Chapter 46 – When the Heart Remembers
The morning mist clung to the cabin windows like a secret, soft and silver. Marissa stood by the window, one hand curled around a steaming mug of tea, the other pressed gently to the glass. Outside, the world was blurred trees fading into fog, the path to the lake hidden under layers of breathless gray.
It matched the quiet inside her. Not sadness. Not fear. Just something shifting. Like her heart had been wrapped in gauze for so long, it had forgotten what it meant to feel without flinching.
Behind her, Mason moved. She heard the familiar creak of the floorboards under his weight, the rustle of blankets being pushed aside, the yawn he didn't bother to muffle.
"You're up early," he said, his voice thick with sleep.
She turned, smiling faintly. "Couldn't sleep."
He stepped closer, warm and rumpled in the way she secretly loved most. Barefoot, hoodie-clad, hair a mess. Real. Tangible. Here.
"What's going on in there?" he asked, tapping her temple gently.
Marissa hesitated. Then she said it. "I think I'm remembering who I was before all the breaking."
Mason studied her. "And who was she?"
She looked down into her tea. "Someone softer. Someone who believed that being held didn't mean being hurt."
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. "You're still her. Just… braver now."
They stayed that way until the fog began to lift.
Later, they drove to the lake, the air crisp and biting. The water was glass-like, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of a duck or the wind brushing across the surface. Marissa kicked off her shoes and sat at the edge of the dock, toes dipping into the icy water.
"I used to think I was too much," she murmured. "Too emotional. Too complicated. Too broken."
Mason knelt beside her. "You're not too much. You're everything."
She turned her head toward him, eyes wide and glassy. "What if I forget this? Us. This feeling."
He cupped her face gently. "Then we'll find it again. Every time. Even if it takes a thousand tries."
The wind picked up, scattering leaves across the lake. But in that moment, she felt rooted. Like even if everything else in her life dissolved, this—him—would remain.
A lighthouse in every storm.
A home in every season.
The hours passed slowly in that quiet way only truly safe spaces allow. Marissa found herself laughing more easily, her shoulders less tight, her voice less careful. Every time Mason looked at her like she was some kind of miracle, something fragile inside her stitched itself back together.
They spent the afternoon indoors as the sky shifted from pale gray to deep silver, clouds swirling like a painting overhead. Rain came again—gentle at first, then in waves. The cabin seemed to breathe with it, the soft patter on the roof syncing with the rhythm of their quiet.
Mason cooked. She watched him from the couch, legs tucked beneath her, journal in hand. He moved like someone who'd made peace with the silence, who knew that love sometimes spoke in the way you sliced peppers or stirred soup or let someone be.
"I used to fill the quiet with noise," she said aloud, surprising even herself.
Mason looked over his shoulder. "And now?"
"I think I'm learning to let it speak."
He nodded once and turned back to the pan. "Silence isn't the absence of sound. Sometimes, it's where the truth finally shows up."
That night, wrapped in thick blankets and lit only by the flicker of the fireplace, Marissa told him a story she hadn't shared with anyone not even herself, really.
"I remember the first time someone told me love was supposed to hurt," she whispered, voice low and careful. "I believed them."
Mason didn't flinch. He just reached out, took her hand, and kissed the inside of her wrist. "They lied."