Chapter Nineteen: The Kiss That Was Years Late
Ava
She didn't plan to cry in front of him.
But when she accidentally found Liam's old drawing tucked between her recipe books—stick figures labeled Mom, Me, and a giant question mark—her heart caved in.
She sat on the floor, hands trembling, the crayon lines blurry from the sudden wave of tears.
That's how Damien found her when he came to drop off the Lego set Liam had left in his car.
He didn't speak at first. Just stood in the doorway. Quiet. Watching.
Then, wordlessly, he knelt beside her.
She didn't tell him to leave.
Didn't say she was fine.
Because she wasn't.
Not with years of silence sitting between them like a third person in every room.
"He didn't even know what a father looked like," she whispered, holding the drawing out to him.
Damien took it with reverence.
Studied it like it was sacred.
Then he said, so softly it broke her: "Now he will."
And when she looked up—her cheeks wet, her heart raw—he reached for her.
Not like a CEO. Not like the man who used to shut doors when she cried.
Like Damien. The one who kissed her in the rain. The one who promised a forever they both fumbled.
---
He didn't ask.
He just cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing tears away like they mattered.
And then he kissed her.
Slowly.
Like every second of distance had been an inhale—and this kiss, the long-overdue exhale.
She melted.
Into memory. Into heat. Into him.
Their lips said everything their mouths hadn't:
I missed you.
I still love you.
Don't leave again.
When they finally pulled apart, they didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
Some things didn't require words.
Only time.
And maybe one more chance.