Page 88 of Love so Cold

"Me neither," I say, stretching out my legs. "I'm beat. Can't remember the last time I crammed so much into a single day." I glance over at her, a half-smile playing on my lips, an unspoken acknowledgment of her resilience.

With a soft sigh, I push myself off the couch and head to the kitchenette. The sound of glass clinking gently fills the room as I pour wine into two glasses. I hand one to Avery, our fingers brushing briefly, sending a jolt of warmth up myarm.

We toast silently, each lost in our own thoughts for a moment. The wine is rich and smooth, a perfect end to a hectic day.

Avery's gaze drifts, fixated on the cityscape beyond the glass pane. "Enjoying Boston?" I ask, breaking the comfortable hush that had settled between us.

She turns, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, her eyes reflecting a wistful light. "It's nice to be back," she admits, her voice tinged with a nostalgia that seems to pull her somewhere far away from here.

"Back?" I prod gently, tilting my head to meet her gaze. "You mean you grew up here?"

Avery nods, tracing the rim of her wine glass with a delicate finger. "Yeah, right in the heart of the city."

I lean back against the cushions, taking in this new piece of her puzzle. She's an enigma, slowly revealing herself, and it's both exhilarating and terrifying how drawn I am to every sliver of her story. The more she shares, the deeper I sink into her gravity, like there's no turning back for me now.

"Tell me about it," I urge, my voice low, cautious not to spook her.

She chuckles softly, her eyes locked on mine. "I can see you're curious," Avery says, amusement dancing in her gaze. "You've got that 'investigative reporter' look all over you. Go ahead, ask away."

"Okay," I start, feeling emboldened by her invitation. "If Boston was home, why didn't you come back after... you know, after things ended with Eric?"

Her smile falters for just a heartbeat before she masks it with a sip of wine. She sets down the glass and meets my eyes squarely, a strength in her resolve. "Some bridges you cross only to burn behind you," she says cryptically, then adds, "Worcester seemed like a fresh start."

I nod, understanding more than she might think. Starting over is never just about the place—it's about the people and memories you leave behind too.

Avery's gaze drops to her hands, fingers idly tracing the stem of her wine glass. "There wasn't anything to move back to," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "My parents... they're gone." She lifts her eyes to meet mine, a wistful shadow passing over her features. "Worcester felt like a chance for something new. A home, maybe. Boston just has too many ghosts."

"Loneliness isn't an easy thing to shake, is it?" Avery asks suddenly, turning the conversation on me with a tilt of her head. "Do you ever feel lonely here in Boston?"

Her question catches me off guard, and I can feel my own walls starting to crumble just a bit. "I’ve never really let myself think about it," I confess, shifting uncomfortably. The truth is a bitter pill, one I've avoided swallowing for years. "But yeah, I guess I have been lonely. Always been that way, really."

I take a moment, collecting my thoughts as I stareinto the depths of my own wine glass. "Work's been my distraction," I say at last, almost to myself. "It fills the void." My mind drifts to tomorrow, to Lawrence, Roman, and Sebastian—my foster brothers—and their early arrival for Thanksgiving. "We all cope in our own ways, don't we? All of us, trying to navigate the loneliness of not having a blood family... each of us getting by in possibly not-so-healthy ways."

Avery's eyes have that far-off look, the one that says she's miles away even though she's right here with me. "You know," she starts, her voice a thread of sound in the quiet of my apartment, "some say adopted families form stronger bonds than those tied by blood."

I blink, trying to process her words. They hang heavy between us, weighted with meaning I'm only just beginning to understand.

"Clearly, I wasn't enough to keep my mother from her fate," Avery adds, and there's a brittle edge to her laughter, like glass ready to shatter.

My heart clenches tight. Shocked, I drop to my knees in front of her on the carpet, my gaze locked onto hers. "Avery," I say, my voice firm but gentle, "is that what you really think? That you weren't enough?"

Her facade cracks, and tears brim in her eyes. It's like watching walls crumble, revealing the raw, tender soul behind them. For the first time since meeting Avery, I see the depth of her pain, her vulnerability laid bare.

Without a second thought, I shift up onto the sofabeside her, pulling her back against my chest. One arm wraps around her shoulders, steadying her, while the other finds her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "Listen to me," I urge, my mouth close to her ear, "you are enough. More than enough."

She leans into me, her breath hitching as she tries to hold back sobs. "People make their own choices, Avery. Your mom...the drinking...she had a disease she couldn't beat. It doesn't reflect on you. It doesn't mean you weren't loved, or that you were ever lacking."

The words pour out of me, all the affirmations and reassurances I've longed for someone to tell me. Now, they're for her, this incredible woman who's fought her way through storms I can only imagine.

"Everybody's fighting their own battles," I continue, my voice a soft murmur. "But your worth isn't determined by their struggles. You're strong, and kind, and brilliantly talented. That's on you. That's all you."

Avery's gaze locks onto mine, vulnerability swimming in the wetness of her eyes. "I'm scared," she whispers, her voice barely carrying over the quiet hum of the city beyond my apartment windows.

"Of what?" My heart pounds at the thought of her fear, a need to protect bubbling up within me.

She hesitates, then breathes out, "I'm afraid I'm falling for you." A single tear tracks down her cheek. "And I can't shake the feeling that this is all temporary, because you're here for your job, not for... not for us."

Her words hang between us, heavy with a truth I've been avoiding. I want to reassure her, to say something that will ease her fears, but?—

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