Page 105 of October
She looked up, and the smallest smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.
"Hi," she said softly. "You made it."
I sat down across from her. The chai smelled like quiet relief, "You remembered I hate coffee," I said, wrapping my hands around the mug.
"Of cours," she replied. "Also, the barista called it 'emotional support in a cup' and I couldn't resist."
I let out a tired laugh, my shoulders easing a little. She watched me for a moment. Her eyes didn't flinch from mine.
"You looked... emptied. After your dad."
I nodded slowly. "He said things meant to cut. The kind of things you spend your whole life trying not to become and then suddenly you're there, face-to-face with it, and you're terrified you inherited it."
She reached across the table and rested her fingers lightly on mine.
"You're nothing like him. I see it every day in the way you love our son. The way you kneel when Jimmy's scared, how you listen to him like every word matters. You speak to him gently—even when you're tired, even when he pushes. That's not a mistake, Thomas. That's who you are. That's love that's been fought for. That's you choosing to be better, choosing to unlearn every cruel thing your father ever tried to carve into you."
My throat tightened. I blinked fast. "That's my goal. To be... unrecognizable to him. To make sure his words, his violence, never live in me. To be the father he never was. I want peace where he left rot."
I could feel the tears pressing hot behind my eyes, but before I could fall into apology, she squeezed my hand.
"Not tonight," she whispered. "Tonight, we celebrate your soft, beautiful rebellion."
I let out a shaky breath. "So... what is this, my emancipation party?"
She grinned. "Exactly. Welcome to your freedom. First course: spiced chai and a woman who still finds you ridiculously hot even when you're emotionally mangled."
I laughed, wiping at the corner of my eye.
"Really?"
"You're very broody," she said with mock seriousness. "It's a whole look. Sad-but-soft works for you."
"You like emotional roadkill. Got it."
"Nope. I like men who heal and who smell like dog shampoo and guilt. It's a niche, but I stand by it."
"I aim to please."
We talked for hours. About Jimmy, about her job mixing scents and memories and how she once created a perfume that made a woman cry because it smelled exactly like her grandmother's porch. I told her about the time Jimmy ran through wet paint and left tiny paw prints on my hoodie, and how I couldn't bring myself to wash it.
When we finally stepped outside, the air was cool and still. She slipped her hand into mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You didn't have to come tonight," I said.
"I know," she said.
I stopped walking, turned to face her. My heart felt swollen with everything I couldn't say fast enough.
"October," I murmured, "I will spend the rest of my life earning your trust and your love. I promise. I won't stop. Not ever."
She looked up at me, eyes glistening, and for once, she didn't say anything. She tilted her face up, kissed me, slow at first, then deeper, and God, it felt like stepping out into the sun after months underground. We kissed like we were younger than we'd ever been—breathless, messy, almost desperate, but then I giggled.
She pulled back a little, surprised by the sound, brows rising. Her expression was a mix of confusion and curiosity, like she didn't know whether to smile yet. "What?"
I reached up, thumb brushing along the soft curve of her cheek. "I'm sorry," I murmured, still grinning like a fool. "It's just..I remembered how we used to make out behind everyone's backs in school. Like we were the masterminds of stealth and secrecy."
A spark lit behind her eyes.
