The morning sun crept in like an apology, painting long golden stripes across the floorboards. Outside, the world had quieted branches still damp, puddles glinting in the light, the scent of salt and pine hanging heavy in the air.
Ava stood in the doorway of her studio, mug in hand, barefoot, watching Max sleep on the couch. His hair was a mess of curls, his arm slung over his face, the blanket bunched around his hips. She should've gone back to bed. But instead, she watched him, heart caught in that soft, aching space between hope and fear.
Last night had felt real. Deeply, terrifyingly real.
Too real.
She turned and slipped into the studio.
It wasn't avoidance not exactly. It was just… habit. When emotions ran too loud, she painted. Always had. Only this time, her brush hesitated at the canvas. Last night had given her something too raw to capture with colour.
Behind her, Max stirred.
"I know that silence," he said sleepily, voice rough with sleep. "That's the sound of you thinking too much."
Ava glanced over her shoulder. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't." He stood, stretching, then wandered into the studio, wrapping his arms around her from behind. "I could get used to mornings like this."
She smiled faintly, leaning back against him.
But the words didn't come as easily today.
"I read your newest draft," he said suddenly, brushing her hair aside. "The one you left on the table. About the woman and the tide pulling her out."
Ava froze. "That was just… a sketch."
"It was beautiful. And heavy."
She pulled away gently, setting the mug down. "It's not finished."
"Neither are we."
The silence was sharper this time.
"I meant what I said last night," Max added. "That I want this us."
"But the book's almost done," Ava said, turning to face him. "What happens when the deadline hits and your editor's calling and you remember that your life isn't here?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"I've lived that moment before," she continued, voice low. "The leaving. The slow pulling away. I can feel it before it happens. I've painted it a dozen times."
Max stepped closer. "I'm not Jesse."
"I know," she said. "But I don't know if I can survive falling for someone who leaves anyway even if it's for something good."
He ran a hand through his hair. "You think I don't feel the same fear? I'm terrified. Of messing this up. Of not being enough. But I don't want to protect myself from you. I want to risk it."
Her eyes glistened. "Then tell me you're staying."
"I can't not forever. But I can tell you this: I'm not leaving yet. I'm here. And I want to see where this takes us."
A beat passed.
And then another.
Ava stepped forward, pressing her forehead against his chest. "I don't need forever, Max. I just need honest."
His arms wrapped around her again, tighter this time. "Then that's what I'll give you. Every damn day."
The aftermath wasn't tidy. It never was. There were still questions, still ghosts trailing their heels. But for now, they had today. They had choice. And that was something.
Sometimes love wasn't about certainty it was about the quiet bravery of showing up, even when the storm has passed and the world is painfully, beautifully still.