Always

The brush moved in slow, uncertain strokes, dragging pale gold across the canvas -- a fading sun slipping behind unfinished hills. Autumn sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment, surrounded by half-used tubes of paint, a cold mug of tea, and a silence that felt louder than it should.

It had been a week.

Seven days since the party.

Seven days since the kiss.

She dipped her brush into a murky water jar, watched the amber streaks dissolve into grey. She hated this part of painting -- the almosts. The moments where nothing looked right and she didn't know if it ever would.

Kind of like her life lately.

The apartment still smelled faintly of eucalyptus and wine from her housewarming last Friday. The last of the decorations were drooping in the corner. She'd told herself moving out of Mark's place would feel like freedom, but all it felt like today was echo.

Everyone had come -- friends, coworkers, her cousin Ava who always laughed too loud. And Ryan.

Ryan had come late but stayed long.

After everyone else had left, he stayed. And they talked. And it happened.

She hadn't heard from him since.

Autumn let out a slow breath, the kind you let fall when you're too tired to keep holding it in. She turned back to the canvas.

The scene she was painting was supposed to be a field in late September -- warm, open, soft around the edges. But the colors kept going muddy. The grass looked brittle. The sky, too heavy.

She dipped her brush into another shade, but none of them looked like what she needed.

Not red. Not blue.

Something in between.

She set the brush down and reached for her phone.

Still no messages.

The kiss hadn't been a mistake. She knew that.

But maybe the timing had been.

Maybe she was still too raw.

Maybe he was.

Still --

She missed him.

And worse, she missed how she felt with him.

The sun dipped lower outside the window, turning the walls to gold. On the canvas, the sky still hadn't figured out what it wanted to be.

Neither had she.

********

The first time Autumn met Ryan, he had dirt on his cheek and a gap in his front teeth.

They were five.

Her family had just moved into the house next door -- white siding, big oak tree, a yard full of weeds that her dad promised he'd turn into a garden. Ryan was already halfway up that oak tree when her parents pulled into the driveway with the moving van.

He didn't climb down. He just yelled, "Hey!" from the branches.

Autumn waved, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit to her chest.

"Hi."

"Wanna see a bird's nest?"

She looked at her dad.

He shrugged. "As long as you don't fall."

They didn't fall. Not that day, or any day after.

⸻

They went to the same elementary school, sat next to each other every year by some cosmic twist of seating charts. Autumn was the reader. Ryan was the runner. She once got in trouble for whispering the answers to his spelling test. He got in trouble for throwing a football through the principal's office window -- by accident, mostly.

They balanced each other.

Autumn was cautious, thoughtful. Ryan had no brakes.

But when she got overwhelmed, he knew when to sit quietly beside her.

And when he got lost in his own head, she knew how to pull him back with a look.

Their families were close, too -- the kind of close that meant joint camping trips, shared Christmas desserts, Sunday barbecues. Her parents adored Ryan. His parents called Autumn their "bonus kid."

⸻

In high school, their friendship shifted in ways neither of them talked about.

They still sat beside each other at lunch. Still passed notes in math.

But now, sometimes Autumn caught herself staring at the curve of his jaw instead of listening to what he was saying.

And sometimes Ryan's hand lingered too long when he passed her a pen.

But they never crossed the line. Not then.

People asked if they were together -- teachers, friends, even strangers.

They always laughed it off.

"We're just... us."

And that was true.

At least, it had been enough.

⸻

College didn't change much. They both went to to Brown, only a half-hour from home. Different majors -- her in art and design, him in environmental science -- but the same friends, same late-night study sessions, same tradition of sneaking off to a diner at 1 a. m. for pancakes and bad coffee.

They shared a rhythm that never had to be explained.

If she was sad, he showed up with takeout.

If he got overwhelmed, she made him playlists and told him to go outside and breathe.

He was her constant.

She was his home base.

Neither of them noticed how few people in their lives understood them the way the other did. Because they'd never known anything else.

⸻

And then Mark happened.

She met him at a bar just after graduation -- loud, charming, different. The opposite of quiet, steady Ryan.

Ryan had said all the right things. Said he was happy for her. Said Mark seemed nice.

But she remembered the look in his eyes when she told him.

Like someone had closed a door behind him, quietly.

She hadn't let herself think too hard about it.

Not then.

Autumn brought Mark to game night.

It was a standing tradition -- something she and Ryan and the rest of the group had carried from college into adulthood. Every other Friday, someone hosted. Drinks, bad takeout, board games, and the kind of running jokes only people who'd known each other for a decade could keep alive.

This time, it was at Ava's place.

Autumn arrived late, hand-in-hand with Mark, and Ryan had felt his chest stiffen before she even walked through the door.

Mark was tall, loud, impossibly confident -- the kind of guy who talked with his hands and interrupted people mid-sentence to tell a "better" version of their story. He gave Ava a hug she clearly wasn't expecting, called Jamie "bro" three times in five minutes, and pulled Autumn onto his lap like they were in some kind of movie scene.

Everyone pretended. For her.

Autumn smiled -- a little too much. She kept glancing around the room, checking that everyone was okay, that Mark was fitting in. That they weren't being too cold.

Ryan caught her eye once. Raised his glass in a subtle, you-good? sort of way.

She nodded. Too quickly.

When Mark went to grab a beer from the fridge, Ava leaned over to Ryan.

"Where did she find him? A frat house?"

Ryan didn't laugh.

Didn't trust himself to speak.

⸻

It went on like that for weeks.

Autumn kept inviting him.

And he kept showing up -- late, always -- with too-loud jokes and half-listened-to stories.

He rarely remembered people's names. He always sat beside Autumn, but barely looked at her unless someone else did first.

Ryan stayed polite. Everyone did. But the air changed when Mark walked in -- went tight around the edges, like everyone was holding their breath.

Eventually, he stopped coming.

Autumn still showed up -- alone now. She didn't offer explanations. Just smiled, said he was tired, or busy, or had work. No one asked too many questions. No one wanted to make her lie.

And Ryan -- he told himself he wasn't glad.

But he was.

And then he hated himself for it.

⸻

One night, after a quieter-than-usual gathering, Ryan helped Autumn carry leftover snacks to her car. The night was cool, and the quiet between them was the kind that had once been easy.

But lately, it had started to ache.

"You don't have to keep pretending," she said suddenly, opening her trunk.

"What do you mean?"

She glanced at him.

"That you like him."

Ryan took a breath. Let it out slow.

"Do you want me to be honest?"

She hesitated, then gave a small nod.

"I don't think he fits."

Autumn swallowed.

"With the group?"

Ryan looked at her carefully.

"With you."

She didn't answer right away. Just loaded the last bag in the car and closed the trunk with a soft click.

"Sometimes... I'm not sure I do either."

Ryan stared at her, heart tightening.

But she was already walking around to the driver's side, keys in hand, smile practiced.

"See you next week."

And then she was gone.

Autumn turned twenty-four under a sky full of soft clouds and the smell of barbecue smoke.

Her parents had insisted on throwing her a party -- "Just a small one, nothing over the top," her dad had promised, which of course meant folding chairs all over the garden, two coolers full of drinks, and her mom's famous strawberry cake that never actually made it to the table without someone sneaking a slice.

Everyone was there. Her aunts and uncles. Friends from college. Ava already three ciders in, sun-drunk and talking with her hands. Jamie manning the grill like it was a competitive sport.

Everyone... except Mark.

She hadn't told anyone he wasn't coming. Hadn't admitted even to herself that she'd known, deep down, he wouldn't.

"He said he might be late," she'd said to her mom when she asked.

Her mom had raised a brow but said nothing. Her dad hadn't even bothered to pretend he was disappointed.

It wasn't the first time he'd skipped something important. But this felt different. Like the start of something crumbling, slow and quiet.

Autumn smiled. Thanked everyone for coming. Opened her gifts and laughed at the inside jokes written on the cards.

But part of her kept glancing at the garden gate.

Just in case.

⸻

Ryan arrived with a wrapped box under one arm and a bag of her favorite fancy chips in the other.

"Didn't know what to get you," he said when he found her by the patio table, "so I went with tradition and snacks."

Autumn smiled -- a real one this time.

"You're predictable."

"I'm consistent," he corrected. Then:

"Happy birthday, Autumn."

Something in the way he said her name made her heart dip.

She hadn't realized how much she needed him there until he showed up.

⸻

Later, as the weather started cooling and the chatter turned hazy with wine and full bellies, she found herself beside him on the porch steps.

They were half-watching her little cousins chase each other around the garden, barefoot and sticky with melted cake. The citronella candles flickered between them, and somewhere inside, her mom was putting on a playlist too heavy on the '80s.

"So," Ryan said, nudging her knee with his, "birthday wisdom? You feeling older and wiser yet?"

Autumn snorted.

"Mostly just full."

A pause.

"He's not coming, is he?" Ryan asked, soft enough that no one else could hear.

She didn't pretend not to know who he meant.

She stared out at the yard, voice quiet.

"I don't think he even remembered."

Ryan didn't say good. He didn't say you deserve better, or I never liked him anyway -- even though he'd have been right on all counts.

He just said,

"I'm sorry."

And that--

That almost undid her.

She didn't cry. Not here. Not with all these people around. But she let her shoulder rest against his for a second longer than usual.

And he let her.

The sun was starting to dip lower behind the trees, casting long amber streaks across the lawn. The BBQ had mellowed into that soft, post-food haze -- drinks in hand, music low, conversations drifting between garden chairs and the porch.

Autumn hovered by the drinks table, refilling her cup with lukewarm rosé. Her cheeks were warm, either from the wine or the long day or maybe both.

Her sister Lila sidled up beside her, balancing a plate that held both cake and chips, as usual.

"Hey," Lila said casually, like it was just another thought in a long string of them.

"Is Ryan seeing anyone?"

Autumn's hand paused halfway to the bottle.

She didn't turn.

Just kept her voice even.

"What?"

"Ryan," Lila repeated, already grinning.

"Tall, dependable, secretly-hot Ryan? I was just talking to Ava and we were both like, how is he still single? Unless he's not. Is he?"

Autumn looked across the garden before she could stop herself.

There he was -- leaning back against the porch railing, talking to her dad. Laughing at something, arm slung loose over the edge like he belonged there. Because he did.

He wore a plain white T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, blue shorts, and beat-up converse sneakers. His hair was messy -- always a little unruly no matter how much he tried to tame it -- and a few days' worth of stubble traced his jaw. His eyes were dark, sharp, but softened whenever he smiled.

He looked good.

Unfairly good.

She looked away fast.

"He's seeing someone," she said.

Lila blinked.

"Really?"

"Yeah." Autumn poured the wine slowly, willing her hand not to shake.

"It's... new. But it's a thing."

She kept her back to her sister. Kept her eyes down. She didn't know why the lie came so easily. Or maybe she did.

Lila tilted her head.

"Huh. Didn't know that."

"Well, you wouldn't," Autumn said too quickly.

"He's not exactly loud about stuff like that."

"True." Lila paused, then glanced toward the porch again.

"She lucky, whoever she is."

Autumn nodded, but it felt like swallowing something sharp.

Lila gave her a sideways look, catching something she didn't press on.

"Right," she said lightly. "Guess I'll leave him off my list, then."

Autumn forced a laugh.

"Probably for the best."

Lila wandered off with her plate, calling after Ava about saving her a seat.

Autumn stayed behind, still holding the wine bottle, watching the last bubbles of her pour fizzle out in her glass.

She didn't know why she lied.

Except maybe she did.

Because the thought of Ryan saying yes to someone else -- even in theory, even as a joke -- made something in her pull tight.

She looked up again.

He was still on the porch, still laughing with her dad.

Like always. Like home.

And now, in the quiet between them, there was a lie hanging in the air --

one she wasn't sure she could take back.

⸻

That night, long after the guests had gone and the candles had burned out, Autumn found his gift on the kitchen counter.

It was a small wooden box, hand-carved. Inside, tucked beneath tissue paper, was a sketchbook -- thick, bound in soft leather, the kind that invited you to start fresh.

Inside the front cover, Ryan had written in his messy, tilted handwriting:

"Because you always see the world better than the rest of us do."

She didn't know what to do with the way that made her feel.

Autumn stood in the kitchen, the sketchbook pressed to her chest, the house quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the last notes of her dad's music floating in from the garden.

The back door creaked open behind her.

"There you are," her mom said softly.

Autumn turned, trying to smile, but her mom saw right through it. She always had.

Her mom crossed the room, barefoot, wine glass in hand, her sundress faded from years of wear. She leaned against the counter beside Autumn and glanced at the gift.

"That from Ryan?"

Autumn nodded.

Her mom took a slow sip, then gave her daughter a look that had raised her, healed scraped knees, seen through every fake "I'm fine" since age five.

"He's always known exactly what to get you."

Autumn swallowed.

"Yeah. He... he's always been that way."

They stood in silence for a moment. Crickets buzzed just beyond the screen door. A breeze stirred the corner of a paper napkin on the counter.

"You know," her mom said carefully, "your dad and I... we've tried not to say anything. We figured you'd see it when you were ready."

Autumn looked at her then, heart thudding.

"About what?"

Her mom met her eyes, gentle but steady.

"About Mark."

A beat passed. Then another.

"We don't like him," she said, not cruelly. Just plainly, like it was a fact.

"We've never liked how he talks over you. Or how he forgets things that matter to you. Or how you don't quite smile the same when he's around."

Autumn let out a slow, shaky breath.

"I thought maybe I was being too sensitive."

Her mom set down her glass.

"You've never been too sensitive. You've just always known what you need. And what you don't."

Autumn looked down at the sketchbook in her hands, at the soft, worn leather, the careful writing inside. Her chest ached.

"It's not that simple," she said quietly.

"No," her mom agreed. "It's not. But you don't have to stay somewhere that makes you smaller just because it's familiar."

She reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Autumn's ear -- a motion that still made her feel like a kid, even now.

"And for what it's worth," she added, "you're the most yourself when Ryan's in the room."

Autumn blinked fast, looking back at the gift, at the door, at the dark outside.

"Does Dad feel the same?"

Her mom smiled.

"Your dad's been waiting for Ryan to tell you how he feels since you were seventeen."

