Leonard's gaze swept across the crowd—cool, unreadable. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Just a few seconds of eye contact, and the murmurs died. People backed away like leaves caught in a wind they didn't understand.
Then he looked up.
"Come down," he said, voice steady. "Let's go home."
Home.
That word lingered.
Melisa stared at him. She didn't reply, just let the corner of her lips lift slightly. Home, huh? Funny. It didn't sound like a stranger's word anymore.
She turned away and made her way to the stairs. Slow, unhurried. No dramatics. No need. When she reached him, he was already holding out his hand.
She didn't hesitate. Not this time.
Their fingers touched—warmth. Quiet. Finality.
They had come with quiet confidence. They left with silence that made a louder statement than any of the gasps behind them.
The car ride was smooth, quiet except for the hum of the engine. Leonard didn't press her. He never did when it mattered.
When they arrived, Melisa paused outside the front door. The lights inside were still on.
Strange. It was late. Too late.
She stepped inside and froze.
Aunt Eleanor was fast asleep on the couch, still dressed, a throw blanket half-slipped off her shoulder. Her chest rose and fell softly.
Leonard didn't look surprised. "She always waits," he murmured. "Even when we tell her not to."
Melisa just stared.
Waited?
No one ever waited for her. Not when she was late. Not when she was missing. Not when she was lost.
She knelt beside Eleanor. "Aunt," she said softly, placing a hand on her arm. "Aunt, wake up."
Eleanor blinked slowly, her gaze hazy until it landed on her. "You're back," she said, her voice hoarse with sleep. Melisa instinctively reached out to steady her as she sat up.
"You didn't have to wait," Melisa murmured, hesitant.
Eleanor waved a hand. "It's fine, sweetheart. Are you hungry?"
Melisa's throat tightened, just a little. "No," she whispered, barely audible.
Leonard spoke up from behind. "You should get some rest, Mom."
Eleanor nodded, already half-asleep again. "You two, too. Go freshen up. You've had a long day."
As she disappeared down the hall, Melisa stood there, unmoving. Something unnameable sat heavy in her chest. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't happiness either. Just… weight.
---
The room was dim. Soft lamp glow. A hush that lingered even after they'd both changed and climbed into bed—each on their side, like bookends.
Melisa turned. Then again. Onto her back. Then her side. She couldn't shut her brain off. It buzzed like an untuned radio.
Leonard's voice came quietly. "Can't sleep?"
She froze. "No. I mean… yes. I mean—I'm fine."
A pause.
"You're a terrible liar."
She scowled into the pillow. "Excuse me?"
"You toss around like a washing machine when something's on your mind."
Melisa huffed. "Maybe I just like soft sheets."
He let out a quiet laugh—real, short. "You're not fooling me."
She didn't answer. For a while, the only sound was the faint creak of fabric as she pulled the blanket up to her chin.
Then his voice cut through the quiet again. "Is it about your father and Olivia?"
"No," she replied instantly.
Too fast.
He didn't comment. Just waited.
Melisa stared at the ceiling. "That stuff doesn't bother me anymore," she added, more to herself than to him. "It used to. But I'm over it."
Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket anyway.
Leonard didn't push. "That's good," he said. "But it's not the only thing. You've been… off. Even before today."
She turned away, facing the wall. "You're imagining things."
"Then say it to my face," he said gently.
Melisa didn't move.
The silence stretched again—long, thick, heavy.
Then his voice returned, low but clear. "Melisa… hiding from pain doesn't make it disappear. You think if you don't name it, it'll vanish. But it won't. It'll stay there. Like cracks beneath the surface. Quiet. Until it breaks something."
She hated that he was right.
"We fix things," he said. "Together. Or the cracks grow."
She squeezed her eyes shut. Don't say it, she told herself. Don't ask. Don't ruin this.
But the words slipped out anyway.
"Do you love Olivia?"
The question fell like a stone between them.
She couldn't breathe.
Her chest was tight, her stomach worse. She hated that she cared. Hated that it mattered. Hated how it made her sound—needy, insecure, possessive.
But most of all, she hated that she couldn't take it back.
She stared at the wall, waiting.
He could love whoever he wanted.
He could say yes.
He could crush her with one word.
But if he said Olivia…
She didn't know if she'd recover.