The morning after Isla stayed over was awkward in the way first sleepovers always are. I'd woken with her still curled against me on the couch, her hair tickling my chin, her breathing soft and even. For a few minutes, I just lay there, savoring the weight of her against my side, the scent of her shampoo, the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Then she'd stirred, blinked awake, and immediately pulled away, eyes wide with realization.

"Oh god, I fell asleep on you," she'd said, voice husky with sleep. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay." I'd struggled to sit up, my back stiff from the awkward position. "I didn't mind."

She'd fled to the bathroom shortly after, emerging fifteen minutes later fully dressed, her walls firmly back in place. We'd had coffee. Made small talk. Danced around the fact that she'd spent the night in my arms after sharing the darkest parts of our pasts. Then she'd left, claiming an early shift at the bookstore, though I suspected she just needed space to process.

I'd worried that she might pull away again, avoid me as she had after the family dinner disaster. But to my surprise, she'd texted that same evening, a simple message that had made me smile.

Sunshine: Thanks for last night. The food. The talk. The everything. It meant a lot.

And just like that, we'd fallen into a new pattern. Not quite dating, but something more than friendship. We saw each other almost every day. Sometimes planned, sometimes spontaneous. Like gravity, pulling us into each other's orbits no matter where we started.

She'd stop by my office with coffee when she knew I had a late meeting. I'd show up at the bookstore just as her shift ended, offering a ride home. We'd watch movies at my place, her feet in my lap, her commentary making me laugh. I'd accompany her to author events at the bookstore, enjoying her passion as she discussed literature with customers.

It was comfortable. Easy, in a way I hadn't expected. As if we'd known each other for years instead of months.

We hadn't kissed again, though I thought about it constantly. The memory of her lips against mine, brief as it had been, played on repeat in my mind. But something held me back from making a move. Maybe fear that she wasn't ready. Maybe my own insecurities whispering that she could never want someone like me.

So we existed in this strange limbo of almost-but-not-quite, neither of us brave enough to push for more.

Until the night I saw the scars.

It was a Friday, about a week after our dinner. I'd picked her up from work, and we'd gone back to my place to watch a movie. Halfway through, she'd fallen asleep on the couch beside me, her body gradually slumping against mine until her head rested on my shoulder.

I'd muted the TV and just watched her sleep, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the slight parting of her lips. She looked younger in sleep, the constant tension she carried melting away. Peaceful in a way she rarely allowed herself to be when awake.

Without thinking, I reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. The movement caused her sleeve to ride up, exposing her wrist and forearm.

And that's when I saw them. Fresh scars, pink and new, among the older white lines. Thin, parallel marks that couldn't be anything but deliberate.

My stomach dropped. These weren't the old scars she'd told me about. These were recent. Very recent.

I carefully pulled her sleeve back down, not wanting to invade her privacy more than I already had. But my mind was racing. When had she done this? Why? She'd seemed better lately, happier. Had I missed something? Some sign that she was struggling more than she let on?

She stirred then, blinking awake. "Did I fall asleep again? Sorry."

"It's fine. Movie was boring anyway."

She stretched, her arms reaching above her head, then froze when she caught me glancing at her wrist. Quickly, she tugged her sleeves down and folded her arms across her chest.

"What time is it?" she asked, too casually.

"Almost midnight."

"I should probably head home."

"You could stay." I tried to keep my tone neutral. "Like last time. If you want."

She hesitated, and for a moment I thought she might agree. Then she shook her head. "I can't tonight. Early shift tomorrow."

"I could drive you."

"No, it's okay. I can take the bus." She stood, gathering her things. "Thanks for the movie, though. And the pizza."

I wanted to say something about what I'd seen. Ask if she was okay. If she needed help. But the words stuck in my throat, caught between concern and the fear of pushing too hard, of making her run when we'd only just found this fragile balance.

So I said nothing as I rolled with her to the door. Nothing as she pulled on her jacket. Nothing as she turned to face me, a brittle smile on her lips.

"Goodnight, Callum."

"Goodnight, Isla."

She hesitated, as if waiting for something. When I remained silent, she nodded once and left, the door closing softly behind her.

I leaned my forehead against the cool wood, cursing myself for being a coward. I should have said something. Should have reached out. But I hadn't. And now she was gone, walking alone to the bus stop, with fresh wounds I pretended not to see.

Sleep eluded me that night. I kept seeing those pink lines on her skin, evidence of pain she hadn't shared. Pain she'd dealt with alone, with a blade instead of words.

By morning, I'd made a decision. I couldn't ignore this. Couldn't pretend I hadn't seen. She deserved better than my silence.