That made Autumn laugh, soft and surprised.

Her mom touched her hand.

"You'll figure it out. Just don't wait too long to choose the life that makes you feel whole."

Then she kissed Autumn's temple and walked out, leaving her in the soft hum of the kitchen, alone again -- but somehow, steadier.

Autumn stared at the sketchbook a little longer.

And this time, she didn't just hold it --

She opened it.

The house was quiet again.

Autumn stood there for a few more seconds after her mom left, hand still resting on the sketchbook. Her fingers traced the edge of the cover, where Ryan's messy handwriting pressed into the leather like a promise.

"Because you always see the world better than the rest of us do."

She pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat, sliding the book in front of her like something sacred. The paper inside was thick, smooth -- the kind that begged for something real, not just practice or idle doodles.

Her pencil was still in her bag by the door. She fetched it without thinking.

When she returned to the table, she flipped open to the first page.

For a moment, she just stared at the blankness. The potential of it. The silence.

Then something caught her eye through the window.

Out in the garden, the porch light cast a soft yellow glow over the back steps. Ryan was there, talking with her dad. Both of them had beers in hand, shoulders angled slightly toward one another, like they'd done this a hundred times before -- which, of course, they had.

Ryan laughed at something her dad said. Not loud. Not attention-grabbing. Just a quiet, crinkled-at-the-eyes kind of laugh that was so him it made her chest tighten.

Without meaning to, she began to sketch.

Not from memory. Not from imagination.

From now.

Her pencil moved like it already knew what to do. The curve of his jaw. The slope of his shoulders, always a little hunched like he was listening harder than anyone else in the room. The way his hands moved when he spoke -- careful, expressive, like he didn't want to take up too much space but couldn't help wanting to be understood.

She didn't rush. Didn't overthink. Just followed the lines as they revealed themselves.

Outside, Ryan leaned back slightly, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar, unconscious way he did when he was nervous or trying not to say something too big.

Autumn smiled softly to herself.

She added that in, too.

The sketch wasn't perfect. The shadows weren't right yet. But somehow, the feeling of him was already there -- the steadiness, the patience, the unspoken weight he carried when it came to her.

She looked down at it, then back through the glass.

And something inside her shifted.

For the first time in a long time, she felt... clear.

Not fixed. Not certain.

But seen.

And seeing.

She turned to the next page.

Ryan took a slow sip of his beer and let his shoulders relax into the porch rail. The sun was low now, casting long shadows across the yard, the hum of the party quieter than it had been earlier. Most people were inside or saying goodbyes. It was just him and John -- Autumn's dad -- standing on the back steps like they had a hundred times over the years.

John nudged the cooler with his foot.

"You good?"

Ryan nodded.

"Yeah. Just... full. Sun-dazed. You know."

John gave a low chuckle.

"You've always looked sun-dazed. Even in winter."

Ryan smirked but didn't argue. He liked John. Always had. The man was no-bullshit, dry-humored, and the kind of dad who actually paid attention -- which probably explained why Ryan had been half-terrified of him as a teenager.

Now, though, there was an easy comfort between them.

John glanced toward the garden, then back at Ryan.

"So. Still seeing that girl -- what was her name? From the climbing place?"

Ryan shook his head.

"No. That was... a while ago."

John raised an eyebrow, like he knew that already.

A beat passed. Then another.

He turned slightly, resting one hand on the porch rail.

"You know, I try not to meddle. Not my business, not my place."

Ryan looked at him, already sensing where this was going.

"But?"

John exhaled through his nose, thoughtful.

"But it drives me crazy watching Autumn bend herself around that guy. Mark." The name left his mouth like something bitter.

"He's never here. Never shows up for anything. Talks over her, checks out of conversations, always late -- if he comes at all. I don't know what she sees in him, but it's sure as hell not what I want for my daughter."

Ryan didn't respond right away. He kept his eyes on the horizon, heart thudding slow and heavy in his chest.

"Have you told her that?" he asked.

John shook his head.

"No. Because I know her. And if I push, she'll defend him. That's who she is. Loyal to a fault."

He glanced at Ryan again. "Sound familiar?"

Ryan let out a soft, short breath. Almost a laugh.

"Yeah."

John's voice gentled.

"You've been around longer than most people in her life. You know her better than anyone."

Ryan finally looked at him.

"She's not mine to fix, John."

"No. But that doesn't mean you're not already part of the glue."

That landed somewhere deep.

Ryan didn't know how to answer that. Or if he even should.

He stared out across the yard again. The sky was soft and bruised with the last of the sunset, the garden mostly quiet now.

And then he felt it -- a flicker.

He turned his head slightly, and through the kitchen window, he saw her.

Autumn.

Inside, sitting at the table, hair tied up, a pencil in her hand and her face softened by concentration. Her eyes were on the page in front of her. She hadn't noticed him looking.

She was drawing.

She always looked different when she was drawing.

More herself.

Unfiltered.

Focused like the world didn't exist beyond whatever she was creating.

He stayed there for a moment, just watching her through the glass.

And for a second, he let himself imagine a life where he didn't have to hide how much he loved her.

John followed his gaze. Then gave a small nod, more to himself than anyone else.

"Just... don't wait too long, kid."

Ryan swallowed hard.

"I think I already did."

The night was loud from the beginning.

Mark had planned it all: five bars, three rounds of shots, matching novelty sashes that said Birthday Babe & Crew, and a private room at the last place for "just vibes." It was chaos -- fun chaos, mostly -- the kind that comes with too many bodies, sticky floors, and music too loud for real conversation.

She looked like a woman pulled from a dream and tossed into a city night -- tall and curvy, five eight in bare feet, but even taller in the heels she was still insisting her feet were fine in. Her black bandage dress hugged every inch of her body, bolder than what she usually wore, showing off the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips, the soft swell of cleavage she kept adjusting out of habit. Her makeup was flawless -- it always was -- and her long red hair spilled down her back in loose waves that still caught the light in the bar, like it had been lit from within.

She never wore things like this. Not really.

But tonight was different.

Ryan had stared a little too long when she'd met up with them all earlie -- had caught himself and looked away, heart thudding like it always did when she looked beautiful, which was always. But tonight, it wasn't just that she looked stunning. It was that she didn't seem to know it.

Autumn smiled through most of it. She laughed at Mark's over-the-top toast in the first bar, played along when he made her do a birthday shot she didn't want, let him spin her during a dance at the second stop even though she hated being the center of attention.

He was trying. Or at least, he thought he was.

But the truth was, she was tired before they hit bar number three.

⸻

Ryan hadn't originally planned to come. But Ava had sent him the invite with a three-word message:

"She'll want you."

So here he was -- quiet at the edge of the group, nursing the same beer for an hour, not wearing a sash.

He stayed close, though. Not obvious, but present. Always close enough to help her down from a too-high barstool, to block her from a drunk stranger at the bar, to catch her eye when Mark disappeared outside to smoke for the third time in an hour.

He didn't say much. He didn't have to.

But he watched her.

Always watched her.

She looked good. Golden under the dim lights, cheeks flushed from the warmth and the noise, hair starting to become messy in that way he loved -- like she didn't care, like she never needed to try too hard.

She laughed at something Jamie said and leaned her head against Ava's shoulder for a second. She looked happy.

Except she wasn't, not really. Ryan could see it in the way her smile faded the moment people stopped looking.

He looked away before he got caught staring again.

⸻

But someone had already noticed.

Jamie slipped in beside him at the bar, drink in hand, voice low.

"You're not subtle, you know that?"

Ryan didn't turn.

"What?"

"You keep looking at her like she's yours." He sipped his drink, eyes following Autumn across the room. "Except she's not. Not yet."

Ryan exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

"She's happy tonight."

Jamie raised an eyebrow.

"Is she?"

Ryan finally looked at him.

Jamie gave a half-shrug.

"You know she's only still with him because he's already there. Because it's easy. Comfortable. You think anyone else in this room actually likes Mark?" She gestured toward the others. "We all tolerate him. You think we're here for him?"

Ryan didn't answer.

"You're the one who shows up," Jamie said, softer now.

"You're the one who knows what her laugh sounds like when it's real. And she--" she paused. "She looks for you first, even when she doesn't know she's doing it."

Ryan gripped the edge of the bar.

"It's not that simple."

"Yeah, it is."

Jamie turned toward him fully now, face open and serious.

"You're in love with her. And everyone knows it. Everyone but her -- and maybe even she does, deep down." She leaned in slightly. "So just tell her. Before he wastes more of her time. Or worse -- before she convinces herself this is as good as it gets."

Ryan swallowed hard, throat tight.

He glanced across the room.

Autumn was sitting now, perched on the edge of a booth, Mark beside her, arm draped lazily around her shoulders. She wasn't leaning into him. She was looking around.

And then her eyes found Ryan.

Just for a second.

And she smiled -- soft, tired, real.

His chest ached.

"I don't want to lose her," he said quietly.

Jamie clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Then stop pretending you already have."

The final stop of the night was some half-basement dive bar with neon signs and vinyl booths worn smooth from years of bodies. The music was louder here, the lights darker, the floor sticky. A birthday banner someone had brought earlier was duct-taped above the booth where Autumn sat, sipping water now, her heels abandoned under the table.

She was tired. Not just from the night -- from all of it.

Mark had reappeared with shots twenty minutes ago and spilled half of one on her arm while making a loud joke she didn't quite catch. She'd laughed anyway, because it was easier. But it felt like pretending. Like she was smiling through static.

"I need the bathroom," she said, sliding out of the booth.

Mark barely registered it, already halfway into another story with Jamie and someone he'd just met near the bar.

Ryan saw her go. He didn't follow. Just watched her disappear around the corner, then turned back to the booth with a tight jaw.

That's when he saw it.

Mark had moved to the bar, talking to a woman with long blonde hair and an easy laugh. She was leaning in -- just slightly -- but it was the way Mark leaned back that made Ryan freeze.

He touched her elbow. Said something with a grin. The kind of grin he used when he wanted something. Ryan had seen it before -- too many times, on too many people.

And then Mark did something that turned Ryan's stomach:

He looked over his shoulder.

Toward the bathrooms. Toward where Autumn had gone.

Checking if she was still gone.

Ryan was on his feet before he knew he'd made the decision.

He crossed the bar in three long strides, his hand gripping Mark's arm hard enough to make the woman step back, startled.

"You want to back off?" Ryan said, low and sharp.

Mark blinked. Smirked.

"Easy, man. We're just talking."

Ryan didn't smile.

"Yeah? You talk to Autumn like that?"

Mark rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of his drink.

"Jesus. You jealous or something?" he said, lowering his voice.

"You've had a thing for her since we met. You think I don't see that?"

Ryan stepped closer.

"You're the one who's with her. So maybe try acting like it."

Mark scoffed.

"What's your problem? She's happy. We're fine."

Ryan's jaw tightened.

"No. She's tired. She's trying. And you're out here sniffing around other girls while she's in the bathroom."

Mark held his hands up like it was no big deal.

"It's not like I did anything. Don't be dramatic."

Ryan looked at him, long and hard -- the kind of look that said: You don't get it. You never did.

"You don't deserve her."

Mark chuckled.

"And you do?"

Ryan didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

The blonde haired girl had already walked away. Mark downed what was left of his drink and pushed past Ryan without another word.

⸻

Autumn came back a few minutes later, cheeks still pink from the heat of the bar, weaving through the crowd toward their booth.

She smiled when she saw Ryan standing nearby.

"Hey, did I miss something?" she asked, sliding back into her seat beside Mark, who had already reclaimed his place with practiced ease.

Ryan shook his head.

"No. Nothing."

But his hands were clenched at his sides.

And when Autumn laughed a minute later at something Mark said, Ryan didn't smile.

He just looked away --

Because he couldn't look at her without wanting to pull her out of this whole place, out of this version of herself, and remind her who she was before him.

But she didn't know what happened.

Not yet.

The cab ride was quiet.

Autumn leaned her head against the window, eyes half-closed, a soft smile still ghosting her lips from a joke she barely remembered. Her voice was slower now, blurred with wine and exhaustion. Her makeup had smudged just a little, her lipstick faded, her laugh softer around the edges.

Ryan sat beside her, watching the streetlights slip across her face as they drove. She looked peaceful. Content, maybe for the first time that night.

Mark hadn't even said goodbye.

Somewhere between bar four and five, he'd vanished. Claimed he was going for a smoke and never came back. No text. No call. Just... gone.

Ryan didn't tell her.

She hadn't noticed.

And part of him didn't want her to -- not yet. Not tonight.

⸻

The apartment was too quiet when they arrived.

Ryan helped her up the stairs, one arm around her waist as she giggled at nothing in particular.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Mhm. I'm great," she said, voice light. "This was... nice. You're nice."

Ryan smiled faintly.

"High praise."

She fumbled with her keys before he gently took them from her, unlocking the door.

And then they stepped inside -- and the air shifted.

It wasn't just quiet. It was sterile.

The apartment looked like it had been pulled from a catalogue. Cold greys, sleek furniture, clean lines. Not a cushion out of place. Not a photo in sight. No paint-streaked mugs, no unfinished canvases, no clutter of books or music or life.

Ryan stood there, still holding her bag, and felt something heavy settle in his chest.

There was nothing of her here.

No sketchbooks. No plant jungle by the window like she used to have. No shelves with half-filled journals and concert ticket stubs taped to the wall.

Just a leather couch. A glass coffee table. A TV too big for the room.

It was all Mark. Every inch of it.

Autumn flopped onto the edge of the couch and let out a happy sigh.

"Home sweet... corporate apartment," she muttered with a sleepy grin.

Ryan gave a small, humorless chuckle.

"You want to get ready for bed?"

She nodded, already starting to peel off her heels.

"Can't feel my feet. Not ideal."

Ryan helped her to her feet and into the bedroom.

Even that felt wrong. Cold, sharp-edged, lifeless.

He helped her out of her earrings, set them carefully on the dresser. She sat on the bed, struggling with the zipper on her dress, and he turned away instinctively.

"Need help?" he asked, voice hoarse.

She made a sound that might have been a yes or a giggle.

He stepped behind her, hands gentle. The zipper slid down slow. Her shoulder blades rose and fell with each breath, her skin warm beneath his fingers. He let his hands drop the second it was undone.

