|chapter 50|
ARIANA
The sky is still pale when I wake up, that soft blue-gray that exists before the world decides what kind of day it's going to be.
Ace is asleep beside me, turned slightly toward my side of the bed like even in rest his body knows where to lean. His hand is relaxed now, no longer clenched in the way it's been since the crash, since court, since the countdown started ticking in our heads. I watch him breathe for a long moment, memorizing the rhythm like it's something I might need to recall later just to prove this was real.
Today is the day.
Not the end.
Not the beginning either.
Something in between.
I move carefully, easing out from under his arm, pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder before I stand. The room feels fragile, like sound might break it, so I keep my movements slow. I pull on a hoodie, run a hand through my hair, and step into the kitchen.
The apartment is quiet in that early-morning way that feels sacred. I make coffee, letting the smell fill the space, grounding me. The clock on the microwave blinks back at me with cruel indifference.
8:04 a.m.
Time doesn't care about hearts.
I'm pouring the coffee when Ace appears in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up in a way that makes him look younger—less like a headline and more like the boy who walked into a room and sang his truth without knowing what it would cost him.
"Morning," he says softly.
"Morning," I reply.
He comes over without saying anything else and wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. I feel the warmth of him, the weight, the reality of this moment.
I lean back into him. "Did you sleep?"
"A little," he admits. "Didn't want to miss anything."
My throat tightens.
"There's nothing to miss," I say gently. "We're right here."
He hums in agreement, lips brushing my neck, not in desire but in comfort. We stand like that for a minute, breathing, letting the last ordinary morning stretch itself out.
We don't talk much while we get ready.
He showers. I sit on the bed, folding his clothes even though he's already packed. Something about touching his things makes me feel useful, like I'm contributing in a way that matters. When he comes back into the room, towel slung low, hair damp, he looks at me like he wants to say something and doesn't know how.
"What?" I ask softly.
He shakes his head. "Just... thank you. For yesterday. For today. For all of it."
I stand and cross the room, slipping my arms around his waist, resting my forehead against his chest. "You don't have to thank me for loving you."
He exhales, shaky. "I know. I just don't ever want you to think I didn't see it."
"I know you did," I say. "I know you see me."
The drive to the rehab facility is quieter than I expect. The city is already awake, traffic building, people rushing to places that feel infinitely far away from where we're headed. I keep both hands on the wheel. Ace stares out the window, jaw tight but eyes clear.
Halfway there, he reaches for my hand.
I lace my fingers through his without looking.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
