The next morning came gently.
Light spilled through the windows in soft golden waves, warming the wooden floors and waking the house with quiet grace. Ava stretched on the couch, the blanket tangled around her legs, the scent of something warm drifting from the kitchen.
She blinked slowly.
Julian.
He'd stayed.
She hadn't asked him to.
But he hadn't left.
Not like before.
She sat up and ran a hand through her hair. Her heart wasn't racing. Her thoughts weren't loud. It felt strange, how much peace she found in the silence here.
Not silence like grief.
Silence like comfort.
Like home.
She followed the smell of coffee and toasted bread into the kitchen.
Julian was at the stove, barefoot, his sweater sleeves rolled up, one hand turning something in a pan. Eggs, it looked like. And sautéed tomatoes.
He didn't look surprised when she appeared in the doorway.
"Morning," he said, calm, easy.
"You cook now?"
"I always did," he said with a smirk. "You just never woke up early enough to notice."
She leaned against the frame, arms crossed loosely. "That's not true."
"You're right," he said. "But I'm still trying to look impressive."
A soft smile tugged at her lips.
It wasn't awkward. That surprised her the most.
Even after everything—the lies, the distance, the kiss with Damien—it didn't feel uncomfortable with Julian. Just… quieter.
Like two people who had finally stopped pretending they weren't hurting.
They ate breakfast on the back porch, legs curled under them, plates balanced on laps.
Birds chirped from the trees. The wind carried the scent of pine and salt from the water nearby.
Julian sipped his coffee and nodded toward the trees.
"Remember when your dad tried to teach us how to fly fish out there?"
Ava chuckled. "He gave up after ten minutes."
"You caught your line on your hair," Julian grinned.
"You let me."
"I needed the laugh."
Their eyes met then, and the air shifted.
Not heavy.
Just honest.
"I missed this," Julian said softly.
"So did I," Ava replied.
After breakfast, they went for a walk down the old gravel trail that looped around the back of the property. It was lined with trees now fuller than she remembered, the branches stretched like arms overhead.
Ava breathed in the fresh air, letting it fill her lungs. It wasn't the city. It wasn't sharp. It wasn't artificial.
It was clean.
Real.
Julian walked beside her, hands in his pockets, their steps matching in quiet rhythm.
They didn't speak much.
But they didn't need to.
At one point, she glanced over and said, "You ever think about what we would've been if things were different?"
Julian didn't flinch.
"All the time."
Ava looked away. "Sometimes I wish we'd met later. After I wasn't so broken."
He stopped walking.
She turned back.
"You were never broken, Ava," he said. "You were surviving."
"I still am."
"I know," he said. "But now you're stronger than you realize."
She didn't argue.
Didn't deflect.
Just looked at him with tired, quiet eyes.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For not leaving."
Julian took a small step closer. "I did leave, Ava. Just not physically. And I'm sorry."
A breeze passed between them, cool and light.
She nodded once.
That was enough.
By late afternoon, Ava had changed into jeans and a thick sweater, her hair tied up in a loose knot. Julian was on the porch, reading a book he'd pulled off the dusty shelf inside. It was one of her father's old favorites—The Old Man and the Sea.
She curled up on the opposite end of the swing and watched him for a while.
He noticed.
"What?"
"You're different here."
"So are you," she said. "Calmer."
"I think I forgot how much I needed quiet."
She nodded. "Me too."
He looked up from the book, a soft light in his eyes. "You want to stay another night?"
Ava thought about it.
The city would still be there tomorrow.
The tension.
The truths waiting to be spoken.
But here?
Here she could remember who she was when no one was watching.
"Yes," she said. "One more night."
They made dinner together—simple pasta, roasted vegetables, and a bottle of red wine that had somehow survived in the old cabinet.
It felt easy.
Natural.
Like two old friends finding a rhythm they didn't realize they'd missed.
Julian set the table.
Ava lit candles.
The room glowed, warm and golden, shadows dancing on the walls.
They ate in soft conversation—movies they'd missed, books they never finished, the last concert they went to together before everything fell apart.
And later, they stood in the kitchen washing dishes, shoulder to shoulder.
Ava passed him a plate.
Julian dried it.
And for a moment, it felt like the years between them hadn't stretched so wide.
Like maybe—just maybe—there was still a path forward.
Not back.
Forward.
That night, Ava sat by the fire alone, a blanket around her shoulders, her thoughts quiet for once.
Julian had gone to bed in the guest room. He didn't ask to stay in hers. Didn't push. Didn't cross any lines.
And that, more than anything, reminded her why he'd once mattered so much.
He didn't force.
He waited.
And now, maybe for the first time, she was seeing him without the lens of expectation.
Not as the man who let her fall.
But the man who stayed when the dust had settled.
She stared into the fire, heart steady.
She wasn't ready to decide what came next.
But she was ready to feel again.
And that… was enough for tonight.