Mia lay tangled with Andrew, his warmth anchoring her in the stillness. His hand rested against her back, his fingers tracing light patterns, grounding her to him, to this moment. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so light, as if the weight she'd carried for so long had eased, at least for now.
She tilted her head to look at him, her eyes tracing over the familiar lines of his face—the ones that held years of memories, missed chances, and what-ifs. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just breathed, holding onto the fragile peace that settled between them.
But then, the ache in her chest, the weight that had followed her for years, returned. "Andrew…" she began, her voice barely a whisper. She didn't know where she was going with this, but the words kept coming, as if they'd been waiting for the quiet to surface. "Do you remember that night? The newsroom?"
He shifted, his gaze sharpening, softening, all at once. "I remember every detail."
