculous—taut, sculpted, and completely unfair. I know exactly how it feels to run my fingers over them, to trace every line with my tongue while his hands explore me in return.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. Not when I haven’t even had breakfast.
Dragging my gaze upward, I catch the mess of his hair, sleep-tousled and unfairly sexy, but it’s his eyes that stop me in my tracks. They’re intense yet warm, tracking my every move like he’s cataloging every detail. His attention lingers just long enough to make my pulse race, heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks.
“You’re looking better,” he says, his voice smooth, that signature cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
But there’s more in his tone—a depth, a softness, something that feels dangerously close to reverence. It catches me off guard, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. He’s not just looking at me—he’s seeing me. And that’s more disarming than his abs, his smirk, or even the memories of last night could ever be.
I pause, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks under his gaze. “Thanks,” I reply softly.
He pours two mugs of coffee, sliding one across the counter toward me before taking the other for himself. Leaning back, he rests a hip against the counter, casual in a way that makes my heart stutter.
“You did your hair,” he says, his gaze sweeping over me again, lingering just long enough to make me fidget under his attention. “And the dress . . .” He takes a slow sip of his coffee, the smirk on his lips softening into something almost tender. “It suits you. You look . . . beautiful.”
The words hit me harder than I expect, settling somewhere deep, where my doubts usually live. I glance away, pretending to smooth the fabric of my dress, but his voice stays with me.
Maybe I can belong here. With him.
Maybe I already do.
“Don’t get too excited,” I say, rolling my eyes as I stir cream into my coffee, trying to downplay the moment. “I’m not back to normal yet.”
“You’re close,” he replies, his voice softer now, threaded with something that makes me pause. “I can see it.”
I glance at him, startled by the sincerity in his tone. It’s disarming, the way he says it—like he means it, like he sees something in me I haven’t even found yet. For a moment, I don’t know how to respond, the words catching in my throat.
Instead, I take a slow sip of coffee, the warmth steadying me before I finally speak. “I have an appointment tomorrow. With a counselor.”
Ledger raises a brow, his expression unreadable. “Good. You need it.”
“Wow,” I deadpan, fingers tightening around my mug as I take a slow sip, trying to appear calm. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But what about you? Are you taking care of yourself? Because you were in that explosion too, Ledger.”
He snorts, shaking his head with a faint smirk. “I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it. I’m just glad you’re talking to someone. You’ve been through a lot, Gale.”
“You too,” I shoot back, refusing to let him deflect. “Any news about you visiting a counselor?”
He hesitates, his smirk fading into something more subdued. Finally, he takes a deep breath and nods. “Yeah,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “I’ve actually talked to someone. Twice this week, in fact.”
I blink, surprised but relieved. “Twice? Wow.”
“Don’t act so shocked,” he teases, but there’s a vulnerability behind his words that makes my chest ache.
“I’m not shocked,” I say, softer now. “I’m proud of you. I know how hard it is to talk about . . . all of this. I mean, I’ve been avoiding it.”
He shrugs, his gaze dropping to his coffee. “It’s not easy. But it helps. And I want to be there for you, Gale. I can’t do that if I’m not willing to face my own shit too.”
His honesty renders me quiet, his words sinking deep, stirring emotions I can’t fully grasp. Finally, I break the silence. “I think I need the counselor to help me sort through everything. Not just the explosion, but . . .” I pause, the enormity of it all catching in my throat. “But this. Us. What if this isn’t real?”
His eyes snap up to meet mine, the intensity in his gaze making my pulse quicken. “You think this is just about the trauma?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, my fingers tightening around the mug. “That’s the problem. What if I’m confusing what I’m beginning to feel for you with what I’ve been through? What if I’m holding on to you because you make me feel safe, and not because . . .” I trail off, the rest of the sentence too raw to finish.
“Not because you actually want me,” he finishes for me, his voice low, steady, and without an ounce of judgment.
I nod, a lump forming in my throat.
He sets down his coffee and moves closer, his hand brushing mine. “Gale, listen to me. Whatever you’re feeling, we’ll figure it out. Together. But don’t discount what we have just because it started during a chaotic time.”
