Mornings had always been Lila's favorite. The quiet between dawn and noise. But this morning, she was wide awake before the sun had crested over the skyline. River lay beside her, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, his arm draped across her waist like he still feared she'd disappear.
She brushed her fingers across his knuckles.
It had been a week since they reconnected. A week of late-night conversations, of cautious touches, of rediscovering laughter. They hadn't called it love again—not yet. It wasn't like before. It was slower now, intentional. Two people choosing to walk forward together without trying to erase the scars.
When River stirred and opened his eyes, she smiled.
"Morning," he rasped.
"You snore," she teased.
"I absolutely do not."
"You absolutely do."
He grinned, then grew quiet, his thumb stroking her arm. "I still can't believe I'm here."
Lila sat up, letting the blanket fall from her shoulders. "It still feels fragile, River. Like we're balancing on the edge of something."
"I know." He reached for her hand. "That's why I want to take it slow. You lead. I'll follow your pace."
They spent the day roaming a street fair downtown. Colorful tents, food trucks, and spontaneous musicians lined the sidewalks. Lila bought a small notebook with a hand-painted cover; River picked up a vintage camera that made him light up like a kid.
As the sun dipped low, they sat on the rooftop of her building with bowls of ramen.
"I've been thinking," River said. "About that second project we talked about. A joint exhibit—your poems and my photos, again. But not about us this time. About others. About stories we haven't told yet."
Lila stirred her noodles. "You think people would care again?"
"I think people are still looking for something honest."
She leaned back, breathing in the cool evening air. "Then let's do it. But this time, no deadlines. No pressure. Let it grow naturally."
He bumped her shoulder. "Like us."
She nodded.
Later, in her journal, she wrote:
> "Some stories don't restart with fireworks. They begin again with a soft breath, A gentle step forward, And the kind of hope that doesn't shout, But whispers, 'Try again.'"
That night, as the city lit up beyond their windows, River kissed her—slow and unhurried. Not the kiss of a man claiming something, but one asking to stay.
Lila let him.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like she was falling.
She felt like she was home.