She changed into a T-shirt -- Mark's, Ryan noticed, oversized and dull grey -- and climbed into bed, pulling back the covers.

"You okay?" he asked again, softer this time.

"Mhm," she mumbled into the pillow.

"Thanks for tonight. You're... you're always there, Ry."

He hesitated. Then sat beside her on the edge of the bed, watching her eyes flutter closed.

"Get some sleep," he said.

She was quiet for a long moment. Her breathing started to even out.

And then, barely audible:

"I love you, Ryan..."

The words were soft. Slurred. Sleep-spilled. Drunk.

Ryan froze.

His heart punched hard against his ribs. He stared at her, her face buried in the pillow, lashes resting against her cheeks. Peaceful. Unaware.

He swallowed hard.

"You don't mean that," he whispered, more to himself than her.

"You're tired. You don't even know what you're saying."

But his voice shook.

Because a part of him -- the part that had been in love with her for years -- wanted to believe she did.

He stood slowly, tucked the blanket around her like he used to when they crashed on each other's couches in college.

He paused at the doorway, looked back once.

"Goodnight, Autumn."

Then he left the room and pulled the door softly closed behind him --

carrying her words with him like a bruise he wouldn't let himself touch.

Autumn woke to a dull ache behind her eyes and the taste of cheap tequila still clinging to the back of her throat.

The room was too bright -- sunlight leaking through the blinds like it had no regard for her state of being. She groaned, pressing the heel of her hand to her temple before turning onto her side.

That's when she saw them.

A bottle of water and two painkillers on her nightstand.

Neatly placed. Label facing out. Quiet kindness.

Her stomach flipped.

She hadn't done that.

She didn't even remember getting to bed, not really -- flashes of heels off, Ryan's voice, the hum of the cab. A blur of her own laughter. Warmth. Calm.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the water bottle.

Ryan.

She sat up slowly, squinting at the time. Late morning. Her mouth was dry, and her head was a drumbeat, but beneath it was something else -- a faint memory she couldn't quite reach.

Something she'd said?

She pressed the pills into her palm, washed them down with the water, and shuffled out of bed, one bed sock missing- she didn't remember even putting them on- her oversized shirt wrinkled and unfamiliar. She padded quietly into the living room.

The apartment was exactly as they'd left it. Clean. Cold. Still not her.

Mark was on the couch, scrolling on his phone like it was just any other morning. His hair was mussed, but not in the soft, sleep-curled way. He looked like he'd been out all night. His hoodie was zipped halfway, a different shirt underneath than the one he'd worn during the crawl.

He looked up when he heard her.

"Hey, birthday girl." He smiled, casual.

"You alive?"

She sat down on the edge of the armrest.

"Barely." Her voice was raspy.

He reached over and touched her knee.

"You were wild last night." A grin. "Made it to all five bars. I'm impressed."

Autumn gave a small laugh, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Where'd you go?"

Mark's eyes flicked up.

"What?"

"After bar four. You vanished. I thought maybe you just bailed early but..." She gestured faintly.

"You weren't here when I got back. Ryan helped me home."

Mark stretched, slow and deliberate.

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry -- ran into one of the guys from work outside. Didn't want to ditch, but he was going through some shit. Breakup or something."

He said it easily, like it was just another night out. Nothing worth pressing.

Autumn studied him.

There was something off about the way he said it. Too smooth. Like a story rehearsed for exactly this moment.

"You didn't text."

He shrugged.

"Didn't think you'd notice. You were off dancing with Ava and the others. You looked like you were having a good time."

Her stomach turned -- not from the hangover, but something colder.

She tried to piece things together. The flashes came slower now -- Ryan's hands steadying her as she stumbled at the door, the quiet click of a water bottle on the nightstand. His voice. His warmth.

The way Mark had just... disappeared.

"Did you come back last night at all?"

Mark's eyes narrowed, just a little.

"What's with the questions? I said I ran into someone."

Autumn nodded.

But she didn't believe him.

Not entirely.

Not anymore.

She stood, slowly.

"I'm gonna shower."

"You want breakfast after? I could order something."

She didn't answer.

Just walked back down the hall, heart pounding now -- not because of last night's drinks, but because something deep in her gut had shifted.

And for the first time, she didn't immediately talk herself out of it.

Autumn stood at the kitchen counter, her damp hair tucked into a low, messy bun, a mug of warm tea in her hands. The post-shower clarity had helped -- so had the painkillers -- and now, wrapped in grey sweats and a hoodie that smelled faintly of detergent and something she couldn't name, she finally felt human again.

She typed up a quick message to Ryan. It was the least she could do after last night.

Hey. Thank you for last night. And the water. And the painkillers. And probably stopping me from face-planting on the floor.

She hesitated, then added:

You didn't have to do any of that, but I'm really glad you did.

She hit send before she could overthink it.

Mark had gone to the gym half an hour ago, saying something about "sweating off the tequila." She hadn't argued. She'd barely spoken. She was too tired for performance. Too full of fog and something she didn't want to name.

The knock on the door came five minutes later.

She frowned, setting down the mug.

When she opened it, Ryan stood there with a brown paper bag in one hand and a bottle of orange Lucozade in the other.

"Hey," he said, casually, like this was routine.

Autumn blinked.

"Did I... summon you?"

Ryan held up the bag.

"You mentioned a hangover. There's only one cure. Greasy food, processed sugar, and electrolytes."

She blinked at the Lucozade, then back at him.

"Is that... a sausage and egg McMuffin?"

"Two," he said. "And hash browns. And a double cheeseburger for later when you remember you're starving again."

She stared at him, warmth creeping into her face.

"You're a sorcerer."

He stepped inside, handed her the bag, and paused -- eyes catching on what she was wearing. The hoodie. Faded navy. Thumb holes stretched from years of use.

His.

Still his.

He smiled, quiet and fond. "Didn't realise that thing was still alive."

She looked down. "What?"

"That hoodie. I lost it during college. Thought I left it at a bar or something."

Autumn blinked, touching the hem without thinking.

"This is yours?"

He nodded. "I mean... it's yours now. Apparently has been for about five years."

She flushed a little.

"I had no idea."

"Not complaining," he said. But his voice had softened. Almost like the sight of her in it meant something. And it did.

She motioned toward the living room, and they sat, her tucking her feet under her on the couch, balancing the McMuffin in one hand, still a little dazed by the way he'd just shown up.

"You didn't have to do this," she said again.

Ryan unwrapped his hash brown, eyes on hers.

"I wanted to."

She watched him for a second. "You always do."

Something quite passed between them then -- not heavy, but real.

She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully.

"You saw me at my worst last night."

Ryan smirked. "That wasn't your worst. I've seen your worst. Remember your 21st birthday? The mojito incident?"

She groaned. "I still can't smell mint without gagging."

They laughed, the tension loosening. She leaned back, letting herself relax for the first time in what felt like weeks. The hoodie swallowed her shoulders, and his eyes flicked to it again without meaning to.

"You look like you again," he said softly.

She paused. And this time, she didn't deflect. "Yeah," she said. "I feel like me today."

******

Ryan walked. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady -- hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like the day had gotten heavier somewhere between her front door and the pavement. The streets were quiet. Late-morning haze. A breeze that still smelled faintly of last night's city sweat and fried food. But his head was full of her -- the way she looked when she answered the door, makeup-free and soft in his old hoodie like she didn't even know it mattered.

But he did. God, he did. He wasn't angry. Not exactly. But his chest felt tight in that way it got when something you love is right in front of you and still somehow out of reach. She didn't even remember the hoodie was his. That killed him a little. She'd worn it like it was hers -- like it had been hers all along. And maybe it had. Maybe she never even noticed how much of him she carried around without thinking.

He crossed the road, passed the coffee shop where they used to study during finals week. She'd always ordered those oversized lattes and doodled all over her notes. He used to tease her about the ink on her fingers. She'd tell him his handwriting was ugly and smile into her drink. That was years ago. And yet it felt closer than last night. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat.

She'd said I love you. In her sleep. Slurred, soft, unconscious -- but still.

He should've written it off. He had. He tried to. But it had landed like a pin pulled from a grenade he'd been carrying for years. And what was worse? He believed her. Drunk or not, part of him believed her. That's what scared him.

Because if she did love him -- if she meant it, even a little -- then what the hell was she still doing with someone like Mark? Someone who couldn't even stay through the night. Someone who didn't see her. Ryan did. Always had.

He passed their old college building and felt the weight of every year between them -- every time he'd stayed quiet, every time he'd made himself smaller to give her space, every night he'd helped her heal from guys who didn't deserve her, only to watch her walk back into their arms anyway.

Was he doing it again? Was he just waiting, hoping she'd turn and see him? He stopped walking. Stared down the street like maybe it had an answer at the end of it.

"What the hell are you doing?" he muttered to himself. Because he couldn't keep doing this -- circling her life like a ghost she hadn't invited but never asked to leave. He couldn't keep holding back everything he felt while someone else wasted her time. If she loved him -- even a little -- he needed to know. And if she didn't? Then maybe it was time to let go. Either way, something had to give. And maybe soon.

*******

It had been a few weeks. Not strained -- just busy. Ryan had picked up extra hours on a project that demanded too much of him. Autumn had been covering someone at the gallery, working late, skipping lunches, coming home too tired to think. They weren't growing apart. Not really. But they hadn't sat still together in a while either.

So when she woke up that morning, no alarm, no rush, soft rain outside -- she texted him.

Hey, I've got the day off. Want to hang out?

She added a cookie emoji without thinking. Then deleted it. Then sent it anyway.

She didn't expect an instant reply. He was probably at work. Probably tired.

Maybe even thinking twice these days, after the last few times they'd made plans and she'd had to cancel. She tossed the phone on the bed, kicked off her slippers, and stepped into the shower -- humming under the water, letting it loosen the tightness in her shoulders.

Then it happened. A slip -- so fast her brain barely registered it. Her foot caught the edge of the tub, and she went down hard, a sickening thud followed by a white-hot bolt of pain shooting up her leg. The air punched out of her lungs.

"Shit--" She tried to move. Couldn't.

Her vision swam. Her ankle was already swelling, her shin twisted in a way that wasn't right. She knew it immediately. Broken. Panic bloomed sharp and fast. Her phone was in the bedroom. The towel she'd instinctively grabbed in the hopes it would break her fall was soaked. She pulled herself out of the tub, hand shaking, dragging herself across the wet tile, teeth clenched to keep from crying out.

She made it to the hall. Pulled herself up just enough to reach the edge of the bed and grab her phone. She didn't even think. Didn't hesitate. She called Ryan.

********

Ryan was staring at her text when his phone lit up again. Her name. Calling. He answered on the first ring.

"Autumn?"

"I fell," she gasped. "In the shower--Ryan--I think it's broken. I can't--"

"I'm coming." Already on his feet. Already grabbing his keys. "Are you alone?"

"Yeah. Mark's at work. I--I called him as well but he didn't pick up--"

"Don't move. I'm five minutes away."

He almost broke every speed limit getting there. Didn't knock. Didn't hesitate. He let himself in with the spare key she never got around to taking back. The sound of her crying hit him like a brick wall.

"Autumn!"

"In here--" her voice was tight with pain, coming from the floor beside the bed.

He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands already on her face, checking her eyes, brushing wet hair off her forehead. She'd managed to pull the comforter off the bed so it was over her, for decency.

"Jesus--Autumn--what happened?"

"I slipped. It--it made this awful sound, Ry. It hurts so bad."

His jaw clenched. "Okay. Alright. I've got you."

He moved fast but careful, wrapping a towel around her, averting his eyes, then lifting her like she weighed nothing. She buried her face in his shoulder and didn't speak again until they were halfway to the car.

"Thank you for answering."

His voice was low. "You could've called anyone. You called me."

She looked at him. "I didn't even think. It was always going to be you."

He didn't say anything.

Just reached for her hand across the centre console and held it all the way to the hospital.

********

The hospital was cold in that way they always were -- too sterile, too bright, too quiet where it shouldn't be. Ryan sat hunched in a plastic chair, hands clasped loosely in his lap, one leg bouncing with a rhythm he couldn't stop. Her name was still on the chart, still behind closed doors. A simple surgery, they'd said. A clean break. She was going to be fine.

But she'd gone under scared, and his hand had been the last one she held before they wheeled her away. Now, he sat alone -- or did, until the elevator doors opened and her parents rushed out.

"Ryan--" her mother's voice was already cracking.

He stood quickly, meeting them halfway. "She's okay. Or--she will be. The doctors said it was a clean break. Surgery's just a formality, pins to set the bone properly. Nothing permanent."

Her mom folded into his arms without hesitation.

"Thank God you were there."

"Of course I was." It came out sharper than he meant -- like there was ever a possibility he wouldn't be.

Her dad stood nearby, jaw tight, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Mark was already gone?" he asked, though he clearly already knew the answer.

Ryan nodded once. "Didn't answer her call."

Her dad muttered something under his breath. "Figures."

They sat down beside him, the kind of silence that meant something.

After a few minutes, her mom leaned over. "She called you, though."

Ryan didn't answer. He just nodded, eyes on the swinging double doors that hadn't opened since she went through.

Her dad let out a quiet sigh. "You know, we've always thought the world of you."

Ryan gave a tight smile. "I think the world of her, too."

Her mom reached for his hand. "You're always there. Always have been. She might not say it out loud, but... she knows it."

He didn't trust himself to speak.

"She's never been herself around him," her dad added, voice low, more to the floor than anyone. "Not like she is when you're around. We noticed it a long time ago."

Ryan's throat tightened. He swallowed it down. "I just want her to be okay."

Her mom squeezed his hand. "She will be. Because she has you."

And for the first time since she fell, Ryan let himself sit back -- the weight of her parents' words heavier than he expected. Not pressure. Not judgment. Just... truth. The kind you don't always let yourself believe until someone else says it first.

*******

The lights were dimmed. The machines hummed softly. Outside the window, the sky had turned grey with early dusk.

Autumn stirred, eyelids fluttering open. Her mouth was dry, throat sore. The dull throb in her leg flared with every heartbeat, but it was muted by something stronger -- pain meds, most likely. She felt heavy, as if her bones had sunk a little deeper into the mattress.

