~5
They stayed like that for a long moment—wrapped in each other, breathing in the quiet after the storm. The weight of everything unspoken had finally broken free, leaving them raw, trembling… but somehow lighter.
Their embrace loosened, not out of distance, but because their hearts had already moved closer.
She pulled back first, just a little, and their eyes met.
Tears shimmered on both their faces, catching the soft lamp light like fragile pieces of truth finally seen. Her breath hitched as his hand lifted, fingertips brushing against her cheek. Gently, reverently, he kissed the tears from beneath her eyes—first one, then the other—like a silent apology for every time he’d looked away.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just watched him with that open ache in her gaze, the one she used to hide, the one he had always run from.
And this time, he didn’t run.
His large hands delicately held her face, dragging her more into him, and her hands moved up to his neck.
His eyes lingered on hers, searching, asking.
And in the stillness between their heartbeats, she gave her answer—not with words, but with the soft tilt of her head, the quiet trust in her breath.
Their lips met—slow, unsure at first, then deepening with every second, every shared wound, every desperate longing that had lived between them for so long. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. It was messy, and aching, and real.
A kiss born not just from love, but from survival.
It tasted of regret, and forgiveness, and something new blooming in the ashes of everything they thought they’d lost.
When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the fragile space between them. And then, without meaning to, they both smiled.
Not wide. Not giddy. But soft, real, and broken in the most beautiful way.
Because maybe, just maybe, this was their beginning after the end.
She let out a shaky breath, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m still mad at you.”
