Chapter 22 — When Walls Begin to Crack
The therapist's office smelled faintly of lavender and old books.
Kiera sat on the edge of the couch, fingers twisted together in her lap, her leg bouncing despite her effort to stay still. Across from her, Dr. Hensley watched quietly, her expression calm, patient—never pushing, never judging.
"And how are you sleeping?" the woman asked gently.
Kiera hesitated. "Better," she said, then corrected herself. "Not good. Just… better than before."
"That's progress," Dr. Hensley replied. "Healing isn't linear. Some days will feel lighter. Others will feel heavy again."
Kiera nodded, staring at the patterned rug beneath her feet. "I hate that he looks at me like I might break."
"Who?" the therapist asked, though she already knew.
"Kade." Her voice softened at his name. "I know he cares. I can feel it. But sometimes it feels like he's grieving me… even though I'm still here."
Dr. Hensley leaned forward slightly. "Have you told him that?"
Kiera let out a shaky breath. "I'm scared if I push too hard, he'll pull away again."
"And if you don't say anything?"
Her throat tightened. "Then I disappear quietly. And I've done that my whole life."
Silence stretched between them.
"You deserve to take up space," Dr. Hensley said firmly. "Especially with someone who claims to care about you."
Kiera swallowed, the words sinking deep.
When she returned to the penthouse later that afternoon, the place felt different.
Not empty. Not cold.
Occupied.
She heard voices—one small and excited, the other low and calm.
"Kade?" she called softly.
"In here," he replied.
She found him in the kitchen with Leo, sleeves rolled up, a cutting board between them. Leo stood on a stool, proudly holding a butter knife and a banana.
"Mommy!" Leo beamed. "Daddy's letting me help!"
Kade glanced up when he saw her. For a moment, his expression tightened—habit, instinct. Then he caught himself.
And smiled.
Not the polite one.
The real one.
Something in Kiera's chest loosened.
"That's dangerous," she teased gently. "You're trusting him with sharp objects."
Kade snorted. "It's a butter knife. And he insisted."
"I'm very responsible," Leo announced seriously.
"I can see that," Kiera said, walking closer. "What are you making?"
"Banana pancakes," Kade answered. "He demanded them."
"I did not demand," Leo protested. "I politely ordered."
Kiera laughed—a real laugh, surprised and unguarded.
Kade froze for half a second, then turned back to the counter, jaw tight.
She noticed.
She always noticed.
After Leo finished his task and ran off to wash his hands, Kiera lingered by the island. The space between her and Kade felt charged—not tense, but fragile. Like something new was forming and neither of them wanted to break it.
"Therapy went okay?" he asked quietly.
She looked up, surprised. "You remembered."
He nodded once. "I wanted to ask earlier. Didn't know how."
"It was… hard," she admitted. "But helpful."
He hesitated, then said, "I spoke to someone too."
Her eyes widened. "You did?"
"A therapist," he clarified, almost defensively. "Once. Today."
That shocked her more than anything he could have said.
"And?" she asked softly.
His fingers curled around the edge of the counter. "I didn't like it."
She smiled faintly. "That means it's probably working."
A breath escaped him—almost a laugh.
"She asked me why I blame myself," he continued, voice low. "I didn't have an answer that didn't sound insane."
Kiera stepped closer, slowly, giving him time.
"You've been carrying guilt since you were sixteen," she said gently. "That's a long time to hold your breath."
He turned to face her fully. "I should have been there," he said. "That night. With my parents. With you."
Her heart clenched. "You can't save everyone."
"I know," he said. "But knowing doesn't stop the feeling."
She reached out—not suddenly, not forcefully—and rested her hand on the counter beside his. Close. Not touching him. Giving him the choice.
"I don't want you to disappear when it hurts," she said quietly. "I don't want you to punish yourself by pushing me away."
His gaze dropped to her hand, then lifted back to her face.
"I don't know how to be gentle without being afraid," he confessed.
"Then we learn," she said. "Together. Slowly."
The word hung between them.
Slowly.
He nodded.
Later that evening, after Leo was asleep and the penthouse settled into its nighttime hush, Kiera sat curled on the couch with a book she wasn't really reading. Kade stood by the window, city lights reflecting in his eyes.
"Come sit," she said softly.
He hesitated—then crossed the room and sat beside her.
Not inches away.
Close enough that their shoulders brushed.
Neither spoke.
Minutes passed.
Her breathing slowed. His followed.
"I still have bad days," she said quietly. "Days when I feel dirty. Or angry. Or empty."
His jaw tightened. "I hate that."
"I know," she said. "But I don't need you to fix it. I just need you not to leave when it shows."
He swallowed hard.
"I won't," he said. "Even when I'm scared."
She leaned her head against his shoulder—tentative, testing.
He stiffened.
Then, carefully, he lifted his arm and rested it around her back.
Not tight.
Not possessive.
Just there.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn't cry.
For the first time, she felt… held.
"I don't know what this makes us," he said quietly.
She smiled against his shoulder. "Human."
A breath of quiet laughter left him.
Outside, the city continued its endless motion.
Inside, two broken people sat together, not healed—but healing.
And for the first time, neither of them felt alone in it. But together.