Part VI · Settled
She Asks About Them
The conversations come easier now.
Not rehearsed,
not heavy—
just two people
who’ve learned what not to say,
and when silence is a kindness.
We still move through our sets like ritual—
chalked hands, rolled sleeves,
bodies remembering
what it feels like
to carry weight
that doesn’t come from grief.
And lately,
in the space between reps,
we talk.
About sleep.
About faith we outgrew.
Which songs ache.
Why healing never keeps pace.
She never asks for more than I’m ready to give.
But that night,
as the gym emptied out,
she leaned against the mirror,
and I caught a trace of vanilla—
the same scent from that bar in December,
when she saw through me
and didn’t flinch.
“How are the boys?”
Just that.
No edge.
No angle.
Like asking meant:
I know they matter most—
and I want to see the part of you
most people never touch.
“They’re wild,” I say.
All three—
noise and motion and need.
The youngest is thriving.
The middle’s a daredevil,
but kind.
And the oldest—
he’s already rewriting the world
to test what holds.
She doesn’t laugh.
Doesn’t rush.
Just listens.
Like fatherhood is sacred
even from a distance.
She never asks to meet them.
But somehow,
she honors them
just by listening.
“You’re doing right by them,”
she says.
And it lands
somewhere in me
that used to only hold doubt.
And for the first time,
I don’t argue.
On the way home,
windows down, music low,
I think—
maybe this is what trust looks like now:
someone who asks
about what you protect the most,
and never once tries to take it.
Just honors it.
In every way they can.