Page 135 of Veil of Dust

She taught me that. Without trying to.

My fingers tighten around the cloth in my hand.

There’s a new tattoo beside the old one. Just a few lines so far. Still healing. A beginning. It’s hers, not in name, but in meaning.

I’m not the man I was.

I pour another shot.

The jukebox switches tracks. Leon’s song. The one that used to make us both stop, both remember. The one that brought too much with it.

Now, it’s different.

I glance toward her.

She’s not moving. Just standing near the window, listening. Still.

She hears it. But she remains rigid.

Her shoulders don’t tighten. Her mouth doesn’t press into a line. She just listens. Then smiles. A small one. Honest. Strong.

I hold her eyes for a beat.

She holds mine back.

There’s no weight behind it tonight. No grief. Just history. Shared. Survived.

I reach for the wine bottle she keeps tucked behind the bar—red, full-bodied, the kind she always reaches for when she wants to settle into the night. I pour it slow. The color’s deep, rich in the light.

I set the glass on the counter, right where she likes it.

She walks toward me.

Her steps are unhurried. Comfortable. She reaches the bar, leans in. Her hand finds mine. Just the edge of her fingers brushing over the scars there.

Her touch is soft. No pressure. Just there. Real.

We don’t say anything for a second.

Then she lifts my hand, presses her lips to the knuckles.

It’s slow. Careful. Like she’s saying something without speaking. Like this is a promise she doesn’t need to explain.

My throat tightens.

I hold her hand in mine.

She doesn’t let go.

“This is home,” I say.

The bar moves around us. Voices rise and fall. Jazz swells in the background. Rain taps the window behind her.

The moment holds.

“I love you,” she says. Her voice is quiet but sure.

I slide her the wine glass.

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