So I threw her a text.

Me: Can we talk today? Whenever you're free.

Her response came an hour later.

Sunshine: After my shift? 4pm?

Me: I'll pick you up.

The day dragged, each minute feeling like ten. I tried to work, to focus on anything but the conversation ahead, but my mind kept circling back to those marks on her skin. What had triggered them? How recently had she made them? Was she in danger of doing worse?

By the time I pulled up in front of Horizon Books at 4pm, I'd rehearsed a dozen different ways to broach the subject. None of them felt right.

Isla emerged from the store right on time, her smile brightening when she saw me waiting. She wore long sleeves again, despite the warm day.

"Hey, Hot Wheels," she greeted as she slid into the passenger seat. "How was your day?"

"Fine. Yours?"

"Busy. Some book club chose our store for their monthly meeting, so we had a dozen middle-aged women debating the merits of unreliable narrators while I tried to restock the romance section."

She was rambling, a sure sign of nervousness. She knew why I'd asked to see her.

"Where to?" I asked.

"Coffee? There's a new place on Fifth I've been wanting to try."

"How about the park instead? It's nice out. We could talk without the background noise."

Her smile faltered slightly. "Sure. Park's good."

We drove in silence, the tension between us growing with each passing minute. When we reached the park, I found a spot near the duck pond, away from the playground where families gathered with their children.

Isla was quiet as she got out of the car, waiting for me to get onto my chair before heading to a nearby bench. She sat with her hands in her lap, fingers twisting anxiously.

"So," she said after a moment. "You wanted to talk?"

I took a deep breath. No point in dancing around it. "I saw your arms last night. The new scars."

She flinched as if I'd struck her. "Oh."

"When?"

She glanced away. "After the dinner at your parents'. Before I came to your place."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what, exactly? That I had a complete breakdown after running out on your family? That I sat in my bathroom with a razor for an hour before I finally used it? That I'm still so fucked up I can't handle a simple dinner without falling apart afterward?" Her voice was bitter. "Not exactly first date conversation."

"It wasn't our first date. And I would have wanted to know."

"Why? So you could what? Save me from myself? Fix me? That's not your job, Callum."

"It's not about fixing you. It's about being there for you. Supporting you."

"I don't need support. I need..." She trailed off, struggling to articulate what she did need.

"What? What do you need, Isla?"

"I don't know." She sounded defeated. "To be normal, I guess. To not be this broken thing that can't function like a regular human being."

"You're not broken."

She laughed, hollow and sad. "Says the man who saw my forearms. You can literally see where I'm broken, Callum."

"That's not brokenness. That's pain. There's a difference."

She tugged at her sleeves, making sure they covered her wrists. "Semantics."

"No, it's not. Broken implies unfixable. Pain can be healed."

"What if I can't be healed? What if this is just who I am now? Someone who falls apart and cuts herself when things get too intense?" She finally looked at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "What then?"

I wanted to reach for her. To take her hand, stroke her hair, pull her into my arms. Anything to ease the anguish etched across her face. But I didn't. Because I knew she needed words more than touch right now.

"Then that's who you are," I said simply. "And I'll still be here."

She stared at me, disbelief warring with hope. "You can't promise that."

"I can. I am."

"Why? Why would you sign up for this mess?" She gestured to herself. "I'm a fucking disaster, Callum. A ticking time bomb. You deserve better than someone who might explode at any moment."

"Maybe I don't want better. Maybe I want you."

The words hung between us, raw and honest. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were the distant shouts of children at the playground and the gentle lapping of water against the pond's edge.

Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. A small but genuine sound that broke the tension.

"You're really bad at hiding that you're staring," she said, wiping at her eyes. "At my scars, I mean. You're trying so hard to look anywhere else, but your eyes keep darting back."

"It's okay," she continued. "You can look. Everyone does, when they find out. It's human nature to be curious about broken things."

"You're not a thing."

"No, but I'm definitely broken." She sighed, some of the fight leaving her. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. About the relapse. I was ashamed. Embarrassed. I thought I was past this."

"Recovery isn't linear."

She raised an eyebrow. "Someone's been reading self-help books."

"My therapist's favorite line, actually."

"Smart therapist."

"She is."

We fell silent again, but it was less strained now. Isla leaned back on the bench, her face turned toward the sun, eyes closed.

"I should have called you," she said after a while. "That night. When it got bad. But I didn't want you to see me like that. Wild-eyed and frantic, looking for something sharp. It's not pretty."

"I don't need pretty. I just need you to be safe."

She opened her eyes, studying me. "That's a very boyfriend thing to say."

