Ana's pov
The message came late at night. Just five words.
"The café. Tomorrow. Just us."
She stared at the screen for a long time, like it might change if she blinked enough. But it didn't.
It was that café.
The one with ivy crawling up the brick. The one where he first told her she looked like poetry. The one where she'd once laughed so hard milkshake came out her nose and he kissed it off her face anyway. Where she once believed in forever.
Adrien had fallen asleep on the couch, curled in a blanket he claimed to hate but never gave up. She brushed his hair back gently. Sixteen years ago, she was in a hospital bed alone, swearing she'd protect him from everything.
Even his father.
Even herself.
---
The café hadn't changed. Time had wrapped its arms around it gently, sparing it the kind of ruin people like her and Alex had gone through.
She stepped in slowly, heart thudding like it knew it was walking into a graveyard of dreams.
And there he was.
Alex.
Not the boy she'd met. Not the man who'd broken her.
Someone in between. Someone older. Haunted. Softer in ways that screamed hard-fought peace.
His hands were on the table, open, not clenched. His gaze found her like a prayer, not a possession.
He stood.
"Ava."
Her name sounded like rain against old glass. Familiar. Fragile.
He pulled out her chair like he used to. No arrogance. No expectation. Just a quiet, shaky offering.
She sat.
"I ordered your latte," he said, voice low. "Extra cream. No sugar. I didn't know if you still liked it that way."
She looked at the cup. "I do."
A pause.
And then she whispered, "I didn't think you'd remember."
"I remember everything," he said. And God, the way his voice cracked—just slightly—was more apology than any sentence she'd ever heard.
They sat in silence.
And then—
"I thought about this place every day," he said. "During therapy. When they asked me to remember a moment before the damage. I came back here in my head. You in that red dress. That stupid sparkly clip in your hair. You were making fun of my handwriting."
She gave a breathless, broken smile. "Because it was awful."
"It still is."
They laughed. And then they didn't.
Because this wasn't that place anymore.
He leaned in.
"I know I don't deserve to sit across from you. But I wanted you to see me, Ava. Not because I want anything. Just because I wanted to show you that I fought for it. For the pieces of me you once loved. The ones I buried. I brought them back. I had to."
She felt tears prick, but she blinked them back.
"You hurt me, Alex. In ways I didn't know a person could survive."
"I know," he said. "And I will carry that. Every single day. Whether you forgive me or not."
Silence again.
This time, full of everything they couldn't say.
Her fingers trembled slightly as they touched the rim of the mug.
"I still see the boy I loved," she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "And sometimes I hate that I do."
He nodded slowly. "Me too."
And somehow, that honesty made her cry.
Not sob. Not break.
Just tears. Soft and slow. For the past. For who they were. For the coffee that still tasted like yesterday.
For the fact that maybe, just maybe, love didn't die—it just waited.
Quietly.
Until it was safe to come home.