Page 52 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Lena

I never thought something as ordinary as the smell of coffee could feel like hope, but this morning, it does.

For the first time in weeks, I don’t wake up with that dull weight in my chest. It’s still there, but it’s softer. Like grief finally paused to catch its breath, and let me do the same.

I blink against the pale morning light, still half tucked into sleep.

Wes is by the nightstand, setting down a mug. The soft clink of ceramic on wood finishes dragging me into consciousness. He doesn’t speak right away, and just looks at me with those warm eyes, that sleepy mouth tugged into a lopsided smile like he’s quietly glad I exist.

“Morning, baby,” he says.

That voice. I could wrap myself in it and forget how to worry.

I roll onto my back, stretching under the duvet until my toes push against cool sheets.

A sleepy sigh leaves my lips. “Why aren’t you at work? Did hell freeze over?”

Wes Turner doesn’t take days off. He doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t rest unless his body forces him to.

“Took the day off.”

My eyes narrow, trying to shake the fog from my brain. “You took a day off?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but it’s definitely something.

“Is everything okay?” I ask because I need to know what prompted this little miracle.

“Just figured if I was ever going to do it, today might be the day.”

“Do what?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. It absolutely matters.” I push up on my elbows. “Wes, are you dying?”

That earns a ghost of a smile. “Thought I’d decorate the living room.”

“You,” I say slowly, “Want to decorate?”

“It’s time.” His mouth twitches. “It needs furniture, and paint that isn’t peeling. I figured you’d come with me?”

The air changes when my pulse stutters.

He says it so casually, but it lands like a drop of honey in hot tea. Sweet, soothing, and unexpected.

“You want me to help you pick out furniture? ”

His eyes meet mine. “Yes.”

I know what this is. It’s not about paint samples or coffee tables. It’s about making room. It’s about inching forward even when everything feels fragile. About choosing something together without needing to name what it means.

“You want my expert opinion on aesthetics?”

“Your veto power,” he says, like it’s already settled.

I push the covers back, bare feet hitting the floor. “Is Rosie dressed?”

He nods, leaning against the mattress with his palm pressed flat. “In that yellow duck outfit you got her.”

“And she likes it?”

“She looks ridiculous, and she loves it.”

That’s it. That’s the line that cracks something open.

I smile, and it’s real. Not just the polite kind I’ve been handing out lately.

Before I can head to the bathroom, I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist. “Lena.”

I turn, heartbeat stalling for reasons I don’t even fully understand.

He stands, towering over me in that way he does, and kisses the top of my head. “It’s good to see you smile.”

My lungs collapse a little.

Because it is good, and I hadn’t even noticed how long it’s been since it came easily.

Something sticks in my throat. Gratitude, or maybe grief, but it’s something quiet and gentle, pushing its way up through the cracks.

“Thanks,” I say softly.

I take a breath and walk to the bathroom.

When the door clicks shut behind me, I rest my back against it and shut my eyes .

I’m still sad. Goodbye is a heavy weight to carry.

But this moment feels like a shift. Like a window opened somewhere and let the air change.

And maybe that’s what healing looks like. Not some dramatic comeback. Not a perfect day. Just coffee on the nightstand, a little girl in a duck onesie, and a man who took the day off to remind me that life keeps going.