He studied case files, joined investigations, and started publishing in a legal blog.
He said:
“I couldn’t save my uncle.
But now – I’ll speak.
Softly. Clearly. Legally.
But all the way.”
In the evenings, they drank tea.
Sat under the glow of string lights.
Sometimes – they argued.
Sometimes – laughed.
And every evening ended the same way:
With a kiss,
A whisper,
Gratitude,
In their shared home.
Love doesn’t save you from everything.
But with it, you’re no longer afraid to begin again.
Chapter 10. Morning by the Shore
Happiness isn’t loud.
It’s when you stand by the window
and hear someone singing
while flipping pancakes —
and you know:
this is your person.
Morning.
Their home in Chicago was bathed in soft light.
Outside – a breath of crisp air.
Inside – the scent of butter, honey, vanilla, and something that smelled like home.
In the kitchen – Jeanne.
Barefoot, in a long shirt barely covering her hips.
Her hair loosely braided, flour on her cheek,
a soft, lazy tune on her lips.
She hummed as she stirred the batter:
“Oh darling… I want to hold you… forever…”
He stood at the doorway.
Watching.
Holding his breath.
Her body moved like music —
alive, lithe, free.
Each motion – a quiet dance.
He walked up behind her,
placed his hands on her waist.
She didn’t flinch – just smiled.
“You snuck up on me like a lion.”
“You smell like sunshine and dough.”
“I’m a woman. That is my natural scent in the morning,”
she laughed, leaning over the skillet.
He caressed her thigh.
Brushed her shoulder with his lips.
She tilted her head back gently.
Not lust.
Not haste.
Happiness.
“You’re my wife,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“Sometimes I still don’t believe it.”
“Then touch me. Make sure I’m real.”
His hand found her stomach,
then moved lower.
He kissed the nape of her neck.
And everything inside him quieted into warmth.
Later, they walked to the lake.
Michigan was like a mirror.
They sat on a wooden pier,
legs swinging in the air.
Jeanne took out a sketchbook.
Drew clumsily, like a child.
He scribbled short poems beside her sketches.
They dreamed aloud:
of a house on a hill,
a dog,
children,
evenings full of songs.
“If you could choose one thing forever,” she asked,
“what would it be?”
“You. In the kitchen.
In a shirt.
With flour on your cheek.”
“And you?” he asked back.
“You. Silent.
When you look at me like it’s the first time.”