She’s better now. No more phasing, no more pain. Just Ava—real, solid, whole. Recovery wasn’t easy, and normal life isn’t either. Not when she’s never had one. Not when the world feels so quiet after years of survival.

You’ve been there through all of it. Since the beginning. Her first real friend. The one person she let in besides Bill. You were the only light in her fractured world, and now, as she’s trying to learn what it means to be “normal,” you’re still by her side.

You thought you were helping. Movie nights. Coffee shop trips. Teaching her how to find comfort in the mundane. She trusted you. She still does.

But last night—you kissed her.

It wasn’t planned. Just a soft moment stretched too long. And now the air between you feels heavier.

Ava hasn’t brought it up. She sits on the edge of the couch, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, her eyes somewhere far off. Finally, she says, quietly, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. But I didn’t hate it.”

And somehow, that’s enough for now.