~ SIXTY-TWO ~

Mandy stirred as a sliver of light slipped past the heavy curtains, warming her face. Her lashes fluttered, adjusting to the soft glow stretching across the room. The clock on the nightstand blinked 10:30 a.m.—late enough to explain why the curtains were drawn shut. She blinked up at the ceiling, heart beating steady as the stillness around her pressed in.

This room…

It was familiar. Too familiar.

Aaron’s scent still lingered in the sheets—musk and cedar, and something faintly citrus beneath it. She looked down at herself, surprised to find the duvet pulled all the way up, tucked around her like someone had been careful not to let her catch cold. She shifted slightly, checking under the covers, half-expecting chaos. But she was clothed. Still wearing the oversized tee he’d handed her last night. Nothing else.

Her eyes scanned the room again, slower this time. Shoes neatly placed on his rack. Her phone and what looked like a fruit snack arranged neatly on the bedside table beside a covered plate and a folded note.

She reached for the phone first. No messages.

None.

She dropped it back, lips pursed, then picked up the note. Aaron’s handwriting stared back at her—easy, slanted, and a little rushed in places. But it was him.

“Made breakfast. Covered it on the dining table. Your fruit snack’s on the side. Be back soon. You’ve got the place to yourself—no alarms, no noise. Just peace. —A.”

Mandy read it twice.

Then once more.

She sat back against the headboard, holding the note with both hands, the edge of her nail dragging over the paper. There was something dangerously tender about this—about him. The kind of softness that snuck up on you and made a home in your chest before you had the sense to stop it.

Why was he always like this? Always ten steps ahead. Always knowing what to do, what she’d want—even when she didn’t.

She let the note rest on her lap, her fingers tracing the handwriting like it held more meaning than it should. Something about Aaron's thoughtfulness—his quiet care—always left her feeling unsteady. Not in a bad way. Just… unfamiliar.

She glanced at the covered plate beside her, her stomach already fluttering from the scent alone. But it wasn’t just the food. It was everything. Her shoes neatly on the rack. Her phone fully charged. The silence of a home that wasn’t hers, but somehow didn’t feel foreign either.

Sliding out of bed, her bare feet met the cool wooden floor. She tugged the hem of her oversized shirt—his shirt—lower over her thighs and padded toward the door, her thoughts scattered like light across the walls.

Why did it feel so easy here? So still?

She wasn’t used to soft mornings. Wasn’t used to being considered. She paused at the doorway, her fingers brushing the frame as she glanced back at the room.

Maybe it was just a one-time thing. Maybe it meant nothing.

But still… her chest ached like it might mean everything.

And with that quiet thought, she stepped into the apartment.

\----

The front lock clicked, twisting with a familiar metallic clink that echoed softly through the quiet apartment—just as she took the final bite of the breakfast he had so thoughtfully made for her: a simple, comforting plate of golden scrambled eggs with a sprinkle of black pepper and fresh parsley, two slices of toasted bread buttered just right, and a side of sweet plantains, warm and tender. Her fork clinked against the plate as she finished, wiping her lips with a napkin before rising from the dining table.

She exited the dining room just as his footsteps padded in—solid, slow, and deliberate, like he was unsure what awaited him behind the kitchen wall. She heard the faint creak of the door closing, the rustle of keys landing on the entry table, and then… silence. Except for the faint sound of her heartbeat in her ears and the soft hum of the refrigerator.

Her back was to him as she washed the dishes in the sink. She didn’t turn. But she knew he was there—she could feel it in the way the air shifted slightly, heavier now, like it had taken on the weight of all the words left unsaid between them. He stood a few feet away, just across the kitchen counter, and still, she couldn’t bring herself to look.

Rinsing the last plate, she set it on the drying rack and reached for the towel beside her. Each motion was careful, deliberate—buying herself seconds to gather her composure. To prepare for the inevitable.

Because it had been a whole month.

A month of silence. Of ignored texts, missed calls, unread messages. A month of space she created because she didn’t know what else to do with the hurt. And still… here she was, showing up at his place unannounced and uninvited. And yet, he had let her in. He had tucked her in bed, made sure she was warm, safe, and fed—without asking why.

She’d read the note he left before leaving that morning. Short, considerate, and unbothered: “Make yourself at home. Breakfast is on the table. I’ll be back by noon.”

So she decided to make lunch. It was the least she could do.

Now, with her hands dry and the silence thick around them, she slowly turned to face him.

He didn’t say a word.

He just looked at her—really looked. And everything she had practiced in her head vanished in an instant. Her voice caught somewhere between her chest and throat. Her eyes darted to his hair, a little tousled, the curls soft and slightly damp from his shower, and she remembered how her fingers used to twist through them without thinking. His warm, questioning eyes searched hers. She saw it—hesitation, hurt, longing… but still warmth. Still home.

And his lips—God, his lips. Slightly parted, as if he’d been holding back a breath too long. She felt her own tremble.

“Hi,” she whispered.

He gave a soft smile, something between a sigh and a nod. “Did you sleep well?” His voice, deep and low, cracked the silence gently.

She nodded. “Yeah.” Her voice was barely there.

Then… nothing. Not a sound. Not even from the street below.

The quiet stretched between them like a string pulled taut. She wanted to say everything—how sorry she was, how scared she had been of what she felt, how much she hated the space they’d allowed to grow between them. But all the words were jumbled, tangled in emotion.

She looked up again, locking eyes with him.

“Aaron…” she said quietly, unsure what she was calling him for. Maybe clarity. Maybe courage. Maybe everything.

And that was all it took.

One moment he was leaning against the counter, still and unreadable. The next, he closed the space between them in two long strides, sweeping her into his arms. His hands pressed against her back as his mouth closed on hers in a kiss that was nothing like the ones they used to share. This wasn’t playful or teasing. This was raw, aching, desperate.

She melted instantly.

Because she missed him.

She missed this.

She missed them.

Her fingers threaded into his hair without hesitation, pulling him impossibly closer. He kissed her like he’d been starving for her, like he had spent every second of that month wondering what went wrong and where she’d gone. And she kissed him back just as fiercely, hoping it told him everything she still didn’t know how to say.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and stunned by their own intensity, she pressed her forehead to his.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed.

He just held her tighter.

That was enough—for now.