The drawer was still open when Alia went to bed.
She hadn't touched the ring. It wasn't hers to move. But she'd placed the letter back inside and gently set the photograph on top, as if returning something to a box of memories was the same as forgiving it.
Micah didn't leave that night.
He stayed in the attic. Not in her bed. Not at first. Just… there. In the same space. Breathing the same air. Sharing a silence neither of them wanted to break.
Alia sat cross-legged on her bed in a thin white sleep shirt, watching the rain slide down the glass. Micah stood at the window, arms folded, the collar of his shirt slightly damp from the mist.
Neither spoke.
Not until she whispered, "Tell me something you've never told anyone."
He turned slowly, unsure if she was serious.
But her eyes met his, steady.
Micah's voice was hoarse. "I dream about her sometimes. Not Claire—my mother. She left when I was eight. No note. No reason. Just gone."
Alia didn't interrupt.
"I used to think," he continued, voice thin, "that everyone I loved would leave eventually. So I started keeping people at arm's length and calling it strength."
He looked down. "But it was just fear."
Alia stood.
Walked across the room.
And without asking, without hesitation, she slid her arms around him and held him there. Not tight. Not desperate.
Just enough.
Micah's hand gripped the back of her shirt. "I'm scared of loving you the way you deserve."
She looked up. "Then love me scared."
---
They didn't make love that night.
But everything changed.
They lay down together in the small attic bed, her head tucked beneath his chin, his heartbeat under her hand like the most fragile thing she'd ever held.
They didn't talk much.
She traced lines on his chest with her fingertips.
He kissed her hair. Her forehead. The curve of her shoulder.
Slowly. Carefully. Like he was learning the language of her body one word at a time.
No rush.
No pressure.
Just two people, stripped of every defense, finally letting someone see the version of themselves they'd always kept hidden.
Micah whispered something into her hair, barely audible.
"I didn't believe in second chances. But I think you were mine."
Alia didn't answer with words.
She kissed him, slow and deep, and in that kiss was every letter they hadn't written, every truth they hadn't spoken.
A story written on skin instead of paper.
A night without pages.