The Starbucks near Axton's office building was nearly empty, a haven of hushed anonymity in the mid-morning lull. He kept his large, warm hand wrapped firmly around Elin's, a steady anchor as they navigated the brief public space. He only released her when she reached the counter to order. The silence between them, though still heavy, felt less hostile and more fragile, like glass stretched thin over fire—beautiful, but capable of shattering at any moment.
They chose the most secluded corner they could find: a deep booth tucked away behind a tall, leafy potted plant. The low, consistent hum of the espresso machines served as a dull white noise, softening the edges of the outside world and making their corner feel insular.
Axton slid into the seat across from her, his frame looking unusually large and tired. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his exhaustion painfully visible under the warm, focused café light, which cast the deep shadows under his eyes into sharp relief.
Elin carefully placed the small white cup in front of him.
"I got you a flat white. You... you still drink this, right?" she asked, her voice cautious.
He nodded once, accepting the drink. "Yeah. Thanks," he murmured, his gaze falling to the surface of the coffee.
She reached for her own mug, picking up a small metal spoon. She stirred her drink absently, the repetitive, rhythmic clink of ceramic against metal the only sound filling the intimate space. Her gaze was fixed on the swirling foam, avoiding the raw intensity of his face.
Elin could not bear the silence any longer. It was a suffocating pressure. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a breath, trembling against the cold glass. "I'm sorry, Axton. For everything."
He looked up instantly, meeting her eyes. They were already glistening, her lashes wet in the dim café light. She was twisting the corner of a thin paper napkin between her fingers, shredding the white paper methodically.
Axton set his flat white down with a soft click, the untouched coffee a witness to their distress. He reached across the table and covered her twisting, frantic hands with his own. His skin was warm and rough, a strong contrast to her cold fingers. The napkin instantly stilled, trapped beneath the weight of his palm.
"I didn't mean for it to happen. I swear, Axton, I never— I never wanted to hurt you. I didn't even know what I was doing that night. I was just— I was confused, and I was so deeply upset, and he—" Her voice fractured, unable to complete the sentence.
He didn't interrupt, offering her a space of agonizing silence that demanded the complete, unvarnished truth.
"You have to believe me," she pleaded, her eyes searching his for any flicker of trust. "I didn't... I didn't kiss him because I wanted him. I just—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "I felt like I was the only one trying. You were always working late, always too far away, and I kept telling myself it didn't bother me, but it did. It hurt. I thought maybe I wasn't important enough anymore. That maybe you didn't..."
She trailed off, the final word—love—too massive, too terrifying to utter in the stillness of the coffee shop. The very foundation of their connection was in question, and saying it aloud felt like ensuring its collapse.
Axton's eyes softened slightly, but he stayed silent.
Her hands trembled violently as she reached for her cooling coffee mug, grasping the ceramic for warmth and stability. She didn't drink, though; her throat was too tight, constricted by tears. "And then he said things," she continued, her voice gaining a sharp, self-reproachful edge. "He said you'd move on soon, that you didn't care as much as I did, that I was just a comfortable placeholder, and I was stupid enough to listen, stupid enough to believe the lie that was easier than the truth."
Her voice cracked again, breaking on a sob. "I didn't even realize what was happening until it was over. And then I just hated myself for it. I came home and scrubbed my mouth raw, hoping I could wash away the mistake."
Her vision swam. She blinked, trying to force the tears back, but it wouldn't be stopped this time. They began to roll down her cheeks silently, leaving faint, hot tracks on her skin. She didn't bother to wipe them away.
"I ruined everything," she whispered, the words heavy with finality. She looked down at their joined hands, the weight of her fault sinking into her. "And I can't fix it, Axton. Not with perfect croissants, not with apologies, no matter how much I want to." Her breathing hitched, coming in desperate, shallow gasps.
She squeezed her eyes shut, ready for the inevitable consequence of her honesty—his rejection. "Just tell me you hate me. Tell me you're leaving. Anything is better than this silence."
"Stop," he said, his voice husky, the deep sound vibrating with residual anger and overwhelming relief. He didn't pull his hand away, maintaining the contact she craved. "Stop apologizing for everything. That's not what this is about. That's not why I left."
He stared down at their joined hands, the knot of the blue ribbon box now forgotten on the nearby ledge, the gesture it represented speaking louder than any verbal confession. "I left because I was terrified," he admitted, the word cutting through the quiet. "I walked in and saw him and thought I had lost you—and I didn't know how to fight the thing that was supposed to be permanent."
He had spent the whole morning trying to be angry. He told himself Elin didn't deserve his sympathy, his softness, or the confusing, gnawing guilt that kept him from work. He'd tried to focus on the betrayal, the simple, hard fact of what he'd witnessed. But now, watching her crumple and break apart in front of him, seeing the genuine, raw pain in her eyes, all that carefully constructed anger melted into something far rawer, far quieter—it melted into grief.
