Page 227 of Fractured Devotion
We never spoke as we left the bakery.
We walked side by side, the air between us thick with everything unspoken, every step measured but certain.
Neither of us said a word when I canceled the moving van.
I didn’t need it anymore.
He stayed beside me, steady and sure, his hand tangled with mine as we moved through the streets, through the weight of old choices and unopened futures.
Now, we stand at the threshold of a house that isn’t quite a home anymore, at least, not yet. The apartment feels hollow and stripped down, with boxes still stacked along the walls.
But this isn’t about the boxes.
It never was.
He doesn’t let go of my hand.
Inside, the air is soft and still, holding the weight of everything we’ve dragged here.
I close the door behind us, turning the lock with a soft click.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
I can still feel the warmth of his hand wrapped around mine.
When I finally glance up at him, the look in his eyes is intense.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t need to.
I lead him through the apartment, weaving around the towers of packed boxes.
We move toward the back room, the one place left untouched by all the sorting and packing.
My pulse is steady, my body humming with purpose.
We step into the bedroom, the last sanctuary untouched by plans to leave.
I stop at the doorway, turning toward him. “Stay,” I say, the word soft but unyielding.
His breath catches faintly.
But he steps in with no hesitation.
I close the door behind us.
The moment the latch clicks, something shifts.
We stand there in shadows cast long by the soft light spilling through the blinds, the stillness stretching thick between us.
I can feel every heartbeat, every draw of air. “No more running,” I say, my voice calm but absolute.
He watches me, his gaze steady and burning.
Then he crosses the room in slow, measured steps.
His hands find my face, rough and tender at once.
