The knock came just after lunch.
I was shirtless. Jesse was on the garage floor, fixing a carburetor. We weren't expecting anyone.
When he opened the door, the color drained from his face.
Standing there—
Mid-seventies. Broad-shouldered.
Same dark eyes as Jesse.
"Hey, son."
---
Jesse didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
Just… stared.
I stepped up behind him, but his body stiffened.
The man looked at me. Looked back at Jesse.
"Can I come in?"
Still nothing.
Then Jesse stepped aside.
Silent.
His hands were trembling.
---
I watched from the hallway as they sat at the table.
Two mugs.
Zero words.
Ten minutes passed before I heard Jesse say, "Why now?"
The man shrugged.
"Heard you finally stopped running. Thought maybe it was time to stop running too."
Jesse laughed—bitter. Broken.
"You think walking back in erases what you left behind?"
"No. But I wanted to see if you still had anything left to give."
---
That night, Jesse didn't touch me.
Not in a cruel way.
Just… like his body wasn't his own.
We lay side by side.
His back to me.
His hands clenched around the sheet.
He didn't cry.
He didn't speak.
But his silence was loud.
And I didn't press.
I didn't plead.
I just laid there.
Warm. Present. Waiting.
Because love isn't about solving.
It's about surviving together.
---
The next morning, he handed me coffee with tired eyes.
"You stayed."
I sipped. "Of course I did."
"I didn't want you to meet him."
"I know."
"He's not the monster Reid was. He's just… the man who stopped showing up."
I nodded.
And then reached out, brushing my fingers down his chest.
"You don't have to carry that alone anymore."
He exhaled.
Then whispered:
"I don't know how to let you hold it."
I leaned in.
"We don't have to hold it. We can just stand under it together."
---
And in the glow of that silence—
Jesse kissed me.
Not to say sorry.
Not to say please fix me.
But to say:
Thank you for not walking away.