Grief for the space that had grown between them, grief for the painful mistake, and grief for the trust that felt scorched.
"Elin," he said finally, the sound of her name catching in his throat, a deep, resonant rumble that demanded her attention.
She looked up, her eyes red and swimming with tears, shining under the café lights. She braced herself, waiting for the cutting dismissal she felt she deserved.
He exhaled slowly, a long, weary sigh that seemed to release the tension of the entire morning. "You didn't ruin everything." His voice was low, steady, a sudden calm in her storm.
She immediately shook her head, unable to accept the absolution. "I did. You can't even look at me the same way anymore. You couldn't even leave your office to see me."
"You made a mistake, Elin," he repeated, his gaze unwavering, pinning her with a difficult, honest tenderness. "A monumental one, maybe. But so did I."
Her brows drew together, etched with confusion and disbelief. She didn't understand how he could share the blame; she was the one who had kissed another man. "What are you talking about?" she whispered, her voice still thick with tears. "I'm the one who..."
"I thought if I worked hard enough, if I handled everything, it would make things better. That I'd earn the right to slow down later." He gave a small, humourless laugh. "I didn't see what I was doing to you. What I was doing to us."
He lifted his gaze to stare vaguely past her, recalling the relentless pressure of his own ambition. "You said I was too far away. You were right. You were desperately trying to communicate a problem, and my response was to get defensive, to get quieter, to throw more hours into work because that's the only way I know how to fix things. I traded my presence for a promise of a future I wasn't sure we'd even get to share."
He looked back at her, his green eyes brimming with his own painful realization. "I withdrew. I took your steady presence for granted. I starved our connection of the one thing it truly needed—my attention—until you were desperate enough to look for a reflection of yourself in the wrong place. That moment with Sebastian, that was a symptom, Elin. A terrible, painful symptom of a disease I allowed to fester between us. I owned half of that silence, and my half is just as much to blame as your desperate reaction."
He paused, letting the weight of the dual confession settle. He knew he couldn't erase her mistake, but he could refuse to make her carry the entire load of their failed connection. He couldn't leave the most important conversation of their lives to a receptionist. "We hurt each other," he finished, his voice heavy with the mutual sorrow.
"We didn't ruin everything. We just broke us a little. But broken things can be mended, Elin. If we both stop fighting for blame and start fighting for the repair."
Elin's breath hitched.
Axton squeezed her hand slightly, the pressure conveying the impossible complexity of his emotions. "I can't say it didn't hurt, Elin. It did. Seeing him standing there. Hearing that." His voice dropped, growing low and rough with the memory of the previous night's shock. "It felt like someone had just pulled the ground out from under me. Like I fell straight through our life."
Her tears, which had momentarily paused, spilled over again, tracing fresh paths through the dried salt on her cheeks. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, the apology a deep, resonant tremor in her chest.
"I know," he said, his voice flat with weary acceptance. "I know you are." He didn't demand more words; the truth of her regret was visible on her face.
He brushed his thumb over her knuckles slowly, a quiet, grounding motion that made her chest ache.
"I don't know what this means for us yet," he admitted, his gaze drifting over the coffee shop, unable to meet her gaze when admitting such uncertainty. "I don't know if I can just forget it happened. I don't know if I can unsee him standing there. But..." He paused, his eyes lowering to the small, clean white box she'd brought, a perfect symbol of her effort. "You still came. You still tried to speak to me in the only way you know how."
Elin swallowed hard, the tension in her throat making her voice tremble. "Because I still love you."
The confession was a simple, absolute truth, a last, desperate clarity in the chaos.
Axton went still. For a long moment, neither of them breathed.
Then, quietly, his eyes meeting hers, he said, "I know."
Axton didn't let go of her hand. His thumb resumed its slow, absent circles against her skin, the motion now less about grounding her and more about grounding himself. He needed the connection as much as she did.
Elin's breathing was shallow and uneven, her lower lashes damp and stuck together. She looked at him with an intense, fearful focus, as though she was afraid the slightest distraction, the mere act of blinking, would make him vanish.
For a suspended stretch of time, all he did was look back at her, absorbing the reality of her breakdown.
He saw the tiny, quiet tremor in her shoulders, the way she consciously tried to steady her breathing and sit straighter. He saw the profound, visible regret etched across every exhausted line of her face. He had seen her happy, flushed with the heat of the oven; he had seen her sharp with anger; he had seen her shy and uncertain. But he had never seen her like this. Never so transparently raw and unprotected.
And something deep inside him, the hard, defensive shell he had wrapped around his pain, cracked open. The anger felt childish, the desire for retribution pathetic. He had come here, subconsciously, ready to draw lines, to establish boundaries, to protect what was left of himself from further hurt.
Watching her crumble like that, he realized that protecting himself would mean enforcing the distance she was already terrified of. It would mean losing her completely, silencing the woman who made the world smell like butter and warmth. And he simply couldn't do that.