“It’s not that simple,” I whisper, looking away.
“Maybe it’s not,” he agrees. “But it doesn’t mean it’s not real. I don’t want to invalidate your feelings, but I beg you not to invalidate mine—or everything we lived.”
The sincerity in his voice pulls me back, forcing me to meet his gaze. “I don’t want to mess this up,” I say, my voice barely audible.
“You won’t,” he says firmly, his hand squeezing mine, his voice unyielding yet gentle. “We won’t. And even if you try, I’m not going anywhere, darling. So talk to the counselor, sort through it all, but know this—what I feel for you isn’t going anywhere either. Though, you need to believe in yourself, in us, a little more.”
He pauses, leaning casually against the counter, his mug still in hand, but the intensity in his gaze pins me in place. “I’ve been thinking about you since Italy. That kiss . . . it wasn’t just a moment—it stayed with me. You stayed with me. It was brief, sure, but not brief enough to forget your lips—or everything we shared that night.”
The words feel like a punch to my chest, knocking the air out of me. Italy. Almost two years ago. His words slice through my defenses, dragging me back to that moment. The warmth of the sun, the scent of cypress trees, and his lips—soft yet commanding, like they were asking me to stay, to see what this could become.
I thought I’d imagined it meant more. I thought I’d been foolish to hold on to it, to let that kiss linger in my mind like a secret too fragile to share.
And now, he’s telling me he carried it with him all this time. That I’ve been a part of him since then.
My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the hum of the fridge and the distant sounds of the city outside. Eighteen months. How does someone hold on to something for that long? How does someone feel something for that long?
My chest tightens—not with fear this time, but with the enormity of it all. If he’s been carrying this, if I left a mark, then maybe this isn’t just about the explosion or the chaos we’ve been through. Maybe this started long before Birchwood Springs.
The kiss that wasn’t just lips meeting lips, but a connection—like a promise lingering in the quiet between breaths. Like a spark setting off a fire we were both too afraid to name.
The kind of kiss you don’t just remember.
The kind you never stop feeling.
I swallow hard. “I didn’t think you remembered it that well. I thought . . . I thought it was just a kiss.”
“It wasn’t just anything,” he says. “Not to me. It was you—everything about you.”
His words pierce through the doubt, the walls I’ve spent so long building. If he’s telling the truth—and I believe he is—then this isn’t something fleeting. It’s not something I can ignore.
And it terrifies me.
“I don’t know how to believe in myself like you do,” I admit, my hands trembling slightly as I grip the edge of the counter for support. “But I want to. I want to believe in us.”
“Then let me show you,” he murmurs, his voice breaking just enough to make my breath catch. “Because I’ve believed in us since the day we kissed.”
His words linger in my mind, unraveling something inside me I’ve been gripping too tightly for far too long. Before I can stop myself, I reach for him as he bends closer. Our lips meet, and the kiss is anything but gentle.
It’s raw, messy, and full of every emotion I can’t find the words to say.
I pour myself into it—all the fear, all the doubt, all the hope that’s been clawing at me since the moment this started. The kiss deepens, his hands sliding to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel the strength in his grip, the certainty he seems to carry so effortlessly.
But in the back of my mind, the questions still linger.
What if this is too much? What if I let myself fall, only to find out that I’m not enough to hold him? What if this future I’m starting to dream of, one where he’s in every part of my life, crumbles like everything else has?
And yet . . . there’s a small voice that says, “What if it doesn’t?”
What if this is real—the kind of real I never dared to dream of? What if he’s not just a passing chapter, but the start of something I’ve been too scared to hope for?
His lips move against mine, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring this as much as I am, and it makes my heart ache in a way that feels almost unbearable.
When we finally pull back, our foreheads rest against each other, his breath mingling with mine as we both try to catch up with what just happened.
“I’m scared,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
His hands tighten on my waist, grounding me. “Me too,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”
His words hit me like a jolt, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the fear doesn’t feel so overwhelming.
Maybe the future is uncertain. Maybe it’s terrifying. But in this very moment, it feels a little less impossible.