CHAPTER 65 — PIECES FINDING THEIR WAY BACK
The days following the planting of the little angel's tree carried a gentleness that neither Auri nor Dante had expected. Grief still lived with them—quiet, heavy, familiar—but something else was beginning to grow between them too. Something softer. Something patient.
Something like healing.
Auri woke up slowly that morning, bundled beneath the soft sheets of Dante's bed. His scent — warm, steady, comforting — lingered around her, grounding her in a way that made her chest tighten with something she hadn't felt in months: safety.
She blinked her tired eyes open and saw Dante sitting by the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up, hair messy from stress and lack of sleep. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the small journal in his hands — the one she had bought him as a joke months ago, saying, "Here, write your billionaire thoughts in here." He had barely touched it until the accident.
Now he wrote in it every morning.
"Morning…" her voice cracked, dry from the tears she shed last night.
His head snapped up immediately, eyes softening the second he saw her awake. "Auri…" He moved closer and brushed his thumb over her cheek. "How's your head? Did you sleep better?"
Auri nodded weakly, though the heaviness in her chest ached as always. "A little."
"That's good," he whispered.
Silence settled between them. Not the painful kind — but not the easy kind either. A middle place. A place where two hearts tried to rediscover each other.
"You were writing again," Auri said quietly, motioning toward the journal.
Dante glanced at it, then closed it slowly. "Just… things I want to remember. Things I don't want to forget." His eyes softened. "About us. About… everything."
Her heart squeezed, fragile but beating.
"What did you write today?" she asked, hesitant.
He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. "That I'm grateful you woke up. That I'm grateful you're still here with me."
Her lips trembled. "Dante…"
He gathered her into his arms before she could fall apart completely. She melted into him, cheek pressed to the steady beat of his heart — a rhythm she had learned to rely on, a rhythm that had saved her from drowning more times than she could count.
After a long, quiet moment, Auri pulled back. "I feel guilty… every day." Her voice trembled. "I feel like I ruined everything. You lost your child because of me. You lost—"
"Auri," Dante cut her off, voice firm but gentle. "Stop right there." He cupped her cheeks with both hands. "We lost our baby because of an accident. Not because of you. Not because of anything you did."
"But—"
"No." He shook his head, eyes shining with an ache he rarely let her see. "I lost my baby too. Don't carry this alone."
Her tears spilled, warm against his fingers.
"And Auri…" his voice cracked as he swallowed hard, "I can't lose you too. Not to pain. Not to guilt. Not to the darkness you keep wrestling with."
Her breath caught. His raw honesty wrapped around her heart like a shield, like a promise.
She didn't know how to answer — so she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his chest, fingers clutching his shirt. He didn't hesitate. His arms wrapped around her, lifting her onto his lap as though anchoring her to him physically would keep her safe.
She let herself breathe there. Quiet. Shaking. Barely holding together.
Dante kissed the top of her head. "We'll heal. Slowly. Together."
Auri closed her eyes. "Do you really believe that?"
"With every part of me," he whispered.
Later That Afternoon
She sat in the living room, curled up in one of Dante's oversized shirts, staring out the window at the newly planted tree in the garden. The sapling swayed gently with the breeze, its tender branches reaching upward as if searching for sunlight — for a future.
Dante entered quietly, two mugs in hand. He placed one beside her. "Chamomile. It helps."
Auri smiled faintly, but it never reached her eyes. "Thank you."
He sat beside her, close enough for their shoulders to brush.
She sighed. "I still feel like I'm breaking… a little at a time."
Dante didn't speak right away. He took her hand instead, rubbing slow circles on the back of it. "Break as much as you need," he said softly. "I'll be right here putting you back together."
Her heart fluttered in her chest — painful, terrified, deeply touched.
"You're too good to me," she whispered.
Dante leaned in, brushing his thumb along her jaw. "I'm exactly what you deserve."
Auri inhaled sharply, throat tightening. She didn't expect the tears to fall so suddenly, but they came in hot streams, rolling down her cheeks as she tried to hide her face.
Dante caught her chin gently. "Hey… hey…" He wiped her tears, then kissed her forehead. "Don't hide from me."
"I'm not hiding," she whispered brokenly. "I'm just… scared. I'm scared to move on. Scared to forget. Scared to remember. Scared to love too much or not enough. I don't know what I'm doing anymore…"
Dante took her trembling hands in his. "Auri. Look at me."
She lifted her eyes.
"You don't have to know what you're doing. You just have to let me walk with you."
Her bottom lip quivered. "And what if I'm too much? Too unstable? Too emotional? Too broken?"
"Then I'll love you even more."
A sob escaped her — small, fragile.
"And Auri…" he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, holding her face in both hands, "I'm broken too. You just don't see it because I hide it better."
Her breath caught. She searched his eyes and saw it — the grief, the fear, the weight he carried silently.
Her chest tightened. "Dante…"
He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn't.
Their lips met — soft, slow, full of ache and longing. Not desperate. Not heated.
Just… healing.
Her hands found the collar of his shirt, clutching him closer, taking comfort in the warmth of his body. Dante rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling.
"I need you," she whispered. "Not because I'm broken. But because… you're home."
Dante's eyes softened, dark with emotion. "Then stay home with me. However long it takes."
She nodded, tears falling again — but this time, they were gentler.
That Night
They lay together in the dimly lit room, the quiet hum of the night filling the space. Auri rested on Dante's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
She traced circles over his skin. "Do you think we'll ever be okay?"
"Yes." He kissed her forehead. "Not perfect. But okay."
"And what about us?" she asked softly. "Can we really…"
"Love again?" he finished for her.
She nodded.
Dante turned, pulling her closer. "Auri, I never stopped."
Her breath hitched.
"And I'll keep choosing you," he whispered, "even on the days you don't choose yourself."
She buried her face in his neck, overwhelmed.
Dante held her tightly, protectively. "We have a long path ahead… but we'll walk it together."
Auri exhaled shakily, finally letting herself believe it.
For the first time in months, she closed her eyes and fell asleep without feeling like she was drowning.
And beside her, Dante stayed awake a little longer — watching the woman he loved, memorizing her breath, her warmth, her fragility, and her strength.
He whispered softly, almost to the quiet darkness itself:
"We'll be okay, Auri. I'll make sure of it."