Ray's POV
She came into my room like she always does.
No knocking. No warning. Just quietly padded in with bare feet, wearing one of those oversized sweatshirts that made her look small — like the Ava from years ago. The one who used to curl up in my lap with a book, stealing my hoodie even when it was summer.
It was nearly midnight.
The house was quiet. Sebastian was asleep. The wind was brushing through the windows, carrying the sound of leaves tapping against glass. She didn't say anything at first.
She just stood at the foot of my bed, watching me. I was sitting up, reading something on my laptop, but the moment I saw her — wide eyes, the kind that meant something was heavy in her chest — I shut the screen.
She climbed onto the bed without asking. Laid down beside me like it was routine. Like she knew my body would make space for her even if I didn't say anything. And it would.
It always would.
She didn't curl into me, not like usual. Not at first.
She just lay there, looking at the ceiling. Her fingers twisted into the bedsheet. Her breathing shallow.
Then, in the softest voice I've ever heard her use, she asked:
"Ray… if I say something… will you leave?"
My chest clenched. My throat tightened. I turned to look at her, but she was still staring up, like she couldn't bear to meet my eyes.
"I won't," I said. "Never."
She swallowed. Hard. Her lashes fluttered.
"I mean it," I said again, quieter. "Nothing you say could ever make me leave you."
A long silence passed.
Then, so faint I almost missed it — like the words were made of paper, like they'd tear on the way out — she whispered:
"I love you, Ray."
The world stopped.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
She finally turned her head and looked at me. Really looked.
Her eyes were glistening, full of fear. Fear I recognized — not of me, but of history. Of memory. Of a boy who left her the moment she needed him most. Of pain repeating itself.
I reached for her hand.
Held it.
Pressed it to my chest.
My voice was hoarse when I spoke. "You don't have to be afraid of love with me."
She blinked fast.
"You're safe, Ava. I swear it."
And then — then she let go.
She curled into me the way she used to, forehead tucked under my chin, fingers fisting my t-shirt like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. And for the first time in seventeen years, I held her knowing she finally said what I'd known since we were kids.
She loved me.
And I've loved her every single day.