And then she saw him. Ryan. Slouched in the chair beside her bed, hoodie pulled up, one foot tapping lightly against the floor. His phone was dark in his hand. His eyes were on her before she'd even managed to form a word.

"Hey." His voice was soft. Not the kind you use with just anyone -- the kind only reserved for her.

She blinked slowly. "You're still here."

He smiled. "Where else would I be?"

She tried to shift and winced.

He was already reaching for the call button. "Don't move -- I'll get the nurse."

"No, I'm fine," she whispered. "Just sore."

"That's the broken leg talking," he said, voice low but teasing, the tension easing off his face now that her eyes were open.

"My parents?"

"Getting coffee. They'll be back any second. Figured they had time before you woke up."

She gave the faintest smile, lids growing heavy again.

Ryan leaned closer and brushed a piece of hair from her forehead, gentle. "I'll go find them."

She nodded, already drifting. "Thanks for... staying."

He hesitated just long enough for her to catch it, then whispered: "Always." And then he was gone.

********

She was asleep again -- deep, pain-medicated, her breathing soft and even -- when her phone started buzzing on the bedside table. Ryan had only just returned, her parents dozing in the chairs now. He glanced at the screen, expecting Ava or Jamie or someone from their friend group.

But the name lit up sharp. Mark. Ryan's jaw locked. He watched the screen buzz again. And again. Then he picked it up and answered.

"Hello?"

There was a pause.

"Uh--hi. Is Autumn there?" Mark's voice was flat, almost bored. "I saw I had like five missed calls earlier. Everything okay?"

Ryan stood and walked quietly out of the room, voice low and cold. "She broke her leg, Mark. Slipped in the shower. Screamed for help, dragged herself across the floor to get her phone. You didn't answer."

Another pause.

"Wait, what? When was this?"

"This morning."

"Shit. I was in the middle of a client session--"

"You didn't even check your phone. Not once. All day."

Mark exhaled. "Well, she's okay now, right?"

Ryan stopped walking, hand clenched tight around the phone. "She called me, Mark."

"What do you want me to say, man? I didn't know."

"You never know."

Silence. A long one.

Ryan's voice dropped, tight and tired. "She was terrified. In pain. Alone. And you didn't show up. Not then, not now."

"I was going to come by later--"

"Don't bother."

"Excuse me?"

Ryan's voice didn't rise -- it sharpened.

"You're not the one she reached for when she couldn't stand. You're not the one who stayed while she slept off surgery. You're not the one who knows how she takes her coffee or that she talks in her sleep when she's scared. You're not there, Mark. Not in the way she needs."

Another silence.

This one heavier. Mark didn't have a comeback for that.

"I'll tell her you called," Ryan added, and hung up before he could answer.

He stood there in the hallway, chest tight, the phone still buzzing softly in his hand -- Mark trying to call again. He let it ring. Then turned and walked back to her room. She was still asleep, one arm curled under her head, face soft again. Safe. And for now, that was all that mattered.

*********

Late afternoon light spilled through the hospital window when the knock came at the door. Autumn stirred, still a little hazy from the meds but more alert now. Her leg ached, but it was dulled to a throb. She was propped up, a paper cup of water in her hand, flipping absently through messages on her phone. Her parents looked up from their books. Ryan had stepped out for a walk around the floor. The knock came again.

"Come in," her mom called.

The door opened, and Mark walked in -- holding a shiny helium balloon bouquet in one hand and a florist's box in the other. Autumn blinked. She wasn't sure if the dizziness was from the painkillers or the sheer absurdity of what he was holding.

"Hey, baby girl."

She flinched. She hated that nickname. He smiled like he was stepping into a casual lunch date, like everything wasn't off. He stepped toward the bed and leaned down to kiss her cheek, but she turned just slightly -- enough that he got skin, not lips. He didn't seem to notice.

"Thought I'd surprise you," he said, setting the box on the tray beside her. "You'll never guess how long the line was at that florist." He opened it with a flourish. Lilies. Bright white. Overwhelming scent.

Autumn's face changed immediately. ". Mark--" she pulled back slightly. "I'm allergic to these."

He blinked. "Really? Since when?"

Her mom gave him a look. "Since she was five."

He cleared his throat and set them aside awkwardly. "Well... it's the thought, right?"

Then came the balloons. Five of them. Metallic. One shaped like a bear. All of them squeaking against each other with every movement.

Autumn flinched again. "Oh--Mark, no, I..." she shrank back instinctively. "You know I hate balloons."

"What? No you don't."

"Yes, I do," she said quietly. "I have since Ava's seventh birthday when one popped in my face. I told you that. At least twice."

He laughed, confused. "That was, what, decades ago?"

Autumn didn't smile. Her dad stood to take the flowers out of the room. Her mom followed, gently but firmly, saying she was going to see if the nurses needed to take her vitals again.

Now it was just the two of them. Mark stood there, still holding the balloon string, awkwardly shifting his weight. "I thought I was doing something nice."

"You were," she said softly. "But it's not about that."

"Then what's it about?"

She didn't answer at first. She just looked at him -- really looked. His expensive suit. His perfectly tousled hair. The cologne that had always been a little too strong. The way his eyes kept flicking around the room like he was bored already.

And suddenly, she realized she felt... tired. "I needed you, Mark." Her voice was quiet, almost flat. "This morning. When I was on the floor, in pain, scared out of my mind. And you didn't answer."

"I was with a client, Autumn. You know my job--"

"Ryan dropped everything and came straight here."

That stopped him. Just for a second.

"Of course he did," Mark muttered. "You two are always like that."

"Like what?"

"Close," he said quickly. "Too close, sometimes. Honestly, it's always been weird."

Autumn blinked. Then sat up a little straighter in the bed. "You're right," she said. "We are close."

Mark crossed his arms, leaning against the wall.

"You're not seriously mad at me because I didn't bring the right kind of flowers, are you?"

"No," she said. "I'm mad because you don't know me."

Silence.

Just the quiet beeping of the monitor beside her. The drip of the IV.

She looked at the balloons twisting slightly in the breeze from the vent. "Can you take those out too?"

Mark hesitated. Then grabbed the strings, his mouth tight, and turned to leave. He didn't ask if she needed anything else. He didn't look back.

*******

The room was quiet again. No balloons. No lilies. No parents fussing or nurses checking stats. Just the steady beep of the monitor and the low whir of the air vent.

Autumn stared at the ceiling, arms folded lightly over the soft hospital blanket. The pain meds were still dulling the worst of the ache in her leg, but her mind had started to sharpen. For the first time all day, she was alone.

Her parents had left twenty minutes ago to fetch her things -- her sketchbook and pencils, her moisturiser, her favourite pyjamas with the little strawberries on. Her mom had kissed her forehead and promised to stock the fridge with real food. Her dad had grumbled about the "mausoleum" of an apartment, promising to bring back something green to liven it up.

Ryan had gone to the cafeteria, determined to hunt down something that didn't taste like plastic. He'd told her, quietly, that he was going to find "whatever passes for mashed potatoes in this place" because she always wanted mashed potatoes after anything even remotely traumatic.

And Mark-- She didn't want to think about Mark. But she did. She had to. He'd come. Late. With balloons that made her skin crawl and lilies that made her chest tighten.

He tried, she told herself. He was trying.

But it wasn't enough. It never really had been. She thought about the look on his face when she told him he didn't know her -- the disbelief. Like she'd accused him of something absurd. But wasn't that the problem? It wasn't about the flowers or the balloons. It was that he never noticed. Never listened. Not really.

She turned her head slightly, wincing as the IV line pulled. Her gaze fell on the paper cup of water Ryan had left beside her bed. Half full. Still cool.

Ryan, she thought. He had listened. Always had. He remembered things she'd forgotten about herself. What she needed. What she feared. What made her laugh. He hadn't made a grand entrance. He hadn't brought anything wrapped in ribbon. He'd just... shown up. First. Fast. Without question. And stayed.

She swallowed against the knot rising in her throat. The contrast had always been there -- in the silences, in the details, in the way her body tensed when Mark entered a room and relaxed when Ryan did. She'd ignored it. For a long time. Told herself she was being ungrateful. That love wasn't supposed to be easy. That Mark wanted her -- and wasn't that supposed to be enough?

But now?

Now all she could feel was the emptiness that followed Mark out the door. And the warmth that still lingered in Ryan's chair.

There was a knock, soft. A nurse peeked her head in.

"You doing okay?"

Autumn nodded. "Yeah. Just tired."

The nurse smiled. "Want me to turn off the lights for a bit?"

"No. It's fine." She didn't want the dark. Not yet.

The nurse nodded and disappeared again.

And Autumn stared out the window at the dull grey sky, clouds rolling in slowly, rain threatening on the edge. She reached for her phone. Opened her notes app. Typed two words. Then stared at them.

"Ryan knows."

And suddenly, she wasn't sure if that was a comfort... or a terrifying truth she'd been running from.

*********

The smell hit her before the door even opened all the way. Autumn blinked slowly, her eyes heavy, and saw Ryan pushing his way back in with a plastic tray and a smug grin.

"Victory," he announced, holding it aloft like a trophy. "I bring sustenance."

She smiled, already feeling lighter. "Is that... mashed potatoes?"

"With gravy," he said proudly. "I had to flirt with a terrifying woman in a hairnet, but I secured the goods."

He pulled the tray table closer, setting everything out with exaggerated care -- potatoes, a bread roll, butter and a slice of something he claimed was apple pie.

"And because I know you," he added, producing a small bottle of chocolate milk from his hoodie pocket, "the nectar of hangover gods and post-surgery queens."

Autumn laughed, despite herself, and let him help her sit up a little straighter.

"You're ridiculous," she said, taking the spoon from him.

"And you're welcome."

They ate slowly, quietly. The pain meds dulled her appetite, but not the comfort of the moment. Not the warmth that settled between them, thick and gentle. At one point, he leaned back in his chair, watching her eat with soft eyes, and she asked, lightly:

"What?"

He shrugged.

"Just glad you're okay."

She didn't answer -- just looked at him for a long time, longer than she probably should have, until her head started to swim again. The meds were pulling her under. She could feel her thoughts fuzzing at the edges, the warmth of food and the steady quiet of his presence lulling her into something slow and safe.

She drifted sideways against the pillow, eyelids heavy. "Stay?" she murmured, almost too softly to hear.

Ryan nodded, already pulling the chair closer. "Of course."

She let go.

********

She didn't know how long she'd been out when she heard his voice again -- low and rough, like he wasn't sure if he should be speaking at all. Her eyes stayed closed. She wasn't sure she could open them, even if she wanted to.

But his words floated through the fog anyway.

"I don't know how to keep doing this."

A pause. "Watching you with him. Pretending it doesn't kill me a little every time."

Another breath. Unsteady this time.

"You don't even see it. Not really. But I've been yours since we were fifteen."

The chair creaked softly. A shift in weight.

"And if you ever looked at me the way I look at you... even just once..." He exhaled, shaky. "I don't think I'd survive it."

Silence again. Then the brush of his hand -- light against hers. A whisper of skin. "I love you."

Autumn wanted to speak. Wanted to say something -- anything -- but the words tangled somewhere between sleep and medication. Her body wouldn't respond.

She slipped under again with his voice still echoing in her ears.

*********

When she woke hours later, sunlight was just starting to press weakly through the blinds. Ryan was gone. The tray was cleared. Her hand still tingled faintly where he'd touched it. And she couldn't tell if it had been real. Or just the kind of dream she'd never let herself have before now.

**********

He wasn't there when they discharged her. Mark insisted that he'd be the one to pick her up. He showed up right on time, wheeling her out like he was the picture of devotion -- all concerned smiles and steady hands, nodding dutifully as the nurse explained her aftercare instructions. He made a point of asking follow-up questions, like he was trying to prove something.

"How often does she need the painkillers?"

"Is the swelling normal?"

"And if the cast gets itchy, what's the best way to help?"

Autumn watched him in quiet disbelief. It was the most attentive he'd seemed in months. He held the car door open. Buckled her seatbelt. Drove carefully, making sure to avoid potholes and sharp turns. When they got back to the apartment, he helped her out, settled her on the couch with pillows and her favourite blanket, fetched water and her prescription without being asked.

"I've got it all under control," he said, flashing that confident smile she used to fall for. "You just focus on getting better."

And for a minute -- maybe even a full day -- she let herself believe him. He made pasta for dinner. Left her a Post-it note before he went to bed that said Wake me if you need anything. He even brought her sketchbook over without her asking.

But by day two, the cracks were already starting to show. He forgot to refill her water. Slept through her text asking for help getting to the bathroom. Came back from the gym grumbling about how "insane" work was lately.

"I'm here, aren't I?" he said once, when she asked if he could sit with her for a bit. "I haven't bailed."

But it wasn't about bailing. It was about being present -- not just physically, but actually with her. And he wasn't. Not really.

By the end of the week, he was coming home later. Spending more time on his phone. Talking about an upcoming work retreat like she wasn't still struggling to shower without help. She stopped asking for things. It was easier that way.

Besides -- the last time she needed real help, she hadn't called him. She'd called Ryan. And now, every quiet hour she spent alone on that couch, the memory came back stronger. Not just the pain or the panic or the helplessness -- but the way Ryan's arms had felt around her. The steadiness of his voice. The way he'd held her hand until the anesthesia kicked in.

Mark had been playing nurse. But Ryan... Ryan had been home.

*******

Ryan didn't reply to her message right away. But two hours later, he was at the door. He didn't knock. He didn't ring. He used the spare key again -- the one she'd told him years ago to never give back -- and slipped in carrying a paper bag, a coffee tray, and a familiar half-smile.

"I figured 'quiet' meant too quiet," he said simply, nudging the door shut with his foot.

Autumn blinked from her place on the couch, her crutches leaning beside her. She hadn't done much all day -- hadn't even thought about eating -- but now, suddenly, she was starving.

"You brought--"

"Flat white, one sugar. Banana bread from that place you like. And--" he pulled out a small tub wrapped in a napkin, "leftover lasagna from my mom."

She laughed softly, the first real sound in what felt like hours. "Ryan..."

