Page 121 of At First Flight
My chest tightens. I swallow hard past the lump in my throat and nod.
“It’s more than okay.”
It’s everything. It’s every prayer I never admitted I whispered at night. Every silent hope I buried beneath layers of guarded silence and responsibilities I didn’t think I deserved to ask for more than.
Lila’s back. And she’s looking at me like she missed me, too.
Dinner is quiet in the way only families can be. Clinking spoons, soft giggles, and whispered conversations between two kids who haven’t quite figured out how to keep secrets from their dad. Evelyn’s pinky is looped around Lila’s as they share a plate of garlic bread. Oliver is showing her the new drawing he made, a fire-breathing goat who also happens to be a ninja. She hums in appreciation like she never left, like there wasn’t a whole night where her side of the house was cold and silent.
Lila moves around the kitchen like it’s muscle memory. She doesn’t ask where things are and doesn’t fumble. She just moves. Sliding plates in front of Evelyn. Tucking Oliver’s napkinunder his chin even though he’s old enough to hate it. Brushing crumbs from the table with the side of her palm.
And every time she looks up, her eyes catch mine. Neither of us says a word. Not yet.
Because how do you begin again when everything you’ve ever wanted just walked back in through the front door? You don’t want to shatter it by moving too fast or asking for more than she’s ready to give.
So I let the silence stretch, warm and full. Because the kids are glowing. Because I’m terrified that if I speak, the spell will break. Because I’ve never been this thankful to just sit and watch someone exist in my world again.
After dinner, Evelyn insists Lila read the bedtime story. There’s no negotiation. No other option. She climbs into Lila’s lap and opens the book like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Oliver grumbles but joins her, scooting in close, his little head resting on Lila’s shoulder.
And I stand in the doorway, arms crossed over my chest, breath held, watching how she wraps herself around them like she’s never been anywhere else.
When the story ends, she tucks Evelyn in, then ushers Oliver to his room. One kiss to each forehead. One whispered promise I can’t quite hear. And then the rooms go still. The kind of stillness that makes you feel everything more acutely.
I wait for her on the screened back deck.
Two glasses of wine. One tiny candle flickering on the railing. The summer air is thick with heat and the hum of cicadas. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. A boat cuts through the water. Life goes on.
And then she’s there.
She steps outside barefoot; her arms wrapped around herself like maybe she’s holding in more than just warmth.
Before I even think about the waiting wineglass or the hundred things I want to say, I move toward her. Lila stands like she’s not sure if she belongs, arms crossed tightly over her middle, chin dipped down, those big blue eyes cautiously watching me like she expects me to shatter.
I reach out, gently curling my fingers around her wrists and coaxing her arms away from her body, from that guarded stance that tells me she’s been holding herself together with sheer will. She lets me. And the second I pull her against me, she melts. Just folds right into my chest like she never left.
My arms wrap around her, strong but careful, like she’s something precious I’ve only just been given permission to hold again. She buries her face against me, and I feel her inhale deep, like she’s trying to memorize the smell of me, the feel of this, of us.
We stay like this—still, quiet, wrapped in something that feels more like a lifeline than a hug. Her hands fist in the back of my shirt, and I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing her in. This isn’t just comfort. It’s a need we’ve both been starving for. A moment we’ve been aching to return to.
And I’ll hold her for as long as she lets me. Because she came back. Because she’s here.
“I missed you,” I say, nodding toward the wine as I reluctantly release her and grab the glass.
Her fingers brush mine as she takes it. That simple touch almost undoes me.
“I missed everything,” she says. “You. Them. This.”
I want to say a hundred things. I want to ask where she went even though I know, why she left, what changed. But instead, I study her face. The shadows under her eyes. The tight line of her shoulders. The part of her mouth that lifts just slightly like she’s holding something back.
“I love you, Lila,” I say, the words steady and sure. “I’ve been in love with you since the second week you were here. Maybe before. I just didn’t know what to call it.”
She freezes.
Her eyes shimmer in the low light. “Say it again.”
I set down my glass and reach for her, tilting her chin so she’s looking directly into me.
“I love you.”
