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A Week Later
It's strange how quickly a rhythm can form — even between two people who once destroyed each other.
Mornings became something almost gentle. I'd wake to the sound of the kettle and the soft clink of mugs in the kitchen. The first time I found Charles making coffee, he looked startled, like he'd been caught doing something wrong. Now, it was a silent ritual — one cup for him, and a cup of tea for me, always left on the counter with a quiet, almost shy smile.
We didn't talk much, but the silences had changed. They weren't sharp anymore; they breathed. Sometimes we'd share small things — a story from childhood, a memory, a joke that almost made us forget.
At night, we'd sit on the porch, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead, the sky painted in soft golds and fading blues. I'd feel the baby move, and he'd smile — a real one, the kind that softened all the edges of who he was.
Once, he reached for my hand without thinking. His fingers brushed mine, and for a heartbeat, I didn't pull away.
"I keep trying to picture him," he said quietly. "What he'll look like. What he'll be like."
"Hopefully nothing like us," I teased gently.
He laughed under his breath — the sound low, warm, real. "Maybe he'll take the best parts."
"Do we even have best parts?" I asked.
He turned to me then, the dying light catching in his eyes. "You do," he said softly.
I didn't know how to answer, so I looked away, blinking against the tears that suddenly burned behind my eyes.
Every day felt like a step forward and two steps back — like walking a thin line between forgiveness and fear. But the distance between us was shrinking, one hesitant moment at a time.
Later that night, as the house grew quiet and the waves whispered against the shore, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time in a long while, I didn't dream of running.
I dreamed of staying.
Two Weeks Later
The nights in Cádiz had grown cooler. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and something faintly sweet — orange blossoms, maybe. We sat outside again, the porch light casting a soft glow between us.
Charles was quiet, staring out at the dark water. I could tell he was somewhere far away in his head, the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his knee.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked softly.
He hesitated. "About how easy it is to forget who I used to be when I'm here."
I studied him for a moment. "Maybe that's not a bad thing."
He shook his head. "It feels wrong — like pretending those years never happened. The people I hurt. The things I did." His voice caught, and when he looked at me, his eyes were raw. "Every time I look at you, I remember what I almost took away."
