Page 139 of Stolen Harmony

“I know.”

“I don't know if I can trust you again.”

“I know that too.”

We stood there in the middle of my chaotic apartment, the city humming outside my windows, and I felt the weight ofeverything that had been broken between us. Trust, hope, the fragile beginning of something that might have been love if we'd been brave enough to let it grow.

“Then let me earn it back,” he said quietly.

“How?”

“However long it takes. However hard I have to work. However many times I have to prove that I'm not going to run when things get difficult.”

The offer hung between us, dangerous and tempting and probably a terrible idea. Because people didn't change, did they? Men who chose safety over love once would make the same choice again when the stakes got high enough.

But there was something different about him now, something in his posture and his voice that suggested he'd made some fundamental decision about what he was willing to risk. Like he'd finally figured out that some things were worth fighting for, even if the fight was messy and complicated and didn't come with guarantees.

“You hurt me,” I said, the words barely above a whisper.

“I know.”

“You made me feel like I was asking for too much just by existing.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sorry doesn't fix it.”

“No. It doesn't.” He took a step closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne, could see the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. “But maybe time will. Maybe proving that I can be better, that I can be brave enough to choose love over fear, maybe that will.”

“And if it doesn't?”

“Then at least I'll know I tried. At least I'll know I didn't give up on the best thing that's happened to me since Elaine died.”

“I don't know if I can do this again,” I said, the admission scraping against my throat like broken glass.

“Then don't. Not yet. Just let me prove that I'm not going anywhere this time.”

He gestured toward his suitcase, still sitting by the door like a promise he wasn't sure I'd let him keep. “I don't expect anything from you. I don't expect forgiveness or trust or anything other than the chance to show you that I learned from my mistakes.”

“How long?”

“As long as it takes.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. The air felt thick, crowded with words we’d said and so many more we hadn’t. My pulse thundered in my ears, half panic, half the old ache I’d tried to drown in music and bad decisions. He stood there, just a step away, looking older and somehow softer—less untouchable, more real.

He moved first. Slow, cautious, like if he came at me too fast I’d disappear. He reached up, hesitated, then cupped my face between his hands. His palms were warm, trembling a little, thumb brushing the rough stubble on my jaw. The touch was careful—reverent almost—like he didn’t believe he deserved to touch me but couldn’t help himself.

I shuddered at the contact, every nerve ending lighting up as if I’d been plunged into cold water. I should have pulled back. I should have shoved his hands away, told him I wasn’t ready, that I was still too raw and angry and tired to risk being hurt again. But I didn’t. I just stood there, letting him hold me, breathing him in.

“Rowan,” he said, voice rough, searching my face like he was afraid to look away and find me gone. “I know I don’t have any right to ask for another chance. I know I let fear make my choices, and I can’t erase that. But I can promise you—whateverhappens now, I won’t run. I won’t let anyone else’s fear decide for me. Not again.”

I swallowed, eyes burning. “And if I can’t trust you? If I can’t forget how bad it hurt?”

He shook his head, his hands steady now. “I don’t want you to forget. I want you to remember, and I want you to see me try. I want you to see me here, with you, every day—showing up, not running. I’ll take your anger, your walls. I’ll take anything, as long as it means you’re here with me.”

I closed my eyes. Let myself lean into his touch, just a little, just enough to remember what hope tasted like. He’d hurt me—badly. The ache was still there, raw and sharp, an old wound I kept pressing on to see if it still bled. But so was everything else: the memory of his laugh, the safe weight of his hand on my shoulder, the music we’d made together. The quiet, everyday comfort of just being seen.

“Why now?” I asked, voice barely more than a whisper. “Why come all this way, after everything?”