Violet’s POV
I met Elijah three months later.
The guilt tastes familiar on my tongue—that specific flavor of knowing I should have shown up sooner but being too scared to face what showing up actually meant.
"I'm sorry." I stand in Adison's penthouse doorway with my inadequacy on display. "I should have come earlier. Right after he was born. I just—"
"Don't." Adison cuts me off with the kind of gentle certainty that only exists when someone's already forgiven you. "You're here now. That's what matters."
She shifts Elijah in her arms, and he's impossibly small. Three months old and somehow still brand new, still learning how to exist in a world that's too bright and too loud and completely overwhelming.
He smells like promise and new beginnings when she places him in my arms—that specific baby scent that makes something primal ache in my chest.
"Hey, Elijah." My voice comes out softer than I expected. "I'm your future godmother. Which means I'm contractually obligated to spoil you and teach you all the things your parents don't want you to know."
"Speaking of which." Adison settles onto the couch beside me, exhaustion written across her face in ways makeup can't hide. "You will really become his godmother. I hope that's still okay."
"More than okay." I can't stop looking at him—at Jake's nose and Adison's chin and the way his tiny fingers curl around mine like he's already learned to hold on. "I'm honored."
Jake walks in from the kitchen.
"How are you managing?" I ask, because that's what you ask new parents even when the answer is obvious from the exhaustion written across both their faces.
"The nannies are our saviors." Adison's laugh sounds slightly hysterical. "Honestly, I don't know how people do this without help. We're enjoying parenthood, especially the sleep."
The lie is so transparent it's almost beautiful. But it's the kind of lie that means they're surviving, which is more than I expected after watching them nearly destroy each other over geography and compromise.
"He's perfect." I hand Elijah back to Adison before I accidentally love him too much. "You did good."
"We did good." Jake corrects me, his hand finding Adison's shoulder with casual intimacy that makes my chest ache. "Both of us."
That night I lie in the guest room and stare at the ceiling, trying not to think about Zachary.
Trying not to catalog all the ways half a year of barely writing to each other felt exactly like punishment wearing freedom's clothes.
Trying not to hope.
* * *
The next morning I walk into the living room and see Adison holding Elijah against her shoulder for burping while someone talks about next week's product launch.
I recognize his voice before I see his face.
Recognize the cadence and the careful precision and the way he exists in space like he's entitled to it.
"The marketing team wants to push the launch date." Zachary's voice carries through the apartment. "But I think we need another week to refine the messaging. The target demographic—"
He stops mid-sentence when he sees me.
Half a year of barely writing to each other. Half a year of freedom that felt exactly like punishment. And he's here in Adison's living room talking about corporate strategy like he didn't tell me he loved me on a sailboat.
"Violet." My name sounds careful in his mouth. "I didn't know you were visiting."
"Surprise." The word comes out flat, and Adison's eyes dart between us with the tactical awareness of someone who's been planning this ambush.
"I just remembered." Adison stands up too quickly, Elijah still against her shoulder. "The baby needs—something. In the nursery. Jake can help me. We'll be right back."
She disappears before either of us can protest, taking Jake and Elijah with her, and suddenly I'm alone with Zachary and all the things I convinced myself didn't matter.
"How's university?" He stays exactly where he is, maintaining professional distance that makes me want to scream or cry or cross the room and kiss him until that careful neutrality shatters.
"Good." I force myself to sound normal. "Classes are challenging. My professors are brilliant. I'm learning a lot."
"That's great." His hands are in his pockets, and he won't quite meet my eyes. "I'm glad it's working out."
"How's work?" The question tastes like performance. "Still help managing the empire?"
"Still help managing." A ghost of a smile. "Adison keeps me busy. The company's growing faster than we projected."
We're strangers who used to know each other. Two people delivering updates like we didn't rewrite each other's understanding of what bodies could do together. Like I didn't tell him I loved him before walking away because I was too scared to stay.
I can't hold the performance.
"I missed you." The confession scrapes out raw and honest. "Incredibly. Every single day for half a year I missed you so much it physically hurt."
His careful neutrality cracks. "Violet—"
"I know we agreed to be free." I'm talking too fast now, words tumbling over each other. "I know distance was supposed to protect us from inevitable failure. But freedom feels exactly like losing you, and I don't want to be free if free means not having this."
"I missed you too." His voice breaks slightly, and he's crossing the room before either of us decides it's a good idea. "I missed you like the absence was a physical wound that wouldn't heal. Like every day without you was evidence I'd made a catastrophic mistake."
"We were idiots." I'm laughing and crying simultaneously. "Weren't we? Choosing protection over possibility."
"Complete idiots." His hands frame my face with the kind of careful attention that makes my throat tight. "The smartest kind of stupid."
When he kisses me it tastes like all the time we wasted pretending distance was protection. Like half a year of barely writing and carefully maintained boundaries that only ever made everything hurt worse.
I don't know what will happen next.
Don't know how this survives logistics and age gaps and miles between his apartment and my dorm. Don't know if wanting each other is enough to solve the impossible mathematics of geography and commitment and futures that don't naturally align.
But for the first time since I left for school, not knowing feels like a possibility instead of ending.
"Stay." He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's something desperate in his expression. "Just for today. Stay with me."
"Okay." I kiss him again because words feel insufficient. "I'll stay."
And standing here in Adison's living room with Zachary's arms around me and the future spreading out uncertain and terrifying ahead of us, I understand something.
Love doesn't require certainty. It just requires showing up.
Even when you're scared. Even when the logistics seem impossible. Even when staying feels more dangerous than running. Especially then.