"Don't thank me. I already ate my share on the walk over." He winked. "You're lucky anything survived."

He sat beside her, careful not to jostle her leg. Set everything out without fuss. Let her eat. Let her rest. He didn't ask about Mark. Didn't need to.

********

The days blurred a little after that, but they were softer now. Ryan came by almost every morning before work -- dropped off coffee, reset her pillows, reminded her to take her meds. When he couldn't come himself, someone else from their circle did.

Ava turned up with a bag of old art supplies and a playlist of music they used to dance to in college. She helped rearrange the apartment, moved her sketchbooks into the light by the window, placed a potted lavender on the windowsill. Jamie came over with wine she knew Autumn couldn't drink yet, and a stack of gossip magazines- "for your healing," she'd said dramatically, flopping on the couch beside her. Toby brought his dog. Sat on the floor and let Autumn pet his sleepy face for nearly an hour. They didn't ask questions. They didn't make her talk. They just made sure she wasn't alone.

*******

Ryan never asked for credit. He didn't even stay too long -- just enough to fill the fridge, sweep her hair into a bun when she couldn't lift her arm properly because it had gone stiff from resting on the crutches, or sit beside her while she rested, sometimes in silence.

One afternoon, he brought her a sketchbook.

"New pages," he said, placing it gently in her lap. "For whatever needs to come out."

She didn't open it right away. But when she did, the first thing she drew was him -- asleep in the chair across from her, hoodie pushed back, mouth slightly open, a half-finished crossword tucked under his hand.

One night, her friends gathered in the living room -- pizza boxes on the floor, drinks clinking, laughter bouncing off the walls. Autumn couldn't move around much, but she didn't need to. They all came to her. And in the middle of the chaos, she caught Ryan watching her -- that same look he always had. Soft. Quiet. A little sad. Like he loved her too much and had nowhere left to put it.

She looked away quickly.

But something inside her had already shifted.

*******

The first time she dipped a brush into paint again, she didn't think. She didn't plan or sketch or stare at a blank canvas for hours like she sometimes did. She just... moved. The palette was messy. The water jar was cloudy. The plastic sheet she laid over the living room rug barely covered anything -- but it didn't matter.

Because for the first time in weeks, Autumn felt awake. Her leg still throbbed sometimes, especially at night, but she was off the heavy painkillers now, clear-headed and craving the chaos of colour.

She set up a corner by the window -- a folding table for supplies, two milk crates stacked for extra brushes, a stool she could drag herself onto when she needed to. Her sketchbooks lived on the arm of the couch. Paint rags hung from cabinet handles. Paper towel rolls multiplied like rabbits.

And slowly, the apartment began to breathe again. The pristine, showroom aesthetic faded beneath the return of her -- in the scent of oil paints and lemon hand wipes, the constant hum of soft music, the presence of life.

Mark noticed. He came home one evening, late again, gym bag slung over one shoulder, to find three canvases leaning against the wall and a faint trace of cerulean blue across the kitchen table. He stared for a moment.

"Is this permanent?" he asked, gesturing at the setup.

Autumn, perched on the stool in one of Ryan's old hoodies, didn't look up.

"I work from home now," she said simply. "The gallery gave me a few projects to curate. And I've got a spot in the September show."

Mark set his bag down harder than necessary. "I didn't realise we were turning the apartment into a studio."

"You never asked."

He didn't answer that. She dipped her brush again and kept working.

********

Over the next week, the shift widened.

Mark was supportive on paper -- he nodded along when she talked about the pieces she was reviewing for private clients, said "that's great" when she mentioned the gallery show, even posted a blurry photo of her at her easel on his story once with a paint emoji.

But he stopped eating at home. Started staying out later. Made vague comments about "not being able to focus" with the smell of turpentine in the air. And every time she painted, he left the room.

Autumn noticed, of course. But she didn't chase him this time. She didn't apologise for the mess. She didn't offer to pack it away before dinner. She didn't mute her music or move her brushes to the cupboard. Instead, she created.

Loudly. Boldly. Beautifully.

She painted late into the night. Took calls from the gallery while barefoot and covered in charcoal dust. Sent mockups to clients from the floor, where she was sorting through colour swatches with sticky notes on her fingers. She started wearing her hair the way she used to. Started laughing again during calls with Ryan. Started sleeping deeper, even if she woke up to an empty side of the bed more often than not.

One afternoon, while brushing a stormy grey across a new canvas, she caught her reflection in the dark window. Paint on her cheek. Headphones around her neck. Expression calm. Focused. Bright. For the first time in a long time... she recognised the girl looking back.

********

It started small. Mark came home early one evening with dinner -- actual takeout from her favourite Thai place, not something from the gym café. No complaints about the smell of paint. No sigh when she turned the music up.

Just food, and soft conversation, and a rare kind of patience in his eyes.

Autumn waited for it to fade. For the cold shoulder to return. For the irritation to bleed through.

But it didn't. Not right away.

The next morning, he brought her a flat-pack desk and told her he'd been thinking -- maybe the spare room could be a studio.

"You need space," he said, half-sheepish. "And I think I want to see what this looks like when you've got everything you need."

She was stunned.

He spent the whole afternoon helping her set it up -- moved the guest bed out, laid down a drop cloth, even hung a few floating shelves. It wasn't perfect, but it was effort. Real effort. He even offered to drive her to the gallery next week for the client preview.

And for a little while, it felt good. Safe.

Maybe not love exactly -- not the all-consuming, can't-breathe kind she remembered from being younger -- but something. A version of comfort. Stability. A future they could build, if she tried hard enough to meet him in the middle.

He started saying yes when her friends invited them out. He laughed with Jamie over wine. Shared Spotify links with Ava. Genuinely complimented Toby's girlfriend on her podcast. They were small things, but Autumn noticed. And so did Ryan.

Ryan watched the shift from the outside.

At first, he was suspicious -- waiting for the cracks, the fallout, the same old patterns to return. But weeks passed, and Mark kept showing up.

At game night, he and Autumn offered to host. He didn't roll his eyes when they played dumb trivia games. He even asked Ryan about work -- and listened, sort of. Autumn seemed happy. Brighter. Comfortable. Settled in a way that made Ryan hesitate.

She laughed easily around the group again. Talked more about her art, let people see her pieces in progress. She even started dancing around the kitchen again, slightly wobbly,! her cast adorned with their names and messages of love only slightly stopping her going for it completely, when her playlists hit something nostalgic.

It should've made him happy. It almost did. So he stepped back. Said yes to a drink when someone asked. Went on a few dates. Nice women. Smart, interesting, fun. But none of them made him laugh like she did when she was in one of her moods. None of them knew that he preferred mint tea to coffee when he couldn't sleep. None of them had paint on their knuckles and starlight in their voice when they talked about colour theory. And none of them wore his hoodie like it still belonged to them.

So he smiled politely, finished his drink, and never called back.

*******

Autumn didn't know what to make of it -- the sudden space Ryan was giving her. The way he started texting a little less. The way he smiled like everything was fine... but didn't feel like he meant it. She caught him on the edge of rooms more than once. Watching her. Watching them. And once -- just once -- she almost said something.

But Mark wrapped his arm around her then, tugged her close and kissed her temple, and the moment passed like fog.

It wasn't perfect. But it was working. Sort of. Mark was trying. Ryan was healing. Autumn was painting again, dreaming again, standing on her own. And none of them saw it coming.

*******

It had been a while since they were alone. No group dinner, no gallery event, no Mark hovering in the background with a hand on her waist and a too-practiced smile.

Just her and Ryan. Her living room. Takeout containers open on the coffee table. Some old indie playlist playing from her phone speaker. They weren't touching, but they didn't need to. They never really had.

Autumn curled her good leg beneath her, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a chopstick tapping idly against the edge of the box in her lap.

"You still hate tofu," Ryan said, smirking.

"No," she said. "I've evolved. I now tolerate tofu if it's been deep-fried into submission."

He laughed, leaning back against the couch, head tilted. It was the first time he'd really smiled around her in a while -- the kind that reached his eyes.

She caught herself watching him longer than she should've. He noticed, and the smile faltered.

"You've been busy," he said quietly.

She nodded. "You've been distant."

There was no accusation in it. Just truth, soft and bare.

Ryan looked down at the carton in his hands, pushed the rice around for a second. "I didn't want to get in the way."

"Of what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely -- to her, the studio space visible through the open door, the faint outline of Mark's jacket hanging by the front door. "You seem... good."

"I am good," she said, but too quickly. Too defensively.

He looked at her then -- really looked. And Autumn felt something in her tighten, like he could see every crack she hadn't patched yet.

"You don't trust him," she said after a moment, quieter now.

Ryan didn't answer at first. Just let the silence settle around them, thick and knowing.

Then finally, "I want to."

She swallowed. "He's been trying."

"I know."

"He's different lately."

Ryan nodded slowly. "I know that too."

"Then what is it?"

Another pause.

Then:

"I don't think he sees you. Not the way you want to believe he does."

Autumn's throat closed around the words she'd been ready to argue.

Ryan leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low. "He's showing up now because he's supposed to. Because it's easy, when things are good. But I've seen you when you're on fire. When you're messy and chaotic and too much and fucking brilliant. And I don't think he even knows what to do with that."

She looked down at her food, appetite gone. "You think I'm making a mistake."

He didn't answer. That was the answer.

Her voice wavered just slightly. "Why didn't you say any of this before?"

"Because it's not my place," Ryan said, quietly. "Because I want you to be happy, even if it's not with me."

And there it was. Too close. Too much. Too honest. Autumn blinked fast, stared at the grain of the coffee table like it held all the answers.

Ryan stood. "I should go."

"You don't have to--"

"I do." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes this time. "Just... be careful with your heart, okay?"

Then he was gone. And she was left with the playlist still humming, the tofu going cold, and her chest tight with everything she didn't say.

*********

Ryan texted the next morning:

Sorry about last night. That wasn't fair to you. I shouldn't have put you in the middle of how I feel about him. I hope your appointment goes okay. Let me know if you need anything. Always. -- R

Autumn stared at the message for a long time before responding.

I know it came from a good place. No hard feelings. I'll send you a pic of my robot-free leg.

He sent back a gif of someone dramatically tossing away crutches and doing jazz hands.

And just like that, they slipped back into rhythm. Not quite like before, but close enough. Familiar. Warm. Safe.

The hospital appointment was quick. X-rays, a bit of paperwork, a slightly smug orthopaedic doctor who declared her "good to go, but ease back into it."

Mark drove her there. He waited patiently in the lobby, scrolled through emails, asked the nurse a few questions like he wanted points for being thorough. He was supportive. Present. Proud, even. He held her hand on the way out.

"Feels good to be free again," she joked, flexing her leg stiffly.

"Told you we'd get through it," he said, kissing her cheek. "You're tough."

She smiled.

They went for lunch after. Sat outside. He didn't complain about the sun or the slow service. He talked about a new client, a conference coming up, the usual. It felt... good. Not perfect. But good enough.

********

The next morning, Mark left early. Business trip. Five days. Some hotel with bad coffee and worse lighting, he joked. He kissed her goodbye while she was still in bed. She got up late, showered, made herself a huge breakfast just because she could. Texted Ryan a picture of her leg with the cast off, covered in faded bruises and faint tan lines.

He replied with:

Looking fierce. Leg model ready.

Also, I miss you a little. That's all.

She smiled. Heart skipped a beat. Tucked it away. Later that evening, curled up in sweats, she scrolled Instagram with one hand and half-sketched with the other. She wasn't really paying attention -- just tapping through stories -- until she hit one from some guy Mark worked with. It was a reshared video from someone else in Mark's office. A shot of a rooftop bar. Laughter. Cocktail glasses raised. The caption:

#TeamNights #ConferenceThings

Autumn tapped through lazily. Until she saw it. A wide-angle shot of the group -- twenty or so people, some blurry, some mid-laugh. And in the background, just over the shoulder of a girl doing a boomerang of her mojito--

Mark. Standing close to someone she didn't recognise. His hand on the girl's hip. His mouth on hers. Tongue, and everything.

Autumn froze. At first, her brain refused to compute. She rewound. Zoomed. Paused. But there it was. Him. Cheating on her, caught mid-act, in someone else's Instagram story. No ambiguity. No plausible deniability. No drunken mistake he could spin into a misunderstanding.

Just betrayal. Sloppy. Public. Real.

She stared at the screen for what felt like an hour, the room falling silent around her, the sound of her pulse loud in her ears. And then, slowly, she felt it: The grief. The humiliation. But underneath it -- simmering like a flame catching at the edge of paper-

The fury.

Ryan was halfway through a boring Friday night when he saw it -- Ava had sent it via DM to him.! The story, the kiss, the unmistakable shape of him. At first, he didn't move. Just stared, his stomach hollowing out. Then he checked the timestamp. Posted three hours ago.

No way Autumn hadn't seen it.

His hands hovered over his phone. He thought about calling. Thought about walking out the door. Thought about all the things he'd wanted to say for months.

But instead, he just texted:

Saw the story. Are you okay?

The reply came ten minutes later.

No. But I will be.

A pause.

Then: I'm not going to scream. I'm not going to cry in front of him. He doesn't get that. He doesn't get me. Not anymore.

Ryan stared at her words for a long time.

Then typed: Whatever you need. I'm here.

********

She found the apartment the next morning. Small, sunlit, full of character. Exposed brick, big windows, creaky floors that felt like a heartbeat underfoot. Across town. Closer to Ryan. Closer to her life. She signed the lease on the spot.

Mark's toothbrush was still in the cup in the bathroom when she started packing. She didn't care. The next few days moved fast. Ava thrifted furniture with her -- mismatched chairs and secondhand frames. Jamie showed up with boxes and margaritas. Toby rented a van.

Ryan didn't say much -- just did. He helped carry canvases, repot her plants, reassemble her bookshelves. He moved like someone who had waited years to be asked. She didn't cry. Not once. There was no playlist. No drama. Just movement. Forward.

She packed fast. She didn't need much.

But she took everything that was hers. Her mugs. Her brushes. Her peace. She left the apartment like a ghost -- no trace of her but the absence of colour.

And one envelope. She left it on the kitchen counter. Unsealed. No rage. Just ink and honesty.

