Epilogue
ALOIS
Three months ago, I would’ve taken the room apart without thinking.
I would’ve found something in it that didn’t sit right—something small, something no one else would’ve clocked—and leaned into it until it shifted. Until the balance of the space adjusted around me. Until I knew exactly where the edges were and how far I could push them before something gave.
A noise. A movement. Someone watching too closely.
My body still caught it now—out of habit more than intent. The scrape of a chair leg that dragged half a beat too long. A heel tapping in uneven intervals. A glance that lingered just enough to register before it dropped away again.
I tracked all of it.
I didn’t follow through.
That was the difference.
Three months ago, I would have let it build under my skin until it became something I needed to act on.
I would have shifted in my seat, tested the space, pressed just enough to make the room respond so I could feel the control settle back into my hands.
I would have needed that confirmation—that I could still move things, still bend them, still decide how they landed.
Now, I let it exist.
I sat still and let the noise remain noise. I let the movement pass without assigning it meaning. I let the room breathe without forcing it to adjust around me.
My hand moved instead.
Lower. Closer. Settling against her.
She dropped into the chair beside me without breaking her stride.
Her coat came off in one clean motion, folded without looking, her hands moving with the kind of practiced efficiency that used to come from control.
Her bag tucked close to her hip. Her phone turned over, screen down, shut out before it had a chance to pull her somewhere else.
The rhythm was the same.
But it didn’t feel tight.
That was the difference.
I tracked it without meaning to—the small things she never noticed. The way her shoulders didn’t lock after she sat. The way she didn’t immediately recheck what she’d already done. No second pass. No adjustment. No quiet correction to make sure everything sat exactly where it should.
She let it be.
My hand settled on her before I thought about it, low against her thigh, my thumb dragging once across the fabric.
Habit. Anchor. Something I didn’t question anymore.
She didn’t break stride.
She didn’t glance down. She didn’t pause to register it.
She just shifted closer—subtle, automatic—her shoulder finding mine like it had done it a hundred times before and finally stopped asking permission.
Three months ago, she would have caught it. She would have recalibrated the space, moved half an inch away, made it make sense again so nothing sat too close, too heavy, too real for too long.
Now, she leaned.
She let it settle where it landed.
Her hand slid down a second later, slow and unplanned, resting low against her stomach.
She didn’t look at it. She didn’t make it a moment. She didn’t turn it into something that needed to be acknowledged or managed.
She just kept breathing, her fingers spreading slightly, pressing in without thinking, like something in her had already decided where it belonged.
My thumb stalled.
Then moved again.
She drew in a breath like she was about to say something. I felt the shift before I saw it—the slight tightening through her shoulders, the quiet gathering of whatever was forming in her chest.
Then she stopped.
Let it go.
Her shoulder pressed a fraction more into mine, the weight of it settling in a way that didn’t feel temporary anymore. I let my arm shift with it, closing the space by less than an inch, enough to hold her there without turning it into something she had to think about.
She didn’t.
She didn’t move away. She didn’t reset. She didn’t reframe the moment into something safer.
She just stayed.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel the need to check if it would last.
The television flickered at the edge of my vision, replaying the same sequence again—clean entry, traffic collapsing, the shot threading through before the goalie could set his angle.
It reset and played again without sound, stripped down to movement and outcome, like the game had ever been that simple.
I caught it once.
Knew exactly how it unfolded before it did.
Didn’t bother watching it finish.
There were more important things sitting right next to me.
Bea drew in another breath, sharper this time, like the thought she had let go earlier had circled back and landed heavier. Her fingers pressed faintly into the fabric at her knee before easing again, like she was testing the edge of it without committing.
The words didn’t come.
And she didn’t force them.
I watched it happen in real time—the way she moved through it now without trying to get ahead of it, without snapping it into place just to feel like she had control over it again.
Three months ago, she would have bridged that silence immediately. She would have explained it, redirected it, reshaped it into something clean and manageable before it had a chance to become anything else.
