It's been weeks since he last saw her.
Not up close. Not truly. Not in the way that counted. He'd stalked the shadows of her new world—quiet, distant, burning. Ava didn't look over her shoulder anymore. She didn't walk like prey. She laughed freely. Smiled at strangers. Twirled Adrien in her arms like he weighed nothing and her past weighed even less.
And Alex?
He was still learning how to breathe.
Therapy was hell. No one tells you that healing feels like carving rot out of your ribs while you're still wide awake. The therapist didn't let him hide. She didn't call it "mistakes" or "anger issues." She used real words. "Abuse." "Control." "Violence." Every session ripped through the comfortable lies he used to live in. Every memory—her sobbing, flinching, bleeding—was a noose tightening around his throat.
He didn't cry. He didn't think he deserved that mercy.
Instead, he wrote. Pages and pages of apologies that would never be mailed. He volunteered at a shelter, spent hours folding laundry and fixing leaky sinks because that's all he could do—repair something, even if it wasn't himself.
He kept a photo of Adrien. Not one he took himself, but a blurry candid he found online, from Ava's friend's post. It sat in his wallet, untouched. Not to remind him of what he lost—but of what he almost ruined beyond repair.
She had every right to never forgive him.
He didn't want forgiveness.
He wanted to be someone who could earn it—someday. Not from her. Not even from Adrien. But maybe… from himself.
And for the first time in years, Alex didn't want Ava to love him again.
He wanted her to be safe.
He wanted her to stay powerful, clingy, affectionate, and free.
He wanted her to win—even if he didn't.