Mark,

I saw it. I hope she was worth what we had. Don't call me. Don't come find me. nI'm done shrinking myself to fit in your life. You never really saw me. But someone else always did.

-- A

She walked out and didn't look back.

**********

The first night in the new place, her friends stayed until the pizza was gone and the wine ran out. The second night, it was just her and Ryan. They sat on the floor with paint samples spread out between them. No music, just the hum of possibility and the brush of his shoulder against hers.

She looked around at the half-built home, mismatched furniture, canvases leaning against the wall. It was hers. All of it. And when she looked at Ryan, he smiled.

"Thank you," she said.

He smiled again, slow and soft.

"You're not alone, Autumn."

She nodded. But this time, she knew she wasn't because she chose herself first. And that changed everything.

Over the next few weeks, Ryan was there. Not all the time. Not in a way that smothered. But just enough. He came over on Sundays to help paint the living room -- a soft, stormy green she had stared at on the swatch for days before finally texting,

Is this too moody for a girl with too many plants?

He replied with:

You are the mood. Paint it.

He brought his drill the following Thursday, put together the bookshelf she found at a thrift store for twelve bucks and insisted on carrying it back himself. He showed up with bagels when she forgot to eat. Tucked her loose hair behind her ear when she was too covered in paint to do it herself. Made her laugh when the bedframe collapsed mid-build and she nearly cried from sheer frustration. He never brought up Mark. Not once.

They slipped into something easy again. Comfortable, but not quite the same as before. There were moments now. Pauses. She'd catch him looking at her when she was laughing, or half-asleep on the couch, or standing barefoot in her kitchen stirring tea -- and the way his eyes landed on her was different. Slower. Warmer. Wanting. But he never moved. And she couldn't blame him. Because she had taken too long, hadn't she?

She'd chosen someone else. Over and over. Let Ryan go quiet in the background and convinced herself it was just timing. Just circumstance. Just bad luck. And now? Now he was here. Kind and close and still single, sure. But maybe not for her anymore. Maybe she'd missed it. Maybe it was too late.

He was on the floor, cross-legged with pieces of a flat-pack table scattered around him, sleeves pushed up, focus narrowed, brow slightly furrowed. And God, he looked good. She'd seen Ryan in every version of himself -- sleep-deprived, hungover, sunburned after that awful beach trip. She'd seen him drenched in sweat after football games, shirtless and swearing while fixing a broken tap at her old place, curled up with the flu in the middle of winter. But lately, he looked different. Or maybe she was looking differently.

His hair was longer than it used to be -- always slightly tousled now, like he'd been running his fingers through it all day. A little curlier at the ends, like he never bothered to style it properly anymore. She loved that. The scruff on his jaw was a few days grown out, enough to shadow his cheekbones, accentuate the sharp line of his jaw. His hands were covered in faint paint smudges -- hers or his, she wasn't sure -- but they looked strong. Capable. His forearms flexed with every turn of the screwdriver, veins raised just slightly beneath skin that was tanned from helping her move. He looked solid. Familiar. Warm in all the right ways.

And when he smiled -- that easy, crooked smile that was all charm and mischief and something softer underneath -- her chest ached a little. She noticed how he chewed his bottom lip when he was focused. The way his reading glasses slid down his nose when he read instructions and how he'd push them back up with the back of his hand without even noticing. The freckle on the side of his neck. The little scar above his right eyebrow from falling off his bike when they were fourteen. Things she'd always known. But now, they glowed.

And maybe it was the rain outside, or the yellow light warming the room, or the hoodie that still smelled like him, faint and familiar and heartbreakingly comforting... But she couldn't stop looking at him. Couldn't stop wanting.

He looked up then, holding two nearly identical screws. "This feels like a trap," he muttered, wiggling them. "These look the same, right? Am I losing my mind?"

Autumn blinked, forced herself to smile. "You're doing great, handyman."

He grinned at her, warm and open, like nothing had changed. But everything had. She just couldn't say it.

The rain had eased into a slow patter by the time the last bookshelf was built, the drill put away, and the takeout containers were stacked in the sink, untouched. Autumn had lost interest in food. She was too caught up in watching Ryan. Too caught up in feeling things she didn't know how to shut off anymore.

They'd drifted to the sofa again -- Ryan scrolling through a playlist, Autumn curled up with her sketchbook open but untouched. The room smelled like fresh paint and cinnamon tea. The knock on the door came without warning. Three soft taps, then: "It's me!"

Jamie. Ryan stood to answer it, and Autumn barely had time to run a hand through her hair before her friend waltzed in, rain-damp curls bouncing and a bag containing cheap wine swinging from her wrist.

"Thought you might need a break from unpacking," Jamie said, then she spotted Ryan. "Ohhh. Never mind. You've already got your emotional support Ryan here."

Autumn laughed, trying not to blush. Ryan just gave a mock salute. "One of the more useful breeds," he said. "As long as you keep him fed and mildly complimented, he'll assemble all your furniture and provide playlist commentary."

Jamie raised a brow and leaned in close to Autumn as she passed her, going to hang her jacket up in the closet. She nodded subtly for her and Autumn followed her down the hall.

"Okay, but have you actually looked at him lately?" she whispered.

"Jamie."

"No, seriously. Arms. That jawline. The man is giving 'hot carpenter in a cottagecore romcom' and you're just--what? Watching him screw in table legs like you're immune?"

Autumn hissed, grabbing her arm.

"Shut up."

Jamie grinned, completely unbothered, heading back to the living room and flopped down on the other side of the couch.

"You're allowed to want him, you know."

The words were quiet. Intentional. Just for her. Autumn stared at her feet, pulse loud in her ears.

Jamie didn't push. Just offered her that soft, knowing smile she always wore when she could tell Autumn was overthinking everything again.

"Just saying. Don't let timing stop you from telling the truth."

Then, louder:

"Now, can one of you pour me a drink before I start dramatically monologuing about the death of romance?"

Ryan meanwhile had disappeared into the kitchen, humming along to the playlist. He stayed quiet while Jamie swept into the apartment like she owned the place -- wine, sarcasm, and chaos trailing behind her like perfume. He smiled, genuinely. He liked Jamie. She was sharp, warm, and, most importantly, completely incapable of hiding when she knew something. Which was dangerous. Especially now.

When she leaned in to whisper something to Autumn, Ryan made himself look away. Gave them space. Moved to the kitchen under the pretense of finding glasses, though he already knew exactly where they were. He'd helped unpack the cabinet last Tuesday. Still, he opened the door slowly. Washed a glass that was already clean. Took his time. But his ears -- traitors that they were -- stayed tuned in.

He heard the shift in Autumn's voice. Heard the tension. The laughter that came half a second too late. Jamie saying something about wanting him. The word jawline. And then...

"You're allowed to want him, you know."

The glass in his hand stilled. He didn't move. Didn't turn. Just stared out the window above the sink, where the rain had started again in delicate threads, catching the glow of streetlights. He wanted to believe she meant him. That Jamie saw it too -- what he sometimes thought he imagined. The lingering looks. The nervous smiles. The way she wore his hoodie like it still belonged to her.

But he also knew Autumn. She didn't move fast. She held things close. And when it came to them, she always hesitated. Always blinked first.

And Ryan -- well. He wasn't sure how many more moments he could stand where he almost reached for her and didn't. Still, he didn't move. Just poured the wine slowly and listened to his own heartbeat over the rain. Waiting. Always waiting.

And Autumn sat there, heart full of something sharp and warm, the echo of Jamie's words wrapping around her like static.

You're allowed to want him.

She just didn't know if she was brave enough to do anything about it.

Yet.

*********

The music was low and vibey, the kind that made you feel cooler just for knowing it. The scent of fresh paint had finally faded, replaced by candles flickering on every surface -- sandalwood, bergamot, something soft and earthy. Autumn's apartment was full.

People had taken their shoes off without being asked. There were half-drunk bottles of wine crowding the kitchen counter, someone had already spilled garlic dip on the rug, and every corner of the room glowed with some version of her. Paintings covered the walls -- hers, of course. Some moody, some chaotic, all pulsing with colour and emotion. There were trailing plants in mismatched pots. A record player in the corner, stacked with albums she actually listened to. Books piled like Jenga towers. A velvet chair she'd thrifted, then reupholstered herself. A sign above the bathroom that said "Witchy shit this way."

She stood in the middle of it all, barefoot with a glass of wine in hand, smiling so hard her face hurt.

"This is so you," Ava said, spinning in a slow circle with a slice of pizza in one hand. "Like if you were a house, this would be it."

"God help my future property value," Autumn quipped, but she was glowing.

Jamie appeared at her side, eyes dancing. "He's here."

Autumn's stomach did a little flip.

"Who?" she asked, pretending to be distracted by refilling the olive bowl.

Jamie didn't even blink. "Don't insult me."

Autumn didn't respond. Didn't need to. She knew he was there the second he walked in.

Ryan. Carrying a six-pack and a bottle of something dark and probably overpriced in a paper bag. He was in jeans and a plain black tee, sleeves rolled, forearms tense from the cold -- or the nerves. He smiled when he saw her. And just like that, the noise around her dulled.

He made the rounds -- hugged people, gave Jamie a high-five, made some comment to Ava that made her snort -- but his eyes kept coming back to Autumn. Every time.

Later, she caught him in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up as he opened a bottle for someone who couldn't find the corkscrew. The light was soft above him, his shoulders broad, face half in shadow, half in gold. He looked like he belonged here. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel guilty for wanting him. She walked over, pulled two glasses from the shelf.

"Didn't think you'd come, thought you might be sick of this place," she said jokingly.

"Wouldn't have missed it," he replied, eyes not leaving hers.

She handed him a glass. "It's not much, but it's mine."

Ryan looked around. Took it all in. "It's everything."

Autumn swallowed, her throat suddenly tight.

He looked back at her then, softer now. "And it suits you. Every inch of it."

She didn't know what to say. So she just sipped her wine and stood beside him while the rest of the party carried on around them -- like the whole world had narrowed down to the small space between their shoulders.

*******

The apartment was quiet now. Not silent -- the music still played low from the speaker on the shelf, a slow, sultry hum that had slipped into the background hours ago -- but the crowd had thinned to almost nothing. Someone had left their coat by the door. Jamie had whispered something suggestive in Autumn's ear before leaving and winked hard enough to nearly strain a muscle. The wine was almost gone. The last few slices of pizza were cold in the box.

Autumn was curled into one end of the sofa, knees tucked under her, dress sleeves pulled down to her palms. Her wine glass hung lazily between her fingers. Ryan was beside her, not too close, not too far. That middle distance they always drifted toward -- like gravity, like comfort. She looked happy. Tired, warm with wine, soft around the edges. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was messier than usual, a few strands clinging to the corner of her mouth.

He wanted to tuck them behind her ear. He didn't.

"So," Ryan asked casually, tilting his glass. "Any rebound action since the breakup? Hot yoga instructor? Barista with forearm tattoos?"

Autumn laughed, shaking her head.

"God, no. First of all, yoga hurts. Second, I've been... busy."

"Busy?" He raised an eyebrow. "Or scared?"

She nudged him with her socked foot. "Screw you."

"Anytime."

The words were automatic -- a joke. Except... they weren't. Her breath caught, just slightly. She smirked, looked away.

Then, bold from the wine -- and maybe the way he was looking at her now -- she said: "I've only slept with three guys."

Ryan blinked. His smirk faded. "Really?"

"Yeah. Mark. Some guy in college. And one mistake I'm still trying to forget." She swirled the last of her wine. "None of them were... great."

He leaned forward slightly. Not predatory. Just... paying attention. "Define 'not great.'"

Autumn exhaled. Her voice dipped quieter now, more serious. "They didn't care what I liked. They didn't ask. It was always about them. Fast. Disconnected. Like I was just there to... play along."

Ryan didn't laugh. He didn't joke.

His glass lowered slowly to the coffee table.

And then, softly -- like it was a choice, like he was weighing every word:

"Do you want to know what I'd do?"

She turned to look at him. Really look at him. Her heart stuttered, heat curling in her stomach. But she didn't say no. So he kept going.

"I'd take my time." His voice was low, deliberate. "I wouldn't rush. Wouldn't assume. I'd learn you. Every sound, every sigh. I'd kiss you like I meant it. Hands in your hair, lips on your neck -- slow, until you couldn't think straight."

She stared at him, chest rising with shallow breaths.

"I'd put my mouth on you like it was a gift. Like you were the only thing I wanted. I'd ask you what you needed, and then I'd listen. Not just once. Every time."

Her thighs pressed together, subtle, involuntary. He noticed. But he didn't gloat.

His tone didn't change. It stayed soft. Intent. "You deserve to be touched like a prayer, Autumn. Like worship. Not a checklist."

Silence.

The room was too warm suddenly. The candlelight flickered against the walls. Her dress felt too heavy.

She tried to say something. His name, maybe.

"Ryan..."

But he held up a hand -- not to stop her, just to slow the crash.

"You've had wine. And it's late. And I'm not going to say more unless you want me to."

He stood, slowly. Controlled.

But the tension in his jaw, the coil of muscle in his arms, the way he looked at her -- it was all right there.

"Do you want me to stay and help clean up?"

It was safe. It was casual. It was her choice. But everything about him -- the way he stood there, the way he waited -- told her exactly what he was holding back.

She could feel it in her pulse. In her stomach. In the space between them, stretched so thin now she could almost taste it. This was her moment. Say yes... Or let it pass

********

The apartment had quieted to a hum. Empty glasses and crumpled napkins no longer dotted the surfaces. Someone had left glitter on the floor that she eventually gave up on trying to sweep away. The playlist had slipped into something slow, barely-there. Autumn's housewarming party was over, save for one last, unfinished story lingering in the space between her and Ryan.

She stood in the open balcony doorway, her wine glass long forgotten, arms folded over the edge of the railing. The night air cooled her flushed skin, but inside her, everything still felt too warm.

She heard him step out behind her, the soft thud of his boots on concrete. He didn't say anything. Just stood next to her, close enough that their elbows almost brushed. It was quiet for a long moment.

Then--

"Why did you say all that?" she asked softly. "About... what you'd do?"

Ryan exhaled. "Because I meant it."