Now she let it breathe.
Messy. Unresolved. Real.
My thumb moved once against her leg, slow and steady, not drawing attention to it, just there—something solid she could lean into if she needed it.
I didn’t interrupt.
I didn’t fix it for her.
I let her work through it at her own pace, even if that meant sitting inside it longer than either of us would have been comfortable with before.
That was different.
For her.
For me.
A door opened somewhere down the hall, the sound sharp enough that it should’ve broken the moment, footsteps following, a name called that wasn’t ours. It passed through the room and kept going, fading just as quickly as it came.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t pull back into herself.
Didn’t reset.
Her shoulder stayed where it was, pressed lightly against my arm, her weight settling into the space between us like it had already been decided.
I shifted just enough to meet it, closing the distance by a fraction that didn’t change anything from the outside but changed everything in the way it held. She leaned into it without thinking, not checking, not correcting—just staying there, like she trusted it to stay.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel the need to test that.
Didn’t look for the moment it would slip.
Didn’t prepare for the adjustment.
I let it be what it was.
And stayed with her inside it.
Her coat was folded neatly over the arm of the chair beside her, one hand resting low over the curve of her stomach, fingers splayed like she’d placed them there intentionally.
Her thumb moved once, tracing a small, unconscious line over the fabric of her sweater, her attention fixed somewhere ahead of us that had nothing to do with the television, the room, or anything outside of her own head.
I nudged her knee lightly with mine. “What are you thinking?”
She didn’t answer.
Her fingers pressed harder into her leg first, then eased, her breath pulling in slow like she was trying to line it up before letting it out.
When she finally turned her head, it wasn’t all the way—just enough to catch me in her peripheral, eyes cutting over without giving me the full weight of them yet.
“Statistically?” One brow lifted, faint, automatic. “Or emotionally?”
My thumb dragged once along her thigh. “Dealer’s choice.”
She shifted, just enough that her knee stayed against mine this time, not accidental anymore. “Statistically,” she started, the words coming clean, practiced, “everything is fine. All indicators are within normal range. There is no reason to expect anything outside of—”
“Bea.”
Her hand slid off her leg, hovering for a second like she didn’t know where to put it, before it settled low again, fingers spreading against her stomach without thinking. Her shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Emotionally…” She let out a breath that didn’t quite hold shape. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Good.”
Her head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing. “That’s not reassuring.”
I didn’t move. “It’s not supposed to be.”
She let out a short breath through her nose, not quite a laugh, her head tipping back against the wall before she caught herself and came forward again. “That’s a terrible pep talk.”
“It’s not a pep talk.”
She angled toward me more now, elbow brushing mine, something in her looking for friction, for something to push against. “Your version of reality is deeply unhelpful.”
“My version of reality is why you’re sitting here.”
She looked at me again, sharper this time, searching for it. “What makes you think I’m not spiraling?”
My gaze dropped, just for a second, to where her hand had stilled against her stomach. Then back to her. “Because you’re still here.”
Her shoulders eased—barely—but enough that I felt the tension leave through the point where she leaned into me again. Her eyes closed for a second, her head tipping back, breath finally coming out clean this time.
“I hate that you’re right.”
“You don’t.”
Her mouth pulled at the corner, the fight in her loosening without disappearing. “No,” she sighed after a second. “I don’t.”
A door opened down the hall, the hinge catching for a split second before it gave. The nurse leaned out, voice carrying just enough to cut through the room. Not our name.
Across from us, a couple moved at the same time—too fast—chairs scraping as they stood.
He reached for her coat and missed the sleeve the first time.
She took it from him, fixed it herself, hands moving quicker than they needed to.
They didn’t speak as they crossed the room, just exchanged a look that held a beat too long before they disappeared through the doorway.
Bea’s fingers stilled against her stomach as they passed.
She followed them with her eyes without turning her head, the line of her jaw tightening, then easing. A breath in. Held. Let go.
My thumb pressed once against her leg.
She came back to me.