"Elin," he said quietly, his voice catching slightly, rough with his own sudden, aching vulnerability. "Look at me."
She obeyed instantly, her eyes wide, red, and shining with the tears she was desperately trying to swallow back.
"I don't want this to be the end," he said, the statement a deep, quiet declaration of intent. It wasn't forgiveness, but it was a promise. It was the first, terrifying step away from the edge of the cliff they had stumbled upon. "We messed this up, both of us. But I am not ready to walk away from everything we built over one awful, stupid night."
He finally let go of her hand, only to slide his own hand across the table, covering her coffee mug, gently urging her to look up, to be present. "We put a lot of work into this, and I still believe in what we're trying to build. But we start over now. No more silence. No more assumptions. Just the two of us, sitting here, and nothing else matters until we figure out how to put the pieces back together."
She stared at him, the weight of his declaration—I don't want this to be the end—a sudden, dizzying reprieve. "You... don't?" she finally managed, the question laced with residual doubt and disbelief.
He shook his head slowly, a faint, weary smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. It was a look of profound surrender. "You honestly think I could just stop? Just walk away and pretend I don't love you anymore, after all this time?" The question wasn't accusatory; it was an expression of his own inescapable reality.
Elin's lips parted, trembling slightly, but she was utterly silent, unable to articulate the sheer relief that was flooding her system. The fear that had been her constant companion since last week began to recede, leaving her weak and tremulous.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the cool surface of the table, bringing his face closer to hers. His eyes, though tired, were clear now, focused entirely on her. "I tried, last week. After I left," he confessed, his voice dropping to a low, intense murmur. "I told myself that what you did was unforgivable. That it was the definitive end, and I should be angry, cut it off clean, and protect myself." He paused, gripping his hands together. "But I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. Not the mistake, but you."
He was ticking off a list, a catalogue of intimate, cherished details that had defined their world.
"Every stupid thing you do that drives me crazy, like leaving the flour bags open or humming off-key when you bake. The way you talk to old Mrs. Tan when she comes in for rye bread. The quiet, unguarded way you smile when you think no one's watching you working."
His voice faltered, dropping lower, almost breaking. "I realized that the biggest pain wasn't the betrayal; it was the thought of waking up every morning knowing I had forfeited the right to see those things again. And all I could think was that I don't want a life where I stop seeing those things."
His honesty broke her composure completely.
Elin pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a sound, but her tears began to fall freely and silently now, not tears of grief, but of profound, overwhelming gratitude. They traced wet paths down her cheeks, absorbing into the fabric of her jacket sleeve.
Axton reached out again, his fingers tracing the rim of her coffee mug, a gesture of silent comfort. "I was scared that if I saw you this morning, I'd throw it all away and leave you for good," he admitted, his eyes holding hers. "But when you walked out of that lobby and the silence came back, it was worse than anything I felt all week. It was an empty, permanent kind of cold. That's why I ran down the stairs. I couldn't let the door close on you."
She swallowed, her throat convulsing with the effort, her entire body trembling, barely able to process the magnitude of his difficult, unyielding commitment. "Axton..."
"I love you," he said simply. The words weren't loud, possessing no dramatic flourish, but they carried the immense, uncompromising weight of everything he'd been holding back since he walked out the night before. "And I'm not ready to give up on us."
Elin's shoulders shook as a sound escaped her—a strained, high sound that was precisely halfway between a choked sob and a genuine laugh of relief.
"You shouldn't forgive me that easily," she whispered, the guilt of her actions warring with the joy of his grace.
He gave a quiet, tired chuckle, the sound rusty from disuse. "Who said anything about easy?"
Their eyes met again, and for a long moment, the noise of the café completely vanished.
Axton leaned back slightly, settling into his seat, the posture a sign that he wasn't going anywhere. He exhaled, a visible release of held tension. "We'll figure it out," he stated, making it a firm declaration of their joint future. "Slowly. You'll have to be incredibly patient with me while I work through the trust part, and I promise I will try to be better at showing up for you, Elin. Not just the idea of you, but the real, present you."
Elin nodded immediately, the movement small but decisive. "I will. I promise you that."
He gave a faint, satisfied smile, recognizing the sincerity in her eyes. "Good." Then, softer, his eyes conveying the tenderness he hadn't allowed himself to show for hours, "We'll take it one step at a time, alright? Starting right here."
She blinked, fresh tears falling, but this time, the tears accompanied a genuine, luminous smile. "Alright."
Axton squeezed her hand, a final firm but gentle confirmation of their new pact. He held her gaze, his expression changing again, a seriousness returning that conveyed an immediate need. "And Elin?"
"Yeah?" she responded, ready for instruction, ready for the work.
"Give me one of those croissants. The perfect ones. I haven't had a proper meal since yesterday, and I need a reminder of what all this fighting is actually for."
"Just one? You look like you need at least ten."