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Chapter Eleven – The Things We Bury
Elias sat at the edge of the fountain in the city park, his hands clasped in front of him, elbows resting on his knees. The sky was a pale, muted gray, clouds moving slow and heavy like breath held too long.
It was almost noon.
He hadn't heard from Ava since they agreed to meet today. She hadn't canceled, but the silence hung like a fragile thread. One wrong movement, and it might snap.
He glanced at the empty space beside him, then at his reflection rippling in the water.
Was he really changing?
Or had he just learned how to hold himself still long enough to pretend?
The wind stirred. He closed his eyes.
Then he heard footsteps.
When he looked up, there she was.
Ava.
Hair curled gently around her face, jacket zipped up to her neck, hands tucked into her coat pockets. She looked like she hadn't slept, but her eyes were steady.
She sat beside him without a word.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then she took a breath.
"I almost didn't come."
"I know."
"But I wanted to."
He looked at her. "Why?"
She met his gaze. "Because I'm tired of letting fear make my choices."
The words hit like a small earthquake in his chest. Not loud—but shifting everything underneath.
---
They walked.
Side by side, not touching.
The park had started to fill with people—couples, kids, someone playing soft acoustic guitar near the benches. Elias listened to it like background music to a memory still being written.
"Where are we going?" Ava asked.
"I made reservations," he said. "It's nothing fancy."
She raised a brow. "Elias making reservations? Growth."
He smirked. "I'm trying to be a man, not a storm."
That earned a real smile.
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The Date
They arrived at a cozy, dimly lit bistro tucked between bookstores and galleries. The kind of place with soft music and candlelight, where conversation didn't have to shout to be heard.
Ava paused just inside, soaking in the warmth, the gentle scent of herbs and woodfire.
"This place is… calm," she said.
"I wanted somewhere that felt like you," Elias replied.
Her breath hitched, just slightly.
They sat in a booth by the window, the light catching the edges of her hair like something holy.
Menus came.
They ordered.
The silence returned—not heavy, but present.
Then Ava cleared her throat.
"I want to tell you something," she said.
Elias set down his water, posture quiet, open. "Anything."
Her eyes dropped to her lap. "It's not easy."
"It doesn't have to be."
She swallowed. "You know about the surface-level stuff. Ethane. The manipulation. The control. But there's more. Things I didn't tell you before because… I didn't want to be seen through them."
He said nothing.
She continued.
"Ethane was the first man who made me feel wanted. And I was starving for it. I mistook his intensity for love. Just like you did with me."
Elias's chest clenched, but he nodded.
"He never hit me. Not in the way people expect. But he touched me when I said no. He used words like ropes. He'd leave the room when I cried, say I was being dramatic. He made me believe my voice was a problem that needed solving."
Her voice broke.
Elias's hands curled into fists on the table, but he didn't speak.
"And the cologne," she whispered. "He wore it when he hurt me the most. That scent became a trigger because it always came with fear. When you wore it—when I smelled it in your home—I couldn't breathe."
"I know," Elias said softly, his voice shaking. "I will never forgive myself for that."
She looked up. "But I don't want you to keep punishing yourself, Elias. I didn't come here so you could carry my trauma like a burden. I came because I need you to understand that loving me will sometimes mean navigating landmines. And I don't always know where they are until I'm already bleeding."
He nodded.
"I'm not afraid of walking carefully," he said. "I just don't want to walk ahead of you anymore. I'll walk beside you. Or behind you. Whatever you need."
Her eyes glistened. "That's the first time anyone's ever said that to me."
And just like that, something loosened between them.
Not fully healed. Not perfect.
But real.
---
After Dinner
They walked again—this time slower, the streetlights painting halos over wet pavement.
"I thought this would be harder," Ava said softly. "But talking to you like this… it feels lighter."
Elias glanced sideways. "Do you ever think about what we could be—if we both healed?"
"I do."
He hesitated. "Do you want to try again? Not the way we were. But something new. Something real."
She stopped walking.
Looked at him.
"I'm scared," she said.
"So am I."
She reached for his hand. Their fingers touched. Interlaced.
"Then let's be scared together," she said.
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At His Apartment
He made tea. Chamomile and vanilla.
No scented candles.
No cologne.
Just comfort.
They sat on the couch, knees touching.
Elias studied her face—the small scar on her temple, the way her lips pressed together when she was thinking. He didn't want to devour her anymore.
He wanted to know her.
"Can I ask something selfish?" he murmured.
She turned to him. "Go ahead."
"Why did you come back?"
A pause.
Then: "Because I saw you try. And for the first time… I believed it wasn't about keeping me. It was about loving me."
Elias closed his eyes.
Her words were a balm.
They didn't kiss that night.
They didn't touch much at all.
But when she fell asleep on his chest—his heartbeat steady beneath her ear—it was the most intimate thing either of them had ever known.
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The Next Morning
Ava woke before sunrise.
Elias was still asleep, his face turned toward the window, lashes brushing his cheek. She watched him for a moment.
Then she rose and went to the kitchen. Made toast. Boiled water.
When Elias joined her minutes later, shirt rumpled and sleepy-eyed, he paused in the doorway.
"You stayed," he whispered.
She turned to him with the gentlest smile. "So did you."
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Final Scene: Ava's Confession
They sat on the fire escape after breakfast, wrapped in a blanket.
"I think," Ava said slowly, "I'm ready to stop surviving."
He looked at her.
"And start living?"
She nodded.
"With you… if you'll have me."
Elias didn't say a word.
He just pulled her into his arms—gently, reverently—and held her like the most fragile miracle the universe had ever made.
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