---
Chapter Seven – The Sound of Breaking Things
Ava had never known silence could feel so loud.
Not until she stepped back into her apartment and shut the door behind her, locking herself away from the world—and from Elias.
The key turned easily in the lock. Too easily. It made her stomach twist.
She leaned against the door, the wood cool against her back, and tried to breathe. Her chest still ached from the allergic reaction. Her throat was raw, her limbs heavy, but it wasn't her body that felt broken.
It was something else. Something deeper.
She slid to the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, and the tears came like a flood. No warning. No shame.
She didn't cry because of Elias.
She cried because she had been seen, and it still hadn't been enough to keep her safe.
Because someone who swore they would never hurt her—had hurt her, even if he hadn't meant to.
Because the scent of that cologne still lingered in her memory, tying her wrists with invisible chains, dragging her back to places she had buried with everything she had.
Because even when Elias had held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, she had felt something she hadn't wanted to feel—
Fear.
Not of him.
But of what he made her want.
---
For the first time in weeks, she slept alone.
And she dreamed of Ethane.
Not his face, but his voice. His hands. The way he'd laugh whenever she'd begged.
The nightmare clung to her like fog. When she woke, she was gasping, fingers digging into her bedsheet, nails drawing blood from her own palm.
She didn't leave the apartment for three days.
Elias didn't call.
Not once.
That silence hurt more than his presence ever had.
---
Elias
Elias didn't sleep either. Not because he couldn't.
But because he didn't deserve rest.
He had scrubbed his body until his skin burned, but the cologne was still there. Not in scent, but in memory. In guilt.
He had loved her too hard.
Too fast.
He had mistaken possession for protection. Worship for understanding.
Now he knew better.
And he hated himself for it.
His house felt colder without her. The bed too large. The air too still. Her laughter, once so foreign, had become the only sound that made sense—and now, it was gone.
He stood in front of her apartment one night.
Just stood there, soaking wet from the rain, staring at the door.
He didn't knock.
He didn't want to force his presence on her again.
Instead, he wrote:
> "I was so desperate to be everything for you, I forgot to ask who you needed me to be. I'm sorry for the scent. But I'm more sorry for not seeing the scars it buried. I will wait—not to win you back, but to prove I can become someone who deserves your truth."
He didn't sign it.
He didn't need to.
---
Ava
The letter sat on her desk for days.
She didn't cry when she read it.
She didn't cry when she re-read it a second time.
It was the third time—when her fingers trembled and she whispered his name—that her tears finally fell again.
She didn't know how to forgive him.
But she also didn't know how to forget the way he had looked at her that night in the hospital—like he would give his soul to undo what he had done.
And maybe that was what terrified her the most.
She still wanted him.
Even after everything.
---
The Accident
It was almost midnight when her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She almost didn't answer.
But something in her chest told her to.
"Hello?"
There was a pause on the line, then a woman's voice.
"Is this Ava?"
"Yes… who is this?"
"I'm calling from Mercy General. A man named Elias was in a car accident. He listed you as his emergency contact."
Her heart stopped.
---
The hospital smelled like bleach and despair.
She hated hospitals.
The last time she'd been in one, she'd left pieces of herself behind. And now, here she was again—walking toward another kind of heartbreak.
They led her to a dimly lit room.
He was lying there.
Pale.
Still.
Unmoving.
A bandage on his temple. Blood seeping through his shirt near his shoulder. Machines beeping rhythmically, mocking the chaos in her mind.
"Oh my God," she whispered, hands flying to her mouth.
The nurse said he'd be okay. Just a concussion and a fractured collarbone.
But that didn't matter.
Not when he looked so small in that bed. So human.
Not when all the walls she'd built came crashing down at once.
She sat beside him, trembling.
"Why did you list me?" she whispered. "After everything, why would you still choose me?"
His eyes fluttered open.
Slowly.
Painfully.
"Ava…" His voice was a croak, but it shattered her.
She reached for his hand.
"I'm here," she whispered, the tears falling now. "I'm here."
"I didn't know," he said, voice rasping. "I swear, if I could take it back—"
"I know," she interrupted. "I know you didn't mean to. But meaning doesn't erase the hurt, Elias."
Silence fell again.
Then he whispered, "I've never loved anyone before. Not like this. I don't know what I'm doing."
She nodded, eyes glistening. "I know."
He turned his head, slowly, painfully, until his eyes met hers.
"Tell me what love looks like to you."
She inhaled sharply.
"It looks like being asked before being touched. It looks like knowing I can say no without being punished. It looks like being seen… not fixed. Not worshiped. Just… seen."
He closed his eyes.
Tears slid down his temple.
"I'll learn," he whispered.
"You don't have to become perfect," she said. "You just have to become safe."
---
He fell asleep again, and she stayed.
Because the past had taken enough from both of them.
Because maybe healing didn't come in grand gestures—but in moments like this.
In sitting beside someone who had broken you—knowing they were trying to rebuild themselves.
Not for you.
But because of you.
---
Later That Week
Elias was released from the hospital two days later.
He didn't ask Ava to come with him.
But she did anyway.
She didn't stay the night.
But she helped him to bed, left soup in his fridge, and kissed his temple gently before leaving.
He didn't grab her hand.
He didn't beg.
He only whispered, "Thank you."
She smiled. For the first time in what felt like forever.
"Goodnight, Elias."
---
The Final Scene
Ava walked home in the cold, night wind brushing against her skin.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
She didn't know if they'd ever get back what they had—or if they should.
But for the first time since the cologne, since the collapse, since the pain—
She didn't feel afraid.
And that, in itself, was a kind of freedom.