Days passed peaceful, unremarkable days that felt strange in their simplicity.
No shouting. No slammed doors. No footsteps pacing outside her room at midnight.
For the first time, Ayla could breathe without fear of being watched.
Damien had become… different.
He no longer demanded her attention; he waited for it.
When she spoke, he listened. When she fell silent, he didn't fill the quiet with questions.
One evening, she caught him helping the gardener plant new rose bushes outside her window the same garden he once trampled during one of his rages.
He worked quietly, hands covered in dirt, sleeves rolled up. The sight unsettled her in ways she didn't expect.
That night, as they ate dinner together, he noticed her plate was empty before his.
"Still hungry?" he asked, reaching for the serving bowl.
She shook her head, and he smiled faintly.
"Old habits," he murmured, "wanting to make sure you're okay."
Something inside her softened.
Later, when he offered to drive her to the bookstore, she didn't refuse. The car ride was filled with soft music, windows half-open, the air warm and calm.
At the shop, he stood a few steps behind her, letting her browse at her own pace. When she handed him a book to carry, their fingers brushed and she didn't pull away immediately.
He didn't notice. Or maybe he did, and pretended not to.
That night, Ayla stood by the window, watching the same roses sway in the breeze. The memory of his cruelty still lingered like a bruise but beneath it, something new was forming.
Not love. Not yet.
But a quiet, tentative trust.
For the first time, she allowed herself to think
Maybe he isn't the monster he once was.
And in the hallway, Damien paused at her door, hearing her faint hum through the wood.
He smiled, not with triumph, but with relief.
He didn't need forgiveness tonight. Just this small peace between them.