Almost Love, Then Everything - Chapter 48: Chapter 48

It didn’t happen with a grand gesture.
No fireworks.
No sudden declarations in the middle of a storm.
Just them—side by side on the old bench outside Leah’s apartment, where the city buzzed softly in the background and the night air smelled faintly of jasmine and rain-soaked pavement.
The bench had always been there. Rusted in the corners, paint chipped from years of sun and wind. But it held a kind of quiet history between them—like it knew their weight, their warmth, the way they fit next to each other when words were too heavy to carry.
Jade’s shoulder brushed against Leah’s, and neither pulled away.
They hadn’t made plans for the night. It just… happened. Like most of the important moments in their story. After a long day of slow conversation, shared silences, and the kind of emotional exhaustion that follows honesty, Jade had said, “Let’s go outside.”
So they had.
Now they sat there, listening to distant traffic, the hum of life around them. Somewhere, a dog barked. A wind chime tinkled from a neighbor’s balcony.
Leah tilted her head back, eyes on the sky.
“Do you remember the first time we sat here?” she asked.
Jade turned, a soft smile already tugging at her lips. “Yeah. You were wearing that old green hoodie. The one with the paint stain on the cuff.”
Leah chuckled. “I still have that.”
“I remember thinking how small you looked in it,” Jade said. “But how much space you took up in my mind anyway.”
Leah laughed, quiet and surprised. “You never told me that.”
“You weren’t ready to hear it back then,” Jade said gently. “Maybe I wasn’t ready to say it.”
Leah didn’t argue. Instead, she exhaled, long and slow, her breath catching on something she didn’t name.
They hadn’t defined what this was. Not in exact words. They had returned to each other piece by piece—cautiously, tentatively, like hands brushing in the dark after a long silence. There had been apologies. Not just spoken, but shown. In how Jade stayed. In how Leah let herself be held. In how they both chose to listen instead of retreat.
There were still things they were working through.
But lately… something had shifted.
The rhythm between them.
The way Jade lingered a little longer after saying goodbye.
The way Leah’s voice softened when she said Jade’s name.
The way Jade kissed her temple when she thought Leah was still asleep.
The way Leah let herself be kissed.
Now, under the soft glow of the streetlamp, the night quiet around them, Leah felt something pressing gently at her chest. Not anxiety. Not fear.
Something warm.
Hope, maybe.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
Jade nodded, eyes turning toward her. “Anything.”
Leah’s voice dipped lower. “So… what are we now?”
The question sat between them for a moment, fragile and real.
Jade looked at her, no hesitation in her eyes this time. “We’re us.”
Leah raised an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is to me.”
“Be serious,” Leah said, but there was no bite in her voice—just a tremor of vulnerability she hadn’t let herself express in a long time.
Jade took a breath. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached for Leah’s hand and held it with both of hers, slow and sure.
“Okay. Officially?” she said softly. “I’m yours.”
Leah didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
She just stared at Jade, and for a long moment, it felt like the whole world went quiet. Even the wind seemed to hush. Her fingers tightened around Jade’s.
And then she whispered, “Then I’m yours too.”
A silence stretched between them—this time full, not empty. A silence filled with everything they didn’t have to say. Everything they’d fought through to get here.
They stayed like that for a while. Just breathing. Just letting the truth of it settle.
They weren’t rushing forward. They weren’t labeling what couldn’t be pinned down in one word. But they were choosing.
And that meant everything.
Jade turned her face toward the sky, her thumb brushing slow circles over Leah’s knuckles. “It’s kind of funny, isn’t it?” she said after a while.
“What is?”
“How this all started. You trying so hard not to let me in. Me being too scared to ask you to.”
Leah nodded. “I didn’t think I was capable of this. Of letting someone see me.”
“You let me,” Jade said. “Eventually.”
“I did.”
Leah glanced down at their joined hands. “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we never tried again?”
Jade shook her head. “No. Because we did. That’s what matters.”
Leah exhaled slowly. “I don’t want to be afraid of this anymore.”
“Then don’t,” Jade said. “We’re not perfect. But we’re here. And that’s more than enough for me.”
Later, they went back inside, but the quiet closeness stayed with them like a blanket.
They didn’t say much. They didn’t have to.
Jade made tea. Leah grabbed the throw blanket from the couch. They sat side by side again—this time on the living room floor, backs against the couch, knees touching.
It was simple. Intimate in the smallest ways.
Leah turned on music—soft, barely audible, just background noise.
“You know,” she said after a few sips, “if someone asked me what love looked like, I think I’d describe tonight.”
Jade smiled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s just… safe.”
Jade leaned her head on Leah’s shoulder. “I want to make you feel that way every day.”
“You already do,” Leah whispered.
When they eventually climbed into bed, they didn’t rush to sleep.
They lay facing each other, legs tangled, fingers exploring the space between comfort and closeness.
“I used to think love had to burn,” Leah said, her voice nearly lost in the darkness. “Like, it had to be intense all the time. Passionate. All-consuming.”
“And now?” Jade asked, brushing a thumb across Leah’s cheek.
“Now I think love can be gentle,” Leah replied. “It can be quiet. It can be… this.”
Jade pressed a kiss to her forehead. “This is enough for me.”
“I think I used to confuse chaos with connection,” Leah said. “But the way you love me—it calms the noise.”
Jade didn’t say anything. She just held her closer.
And in that stillness, Leah felt something she hadn’t felt in years.
Safe. Loved. Chosen.
Not in spite of her past.
But because someone had seen it all—and stayed.
A week later, Leah found a small envelope tucked into the pocket of her coat.
Jade’s handwriting. A little crooked. A little careful.
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a folded piece of notebook paper, and at the top it simply read:
> “Our Official.”
Leah smiled.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and read:
> “You once asked me what we were. I didn’t have the words then, not the way I wanted to. But this is what I know now:
We are not a question mark.
We are not a maybe.
We are a choice.
One I make every morning when I wake up beside you, and every night when I watch you fall asleep.
Officially, I’m yours. In small ways. In loud ones. In the quiet. In the mess.
And I hope, every day, you feel what I feel—
That love doesn’t have to be perfect. Just real.
So if you ever doubt it, read this again.
And know—I'm not going anywhere.
Yours. Always.
—Jade.”
Leah pressed the note to her chest, smiling through the sudden sting in her eyes.
There had been no proposal. No dramatic label.
But this? This was everything.
And for Leah, that quiet piece of paper meant more than any ring ever could.
Because it was real. Earned.
And it was hers.
Officially.
Not because they said it.
But because they showed it—every day.