"Is it?"

"Mmm." She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "So are we doing this, then? Being a thing?"

"Do you want to be a thing?"

"I asked you first."

I smiled despite the seriousness of the conversation. "Yes, Isla. I want to be a thing. Have wanted it for a while now."

"Even knowing about..." She tugged at her sleeve again.

"Even knowing everything."

She exhaled slowly. "I want it too. But I'm scared, Callum. Terrified, actually. Of screwing this up. Of hurting you. Of not being enough."

"I'm scared too."

"You are?"

"Of course. Relationships are scary. Especially when they matter."

"And this matters?" There was a vulnerability in her question that made my chest ache.

"Yes. It matters. You matter."

She swallowed hard. "No pressure or anything," she joked weakly.

"No pressure," I agreed. "We'll figure it out as we go. No rush. No expectations. Just us, doing whatever feels right."

"And if what feels right is occasionally fucking up and cutting myself?"

"Then I hope you'll call me first. Let me help if I can. And if I can't, let me be there after."

She was quiet for a moment, considering. "I can try," she said finally. "That's all I can promise."

"That's all I'm asking."

She shifted closer to me. "So now what?"

"Now we keep doing what we've been doing. Hanging out. Talking. Getting to know each other. Just with the knowledge that it's leading somewhere. That we're choosing this. Choosing each other."

"I don't know if I remember how to be someone's girlfriend," she admitted. "It's been a long time."

"I don't know if I remember how to be someone's boyfriend either."

"Look at us. Two broken people trying to build something whole."

"Not broken," I corrected gently. "Just a little banged up."

She laughed. "Semantics again."

"Important semantics."

She leaned her head against my shoulder, and we sat in comfortable silence, watching the ducks glide across the pond. After a while, she held out her arm, pushing up her sleeve to reveal the scars I'd glimpsed the night before.

"There are five new ones," she said quietly. "Not deep. Just enough to feel something besides panic. I don't want to die, Callum. I want you to know that. Even at my worst, that night, I wasn't trying to die. Just trying to feel in control of something."

I nodded, understanding the distinction. "Thank you for showing me."

"Thank you for not leaving."

"Not going anywhere, Sunshine."

She smiled at the nickname, her eyes softer than I'd ever seen them. "Good to know, Hot Wheels."

The tension of earlier had dissipated, replaced by something quieter, more hopeful. We weren't fixed, but we were here, together, seeing each other's damage without flinching away.

It felt like a beginning.

"Stay with me tonight?" I asked as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. "Just to sleep. I just don't want you to be alone."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. But I should stop by my place first. Get some things."

"Of course."

I drove her to her apartment, waiting in the car while she ran up to pack an overnight bag. When she returned, she seemed lighter somehow, as if our conversation had lifted a weight she'd been carrying.

We picked up dinner on the way back to my place, eating on the couch while watching a cooking competition that had us both laughing at the contestants' dramatic breakdowns over souffle disasters.

Later, as we prepared for bed, there was none of the previous night's awkwardness. She borrowed one of my t-shirts to sleep in, brushed her teeth alongside me in the bathroom, moved around my space as if she belonged there.

"I want you to take the bed," I insisted when she tried to take the couch. "I won't sleep if I'm worrying about you being uncomfortable."

"Well I won't sleep if I'm worrying about you being uncomfortable," she countered.

"I'll be fine."

"So will I." She crossed her arms, stubborn. "We could both take the bed. It's big enough. Just to sleep," she added quickly. "No funny business."

"No funny business," I agreed, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach at the thought of sharing a bed with her.

We settled in awkwardly at first, careful to keep space between us, both lying rigidly on our backs and staring at the ceiling. Then Isla sighed and rolled onto her side to face me.

"This is silly," she said. "We've already slept together on the couch. This is just a more comfortable version of that."

"You're right."

"I usually am." There was a smile in her voice. "Come here."

She tugged gently at my arm until I rolled toward her, closing the gap between us. We adjusted until we found a comfortable position, her head on my chest, my arm around her shoulders.

"Is this okay?" she asked, her voice already heavy with sleep. "Not too heavy?"

"It's perfect."

She yawned, burrowing closer. "Goodnight, Callum."

"Goodnight, Isla."

I lay awake long after her breathing had evened out, marveling at the weight of her against me, the trust implied in her peaceful sleep. This wasn't solving anything. Her scars wouldn't disappear. My legs wouldn't suddenly work. We were still two damaged people with mountains of baggage between us.

But for the first time in years, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. With exactly who I was supposed to be with.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't fixed. But it was real. And for now, that was enough.