"I think I'm starting to like this version of us more…"
Her forehead stayed lightly against his.
Warm.
Real.
—
"…than the one I spent years missing."
—
He didn't answer immediately.
Not because he didn't feel it.
—
Because he did.
Too much, actually.
—
Before—
he would've rushed to say something perfect.
Something that secured the moment before it could disappear.
—
Now—
he just stayed there with her.
—
And somehow—
that felt more honest.
—
"I think I do too," he admitted quietly.
—
Lesica's eyes lifted to his.
Close enough now that nothing felt hidden.
—
"That should feel strange," she murmured.
—
"Does it?"
—
A small pause.
—
"No."
—
Silence settled again.
Soft this time.
—
Not heavy with unfinished things.
—
Just… calm.
—
And neither of them seemed in a hurry to break it.
—
"You know what's different?" she asked quietly.
—
"What?"
—
"I don't feel like I'm trying to convince you to understand me anymore."
—
That answer reached him immediately.
—
Because before—
everything between them had carried effort.
Translation.
Interpretation.
—
Now—
it felt simpler.
Not easy.
—
But clear.
—
"I think I finally started listening instead of assuming," he said.
—
"You definitely assumed too much."
—
"You literally spoke in emotionally encrypted riddles."
—
A faint smile touched her mouth.
"Only because you ignored plain sentences."
—
"That is… unfortunately fair."
—
That pulled another soft laugh from her.
—
And he noticed it again.
The way she laughed more easily now.
The way her shoulders stayed relaxed afterward instead of guarded.
—
Before—
he would've missed those things.
—
Now—
they felt impossible not to notice.
—
"You keep doing that," she said softly.
—
"Doing what?"
—
"Looking at me like you're trying to memorize something."
—
A pause.
—
He could've denied it.
Instead—
"I think I spent too long not paying attention."
—
Silence.
—
That answer settled gently between them.
—
Not guilt.
Not apology.
—
Awareness.
—
Lesica's gaze softened.
—
"You know," she murmured, "that probably would've terrified me before."
—
"What would?"
—
"This version of you."
—
His brow lifted slightly.
"Why?"
—
"Because I wouldn't have trusted it."
—
A beat.
—
"And now?"
—
Another pause.
—
"Now it feels steady."
—
That word—
steady—
meant more than anything dramatic could have.
—
Not intense.
Not overwhelming.
—
Reliable.
—
His hand shifted lightly against hers again.
—
"You feel different too," he said quietly.
—
Lesica tilted her head slightly.
"How?"
—
"You don't feel like you're waiting for disappointment anymore."
—
That made her still for a second.
—
Because he was right.
—
And she hadn't realized he'd noticed.
—
"I think…" she paused softly, "…I got tired of preparing for things to fail."
—
Silence.
—
That one hurt differently.
Quietly.
—
Because he knew he helped build that instinct in her.
—
But now—
she wasn't carrying it the same way.
—
"And?" he asked gently.
—
"And now I want to see what happens if I stop."
—
The room felt impossibly quiet after that.
—
Not empty.
—
Just full of things neither of them used to say aloud.
—
He smiled slightly then.
Small.
Real.
—
"What?"
Lesica asked softly.
—
"You're hopeful now."
—
Her immediate reaction:
"I wouldn't go that far."
—
He almost laughed.
"Right. Of course not."
—
"I'm serious."
—
"You're holding my hand, standing two inches away from me, and talking about wanting a future version of this."
—
A pause.
—
"That's basically optimism."
—
That earned him a look.
But it came with another faint smile she clearly failed to hide in time.
—
"Maybe a medically concerning amount of optimism," she admitted quietly.
—
"There it is."
—
She shook her head slightly.
And then—
without thinking—
she moved closer again.
Not carefully.
Not deliberately.
—
Naturally.
—
Like her body had started trusting the space around him before her mind fully caught up.
—
And when she realized she'd done it—
she didn't step back.
—
That mattered too.
—
He noticed that as well.
Of course he did.
—
"You're smiling again," she said softly.
—
"You keep doing things worth smiling about."
—
That answer made warmth rise into her expression instantly.
Unhidden this time.
—
And suddenly—
this didn't feel fragile anymore.
—
Not because nothing could hurt it.
—
But because neither of them were hiding inside it now.
—
Cliffhanger:
Lesica looked at him quietly for a long second.
—
Then—
almost cautiously—
she asked:
—
"If we had gotten this right the first time…"
—
A pause.
—
"…do you think we would've ever become this close?"
—
Silence.
—
Because that question wasn't about regret anymore.
—
It was about meaning.
—
And neither of them knew yet
whether healing something changed it…
—
or revealed what it could've been all along.