She turned toward him. He was already looking at her. She swallowed. Her voice wavered.

"I haven't... been with anyone good. Not really." She didn't finish the thought -- didn't need to. He already knew the rest.

Her eyes dropped, lashes low over flushed cheeks. "It's weird, right?" she added softly. "Wanting something you've never even had."

He didn't smile. Didn't tease.

He took one careful step toward her.

"That's not what you deserve."

Her breath hitched.

And then -- slowly, like he'd been holding back for years -- he reached out and touched her cheek. Just his fingertips at first. She leaned into him without thinking, and that was it.

The thread snapped. He kissed her. Hard. Hungry. His hand slid into her hair, the other gripping her waist and pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like it meant something. Like she meant something.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't neat. It was years of tension. Longing. Repressed feelings and almost-confessions. It was him showing her exactly what he meant. His hips pressed against hers -- and she felt him. Hard. Wanting. Holding back nothing now.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, mouth opening to him, needy and breathless. She felt his teeth graze her bottom lip. His groan vibrated through her bones. He kissed down her neck -- hot, slow, intentional -- and when she tilted her head back to give him more, his hand slid over the back of her dress, finding the heart shaped cutout panel, his fingers splayed over the bare skin.

"Ryan," she gasped, legs weak.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, lips brushing her throat. "Please. Because I swear, Autumn, I can't if you don't."

But she didn't want to stop. Not even a little. And she couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't breathe with the way he was touching her -- like she was something precious and wild all at once. His mouth met hers again, deeper this time, and everything else disappeared -- the chill of the night, the city noise, the rest of the world. Just his mouth, his hands, him. Until he pulled away. Sudden. Sharp. "No--shit. No." He stepped back like he'd been burned.

Her hands fell uselessly to her sides. "What's wrong?" Her voice cracked.

Ryan ran both hands through his hair, chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

"You've been drinking. You've been through hell this year. I'm not going to take advantage of that."

"You're not," she said quickly, desperate to keep him from slipping away. "Ryan--"

"You don't get it," he said, eyes blazing, voice breaking. "I want you so bad it's killing me. I've always wanted you. But I won't be just another mistake you regret in the morning."

Silence. The wind kicked up around them. Her lips still tingled. Her skin still burned where he'd touched her. And his eyes -- full of want and guilt and longing -- were already pulling away. He stepped forward again, just once. Brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. Then kissed her forehead -- soft, reverent, aching.

"When you're sober. When you're sure. I'll be here." Then he turned and walked back into the apartment. The door clicked shut behind him.

Autumn stayed there, breathing hard, clutching the railing like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. She had just been kissed like it meant everything. And she knew -- without a shadow of a doubt -- that he loved her. And he wasn't going to rush her. Not now. But the fire between them? That was real. And it was only just beginning

**********

The city lights blurred. Ryan shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, head down, jaw clenched. The night air was sharp, biting into his skin as he walked fast -- like if he didn't move quick enough, the weight in his chest might settle there for good.

His lips still tingled. He could still taste her. He'd kissed Autumn. Really kissed her. Not some quick mistake, not some drunken slip in the dark -- but like he meant it. Like he'd been waiting years for that exact moment. Because he had. And it had nearly ruined him.

The way she looked at him. The sound she made when he touched her. The way her body had melted into his like it was always meant to fit there. She wanted him. That much was clear. But she'd also had wine. And she'd been hurting. And Ryan wasn't going to be another name added to the list of people who took something from her and walked away.

So he had pulled away. Like a coward. Like a saint. He didn't even know anymore. All he knew was that everything had changed. He crossed the street without looking. The chill did nothing to cool the ache building in his chest.

He'd waited for her for years. Always a step behind, always watching from the sidelines. He'd held back every time she fell for someone else, every time she laughed and said, "God, Ryan, where would I be without you?" like he was furniture. A safety net. Never a risk.

And now? Now she'd kissed him back. She had moaned into his mouth and tugged him closer and whispered his name like it meant something. And still -- he was walking away. Because he loved her too much to stay. Because he was scared that when she woke up in the morning, she'd look at him with regret in her eyes. And he didn't think he could survive that.

So, he did the only thing he knew how to do. He gave her space. The next morning, he didn't text. Didn't call. Didn't check in, even though his fingers hovered over her name in his phone more times than he could count. He let the silence grow. One day. Then two. Then a full week.

He told himself she needed it. That maybe he needed it. To think. To be sure. To find the words that could explain the firestorm that kiss had left in his chest. But deep down, he knew the truth: He was waiting to see if she'd come find him. Because if she did... He didn't think he'd have the strength to hold back again.

********

The first morning, she woke up with a pounding head, sore lips, and a hollow ache just beneath her ribs. She wasn't sure what hurt more -- the hangover, or the silence. There was no text from Ryan.

No "hey, you good?", no "can we talk?". Not even a joke about cleaning up the glitter still stuck to her floor. Just... nothing.

For a day or two, she told herself it was fine. Normal. They'd had too much to drink. Emotions had been running high. It had just been a moment. But it hadn't. It had been everything. The kiss -- God, that kiss -- kept replaying in her mind. Over and over, like a song stuck on a loop. The way his hands had gripped her like he couldn't stand not to. The way his mouth had moved against hers -- rough and sure and so full of want. The way he'd touched her like he'd already imagined it a thousand times, and now couldn't believe it was real.

But what gutted her more... was the way he pulled away. The way he looked at her like she was everything -- and still said no.

"When you're sober. When you're sure. I'll be here."

So why wasn't he?

********

Now, a week later, Autumn sat cross-legged in front of a new blank canvas, brush in hand, heart nowhere near steady.

The light streamed through her living room window -- warm and golden, slanting across her hardwood floors and the messy drop cloth beneath her. Her studio corner smelled like oils and turpentine and the faintest trace of the lavender candle she'd lit without thinking. Music played softly from the speaker. Something wordless. Something that gave her room to think. Because her mind had been stuck in one place all week. Ryan.

She dipped her brush into ochre, swirled it into the mix of muted oranges and soft siennas on her palette. Her strokes were soft, sweeping, but unfocused. She wasn't really painting something -- not yet. Just... moving with the feeling in her chest. Letting it lead her somewhere. Every time her hand stilled, his face came back to her. The look in his eyes. The feel of his fingers in her hair. The way his lips had trembled just before he pulled away.

Autumn closed her eyes and exhaled, her brush hovering just over the canvas. She hadn't tried to reach out. Maybe because she was scared. Maybe because she didn't know what to say. Maybe because, deep down, she knew the moment they saw each other again, nothing would be casual anymore.

And what scared her most... was how much she wanted that. She missed him. Not just the kiss. Not just the closeness. She missed the dumb jokes and the texts at midnight. The way he noticed when she was too quiet. The way he always stood slightly too close when he cared a little too much. Her phone was on the table beside her, screen face-up, untouched. Still no text. Still no call.

She dabbed a streak of red across the corner of the canvas, her hand suddenly heavier than it had been moments before. She just wanted to hear from him. Even just a Hey. Just something to remind her that what happened meant something. Because it had. To both of them.

********

Autumn was still kneeling on the floor, brush dangling from her fingers, when the knock came. Not tentative. Not angry. But insistent. Three sharp knocks. A pause. Then another.

Her heart stuttered.

She glanced at the clock. She wasn't expecting anyone. Her hands were still smudged with paint, sweater sleeves bunched at the elbows. Her hair was twisted up messily and she wasn't even sure if she'd eaten lunch. But something in her knew. She got up slowly, wiping her hands lon a rag, her stomach tight with nerves as she crossed the room. When she opened the door--

Ryan. Windblown. Eyes wild. His coat was half-unbuttoned, like he'd rushed to get there, like stopping to fix it would've slowed him down too much. He looked wrecked. And beautiful. She couldn't speak. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. He didn't wait.

"I tried to stay away." His voice cracked instantly. "I told myself I needed to give you space. That maybe it was too much too fast, or that you weren't ready, or that I wasn't-- but I've gone over it a thousand times, Autumn, and none of that matters anymore."

Her breath caught.

"Because I kissed you," he said, stepping closer. "And it didn't feel like a mistake. It didn't feel like something I should regret. It felt like coming home."

Her fingers tightened around the rag in her hand.

"And yeah, maybe you'd had a few drinks. Maybe I should've waited. But you looked at me like I was something you wanted. For once. And that scared the shit out of me, because I've been waiting for that look since we were kids."

She opened her mouth to speak--

"Ryan--"

"No, let me finish," he said, fast, desperate, like if he didn't let it all out now, he never would.

"I love you. I've loved you for so long that I don't even remember when it started. I've loved you through everything -- through Mark, through every other guy who didn't deserve you, through all the times you called me your best friend when I wanted to be so much more."

Her throat burned. Tears pricked at the edges of her eyes.

"And when I kissed you that night, it felt like everything I'd ever wanted was finally right there in my hands. And I still let it go --because I didn't want to hurt you. Because I didn't want to be another name on your list of people who left a scar." He swallowed hard. His voice dropped, low and trembling. "But the truth is, I'm already scarred. You wrecked me, Autumn. Years ago. And I don't care how long it takes, or how messy it gets, or if you still need time to figure out what you want. I just need you to know that I'm in this. All the way. No halfway, no pretending it didn't happen."

Silence. The world outside felt muffled. Faint. Like they were inside something delicate and breakable. Autumn looked at him -- his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands clenched at his sides, like it was taking every ounce of control not to reach for her. She took one slow step forward. And finally... finally...

She let the rag fall to the floor. And reached for him. For a beat, neither of them moved. Then Ryan stepped forward--fast--and kissed her like the world had stopped spinning and the only way to start it again was her. She gasped, and he swallowed the sound, his mouth rough and urgent, hands already in her hair. His body pressed against hers, and he didn't even wait for permission -- just knew she wanted this, had wanted it just as badly, just as long.

He stumbled forward with her, kicking the door shut behind him, not once breaking the kiss. Their mouths crashed together again, more frantic now, all tongue and teeth and breathless need. Autumn gripped his coat, dragging it off his shoulders blindly as he moved them further inside. One of his hands slid down her back, the other under her thighs--

And then he lifted her. She gasped again, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, arms tight around his shoulders as he carried her across the room. They barely made it three steps before they slammed into the edge of her painting table, knocking over a cup of brushes. Neither of them noticed. He kissed her like he was ravenous. Like he'd spent a week trying to forget the taste of her and failed miserably.

Her fingers tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel skin, and his hands were everywhere--her hips, her thighs, fisting the back of her sweater like he couldn't get her close enough. They spun blindly, staggering over the drop cloth, kicking through paint tubes and jars. A canvas tipped and fell, but she didn't care. He didn't stop. She tugged at his hair and he groaned into her mouth, hips grinding into hers, and it nearly broke her.

"Ryan--"

"I've wanted this for so long," he rasped, voice wrecked. "Tell me you want it too."

"So much" she breathed. "More than anything. I'm ridiculously in love with you."

He kissed her again, deeper now, and for a second the world dropped away.

Just breath and mouths and messy hands and the creak of the wall behind her as he pinned her there, his forehead pressed to hers, his chest heaving. This wasn't soft. This wasn't slow. This was everything they hadn't said, all at once.

And there was no going back now.

Their mouths never broke. Clothes were peeled away between kisses -- frantic, clumsy, like they couldn't bear the feel of anything separating them anymore. Her sweater hit the floor first, followed by his jacket, then her tank top, pulled over her head without pause. His shirt came next -- her hands under the fabric, desperate for skin, for the heat of him against her. God, he felt good. Solid. Strong. Familiar in a way that made her dizzy.

He dropped to his knees, lips on her stomach, her ribs, her breasts, like he couldn't decide what part of her he wanted more. She threaded her fingers through his hair and tipped her head back, panting, paintbrushes cracking beneath his knees where they'd scattered across the drop cloth. Somewhere in the chaos, they knocked over a jar of deep blue pigment. Neither of them noticed.

When he stood again, she clawed at his belt, pulling him to her, kissing him hard as he kicked off his jeans. Her leggings followed, yanked off fast, and then she was pressed against him, skin to skin, every nerve ending on fire. Her back hit the wall, legs around his waist again, his hands gripping her thighs like he needed to anchor himself. She could feel him, hard against her, and moaned into his mouth, arching against him.

He swore under his breath. A rough, reverent sound. Then he carried her down to the drop cloth -- messy and covered in footprints and streaks of paint, the same surface where she brought canvases to life -- and lowered her gently, then followed her down like he couldn't stand to be apart for even a second.

Their bodies tangled. Their mouths found each other again. Words became unnecessary. It was all breath and hands. Gasps and sighs. Fingernails on bare skin. Hips pressing and grinding, pulling each other's underwear off until there was no space left between them.

He kissed the inside of her thighs, the curve of her hip, the underside of her jaw. Her hands moved across his chest, his back, his shoulders -- memorising him by touch, not thought. Somewhere, her palm slid through wet paint. l She didn't notice until his fingers interlaced with hers and she saw it -- a smear of cobalt across his ribs, another streak of crimson across her own thigh. It only made it more real. More theirs.

Then--he pulled back slightly. Eyes locked on hers. "Lie back," he said, voice thick, trembling.

She did. Without question. Breath shallow. Eyes wide. And he sank between her thighs like a man starving. His hands gripped her hips, thumbs stroking over her skin like it was the most sacred thing he'd ever touched. And then his mouth was on her -- warm, open, relentless.

She gasped, head dropping back, fingers tangling in his hair. He moaned against her, like she was the thing he'd been craving for years and now couldn't get enough of. He licked, kissed, devoured. Not just with hunger -- with devotion. Every movement was purposeful, every flick of his tongue a promise kept. He was undoing her slowly, building her up, making her feel everything he'd once described in a whisper she hadn't dared believe:

What you deserve in bed... He gave it to her now. All of it. And more. Her thighs trembled around his shoulders. Her voice broke on his name. And just as she was shattering against him -- body arched, pulse racing -- he lifted his head, beard glazed with her wetness and eyes on fire, and whispered:

"Everyone else was just a story."

A beat. "I want to be your fairytale."

And that was it. One more flick of his tongue and she splintered apart. Her body tipped over the edge in a rush that stole the breath from her lungs. Her hands clutched at the canvas beneath her, eyes fluttering shut as waves of pleasure tore through her, fierce and unstoppable. It was more than she thought possible -- white-hot and aching, her whole body curling around it.

She felt everything. His hands holding her steady. His mouth coaxing every last shudder from her body. His name on her lips like a prayer she didn't know she'd been waiting to say. It was raw. It was overwhelming. And it was perfect. Like him. She was still trembling, breath catching in her throat, when he leaned over her and pressed a kiss to her stomach. Then her ribs. Her throat. Her lips.

She let out a soft moan against his mouth, her fingers still trembling as they curled into his shoulders. He lingered there -- mouth soft now, but still hungry -- and she could taste herself on his tongue. The brush of his skin against hers made her shiver all over again. But he wasn't done. Not even close.

He pulled back just enough to look at her -- flushed and panting on the floor, streaks of blue and red paint across her thighs, her ribs, her wrists. And then, with no warning at all, he slid his arms beneath her. She gasped, breath catching as he lifted her again-- like she weighed nothing, like he needed her closer -- and kissed her as he carried her through the apartment.

A helpless whimper slipped from her throat as she clung to him, her legs tightening around his waist, mouth finding his again as they bumped into the hallway wall, both of them laughing into the kiss, breathless and flushed and undone. She could feel him hard against her stomach, still straining for more, and it made her moan low in her throat.

"Bed," she whispered, barely audible between kisses. He didn't need telling twice. He carried her straight into the bedroom, kicking the door open blindly with his foot. The lamp on her nightstand cast a soft amber glow, catching the streaks of paint still on her skin, the flush on his chest, the tension in his jaw.

Then he laid her down -- carefully, reverently -- and followed her onto the mattress like he couldn't breathe without her. Their mouths found each other again. But it was different now. Hungrier. He kissed her deeper, harder. Like he'd waited a lifetime and couldn't bear to waste another second. His hands roamed freely, relearning the body he already knew by heart -- but now with a different kind of urgency. She arched into him with a shuddering breath, a soft, involuntary moan breaking free as he slid his hand between her legs again -- stroking her, teasing, watching her fall apart all over again. He moved lower, eyes dark and mouth wet, and licked her with slow, devastating strokes -- tasting her like he couldn't believe he was allowed to.

She gasped, her hips lifting to meet his mouth, a shaky moan tumbling out. "Ryan..."

He groaned into her -- a low, rough sound -- and dragged his tongue upward, flicking it just right before slipping a finger inside her, then two, curling expertly. Her legs shook around him, and she whimpered, hands fisting in the sheets as he built her up all over again.

He moved lower, fingers slick and sure, and touched her just right -- a deep, perfect pressure that made her back arch off the bed. She cried out, the sound raw, desperate -- everything she'd never let herself feel before.

"Oh God--" she moaned, breath catching.

And then his mouth was by her ear -- voice thick with need, dark and undeniable.

"God isn't the one making you feel this."

A breath, ragged and hot.

"Say my name."

A whimper caught in her throat. Her whole body reacted to that. A sharp pull low in her stomach. Her heart tripped. It was Ryan -- but not the careful, easy version of him she'd always known. This wasn't the boy who carried her groceries or fixed her shelves. This was a man. And he was wrecking her.

Then he reached down, braced himself with one hand, and with the other, guided himself to her. The moment the thick head of him slid through her slick folds, her breath hitched, her back arching, and a broken, aching moan escaped her lips. She was already trembling, already gasping his name.

He pressed in slowly, watching her face, inch by inch, stretching her wide until she gasped again -- louder this time, hips tilting instinctively to take more of him. And then--he sank into her. All the way.

"Fuck," he breathed, gripping her hip, voice strained and reverent. "You're so tight. You feel like heaven. You feel like mine."

She let out a choked moan, clinging to him with shaking arms as he filled her completely. The stretch, the heat, the perfect pressure of him inside her -- she couldn't even breathe. He started slow, deliberate -- letting her feel every inch of him, grinding into her with deep, rolling thrusts that made her toes curl. She moaned with every movement, soft and pleading, her lips falling open, unable to stop the sounds pouring out of her.

Then he began to move. Harder. Deeper. She cried out with each thrust, his name breaking over her lips in fragments, her body giving him everything.

"You feel that?" he growled. "That's how bad I needed you." He thrust into her, rough and steady, the slap of skin and breath and moans filling the room as she writhed beneath him, meeting him stroke for stroke.

He kissed her jaw, her neck, her lips, his teeth grazing her skin as she gasped and whimpered and begged for more. Her thighs shook around him, slick and trembling, and her fingernails carved half-moons into his back as she clung to him.

"I want to ruin every memory they ever gave you," he breathed against her throat. "Make you forget every hand that touched you before mine."

She moaned again, his name leaving her lips more times than he could keep count of.

"That's it," he growled. "Let me hear you."

And she did -- her voice wild, needy, raw. Because it was him. Because it was always him.

The rhythm built -- rougher now, more desperate, their bodies slamming together in perfect, chaotic sync. Her bed rocked against the wall, sheets twisted beneath them, and still he didn't stop.

Her head tipped back.

"Ryan--" she gasped, the sound trembling.

"Say it again."

"Ryan." She choked on it, pleasure spiraling fast, blinding. "Ryan--please--"

He shifted just slightly, thrusting deeper, thumb circling between them again--

And she shattered. The climax tore through her like a lightning strike, her whole body locking tight around him, a cry ripping from her throat. Her hips bucked, her hands grabbed at him like she needed something to hold on to -- and she moaned his name again and again as the pleasure rolled through her.

"That's it, baby," he groaned, voice breaking. "Come for me. Let me feel it."

And Jesus did he feel it. His rhythm faltered as he drove into her once, twice more--and then he was groaning, rough and desperate, her name torn from his throat as he came hard inside her. His body shook, jaw clenched, hands gripping her like he never wanted to let go. She whimpered softly, still trembling, still gasping through the aftershocks, every nerve lit and sensitive to him.

They stayed like that for a long moment. Tangled. Breathless. Covered in sweat, and streaks of paint, and something that finally, finally, felt like home. He collapsed beside her, one arm still around her waist, the other hand brushing sweaty hair from her face as their breathing slowed.

He didn't speak. Neither did she. Because no words could come close. Not to this. Not to them.

********

She must've drifted off. The next thing she knew, she was blinking against the faint morning light, her body aching in the most delicious way. Sheets tangled around her legs. The scent of sweat, paint, and him still clinging to her skin. Her whole body felt heavy. Used. Worshipped. She let out a soft sigh, trying to shift upright, but winced as the movement pulled at every muscle. A dull throb between her thighs reminded her of every way he'd touched her -- every way he'd claimed her.

And then she felt him. Warm fingers brushing hair from her temple.

"Don't move yet," Ryan said quietly, his voice low, still gravelly from sleep and what they'd done. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, jeans half-done like he'd just pulled them on quickly. His eyes roamed her face, careful and reverent.

"You okay?"

She nodded, eyes soft. "More than okay."

His mouth twitched -- not quite a smile, but something warmer. Deeper. Like relief he didn't want her to see.

Then, with maddening gentleness, he dipped a clean cloth into the bowl of warm water he'd brought and began to clean her up. He didn't make a show of it. Didn't turn it into something sexual or awkward. He just... cared for her. The cloth was soft, his touch even softer as he gently wiped her thighs, the streaks of dried paint, the sheen of sweat and slick that still coated her skin. Every now and then, her breath would catch -- not from discomfort, but from how intimate it was. How safe she felt.

"You don't have to--" she began, cheeks flushing.

"I want to," he said, cutting her off gently.

His eyes flicked up to hers, no hesitation in them now. "Let me."

So she did. She lay back, watching the muscles shift in his shoulders as he moved. Quiet. Steady. Devoted.

He cleaned her slowly, then reached for the fresh t-shirt he'd set aside -- one of his that had been left here a while ago, oversized and soft -- and helped her into it like it was the most natural thing in the world. She sat up slowly, leaning into him, and his hands never left her skin. Once she was dressed and under the blanket again, he left the room briefly. She heard the kitchen cabinets open, something clinking.

When he returned, he had a plate in one hand -- toast, scrambled eggs, and half an avocado arranged like something he knew she'd actually eat -- and a mug of coffee in the other.

"Only thing I trusted myself to cook in your kitchen without setting off the smoke alarm," he said, placing the tray on her lap with a faint smirk. "And I found your favorite mug."

She looked down at the chipped ceramic cup with the little sunflowers painted on it -- the one no one else ever seemed to notice -- and something in her chest twisted. He'd noticed.

Of course he had. She blinked hard, throat thickening, but didn't say anything. Just reached for the coffee with her soft fingers.

Ryan sat beside her again, this time closer, one hand trailing along the back of her neck as she sipped in silence. The air was full of things unsaid -- full of all the ways this could go now -- but for once, neither of them rushed to fill it.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "You didn't have to take care of me like this," she said softly.

"I did," he replied, brushing his fingers through her hair. "Because I should've a long time ago."

She closed her eyes. And for the first time in longer than she could remember...

She felt like she didn't have to do everything alone.

********

They didn't talk about what came next. Not yet. Because somehow, without either of them saying a word, they knew what the weekend had become. Theirs.

Time folded in on itself. The city outside blurred and dulled. Her phone stayed in the other room. His went unanswered. Nothing else mattered except the heat of his skin, the scratch of stubble on her throat, the soft rasp of his voice in her ear as he pulled her under again and again. They barely left the bed.

Until they did -- only to fall into each other again on the couch, against the kitchen counter, in the shower, with soap-slicked hands and flushed skin and her name gasped between teeth. She had never felt so seen. Never touched like this -- like she was precious and sacred and his.

Like he had waited years to worship every inch of her body and wasn't going to waste a second.

They didn't stop discovering each other. They made love with slow reverence one hour, and reckless hunger the next. On her knees in the hallway. Bent over the arm of the couch. Her legs wrapped tight around his hips on the kitchen table, breathless and whimpering, his mouth never leaving hers. On her yoga mat, straddling his hips, gasping and panting and surrounded by candlelight. He made good on his promise, folding her into positions she'd never even heard of. Drawing out noises she never knew she could make but sounded like poetry to him.

He was endless. Endlessly gentle. Endlessly rough. Endlessly hers. When she cried out, he kissed her until she sobbed his name. When she begged, he gave her everything. When she shook, he held her like she might come undone -- and then made her come undone again. She told him no one had ever taken like this. He told her no one else had ever deserved to.

Eventually, starving and dizzy and wrapped in her bedsheets like two teenagers in hiding, she stared at the ceiling and said, "We need food. Real food. Something greasy. And stupid."

Ryan grinned, mouth still swollen from kissing her senseless so many times.

"Pizza?"

She smiled sleepily. "So much pizza."

He reached for his phone to order, and she pulled on the first thing she could find -- the shirt he'd worn the day before. It was oversized and rumpled, hanging off one shoulder, barely covering the curve of her thighs. She padded barefoot through the apartment as he ordered.

They were laughing when the buzzer rang ten minutes later, surprised the pizza was there so quickly.

"I've got it," she said, still flushed, hair wild.

She swung the door open with a sleepy grin...

... and froze. Jamie stood in the doorway. Holding a bottle of wine. One eyebrow already arched.

They stared at each other for a beat. Autumn, in Ryan's shirt, hair tousled, love bites visible on her collarbone. Jamie, lips twitching like she was trying very hard not to burst into laughter. Autumn opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked down at herself. Then, slowly, looked back up.

Ryan appeared behind her a second later, shirtless, still buttoning his jeans, a towel slung over one shoulder. He looked every bit as rumpled and undone as Autumn did -- and twice as smug. Jamie blinked once. Then looked at the two of them, standing in the doorway like something out of a fever dream.

And said, dry as hell: "God. Finally."

Autumn groaned, covering her face with both hands.

Jamie cackled. "I only came to drop off wine and make sure you hadn't crawled into a paint can and died. But this is so much better."

From behind Autumn, Ryan smirked.

"You still want pizza?" he said under his breath, amused.

Autumn didn't answer. She was already closing the door in her best friend's face. Jamie's laugh echoed down the hallway.

*******

It had been a year.

A year of Sunday mornings tangled in each other, and Friday night takeout on her paint-stained couch. Of road trips with playlists and shared glances across crowded rooms. A year of paint on his forearms and making coffee for her in her favorite mug. Of Ryan's clothes permanently occupying her closet, and Autumn's brushes always left in the bathroom sink.

They were still them. Just more. More laughter. More quiet knowing. More us. Their friends stopped calling it "new." Her parents stopped pretending to be surprised. Even Jamie stopped teasing -- mostly. Because everyone could see it: the rightness of them. The way they anchored each other, the way they always had.

Ryan kissed her like she was his miracle. Autumn touched him like he was her home.

********

And now, it was July again. The sun was hot and high, the air buzzing with voices and grilling smoke and the faint scent of cut grass. Her parents' backyard was packed -- friends, neighbors, kids running barefoot through sprinklers. The same string lights as last year. The same plastic tablecloths. The same music drifting out from the open kitchen window.

But everything felt different. Because this time, Ryan wasn't just the best friend who'd stayed late to clean up. He wasn't just the boy next door, or the one who picked her up from the hospital, or the one who held her through heartbreak. He was hers. And she was his.

She was across the garden now, barefoot in the grass, laughing at something Jamie said, a drink in one hand, her hair falling in waves down her back. Ryan couldn't stop looking at her. He'd been watching her all day. Watching the way her dad couldn't stop smiling. The way her mom kept welling up for no reason at all. The way Jamie winked at him when she caught him checking for the ring in his pocket for the third time.

They all knew. Because today was the day. The velvet box burned a hole in his shorts pocket. The words burned a hole in his throat. He swallowed. Wiped his palms on the front of his shirt. Somewhere in the distance, the first fireworks cracked across the sky -- a bright red bloom that lit up the darkening blue.

She turned toward the sound. And saw him. He was already walking toward her. Heart pounding. Ring in his pocket. Love in every step. And as her eyes met his, wide and soft and already knowing--

Ryan smiled. Because it had always been her.

And it would always be her.