The first thing Harry noticed was the weight.

Not heavy.
Just warm.
Real.

A soft pressure against his chest, the steady rhythm of another heartbeat syncing quietly with his own. The blankets were tangled halfway down the bed, pooling around their legs, and the light that spilled through the gauzy curtains was golden—muted by the early morning haze, soft like the world hadn't quite woken up yet.

Christina was curled beside him.

Still.

Still there.

Still asleep, her hair a mess of loose strands falling from a braid, cheek pressed against his bare chest, one arm draped lazily across him like it had always belonged there.

And maybe it had.

His breath caught for a moment—not from panic or uncertainty, but awe. Because this was real. She was real. And not just from last night, but everything leading up to it. Every word. Every look. Every moment she'd stood by him, when he couldn't stand on his own.

He didn't want to move. Didn't want to breathe too hard. Like any sudden motion might shatter the spell or prove it had only been a beautiful, impossible dream.

But then she stirred.

Her eyelashes fluttered. She blinked once, then again—and when her eyes met his, they softened.

A slow, sleepy smile spread across her face.

"Morning," she whispered, voice husky and rough with sleep. Her hand shifted slightly over his chest, tracing an idle circle above his heart.

He smiled back, voice low and still gravel-thick. "Hey."

They lay there, not speaking. Not yet. Her touch remained light, fingertips moving aimlessly across his skin. He watched her. Watched the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the faint smudge of his stubble against her jawline, the imprint of the night on her skin.

"I should've known you'd wake up pretty," he murmured, barely audible.

She chuckled, breath brushing against his collarbone. "And you're charming before coffee. This is dangerous."

"Are you sore?" he asked softly, tentative. "From... last night?"

She lifted her head slightly, propping herself up on one elbow. The bedsheet slipped from her shoulder, revealing skin he'd memorized only hours ago.

"Is that your follow-up?" she teased.

He laughed quietly. "No, I mean... emotionally. Physically. Was it okay? I mean—"

"Harry." She cut him off gently, brushing a fingertip across his collarbone, then letting it slide down to rest over his heartbeat. "It was better than okay. It was... you."

He went still.

No one had ever said it like that before. Like he was the reason something had been good. Not just what he'd done. Who he was.

"I don't know what I expected," she added softly. "But it wasn't this. And I'm glad for that."

A silence settled between them, but it wasn't heavy. It was full. Charged. Like a thousand truths were just hanging between their breaths.

She yawned a little, stretching. The movement pulled the sheet down a bit more, and Harry's eyes flicked down without meaning to.

She noticed. Smirked.

"You hungry?" she asked.

He nodded. "Always."

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then sat up, stretching her arms over her head. As she slipped out of bed and padded toward the door, she tugged on one of his shirts—the oversized blue one she'd yanked off him the night before. It swallowed her frame, the hem brushing her bare thighs.

He watched her go, head tilted, breath caught somewhere in his chest.

God, she was really here.

And not just here in his bed—but here with him. With all of it. The uncertainty. The baggage. The changes he was still struggling to accept.

When she disappeared down the hallway, he closed his eyes and let it wash over him. Let the reality of it root itself inside him.

Christina.

Him.

This.

Twenty minutes later, they were on the back patio. The late morning sun had broken fully through the haze, and everything was glowing—his garden, the koi pond, the plates of fresh fruit she'd scavenged from Anne's impossibly organized fridge. There was leftover banana bread, slices of orange, and coffee strong enough to wake the dead.

The koi swam lazily in the pond beside them, the water glinting like glass. Harry could've sworn the smug bastards were smiling at him. Or maybe he was just projecting.

Christina picked at a grape, sipping from her mug, still dressed in his shirt, bare legs tucked up on the patio chair. She looked absurdly, heartbreakingly beautiful in the sunlight.

"You're staring," she said, not looking up.

"I'm memorizing," he replied, utterly unashamed.

She finally glanced at him. Her lips twitched. "You're ridiculous."

"But honest."

They ate in companionable silence for a while, the easy kind that only came when two people had run out of walls to hide behind.

But eventually, her tone shifted. More serious.

"You know this..." she gestured vaguely between them, "...changes things."

He nodded. "I know."

Her eyes stayed on the rim of her mug. "I'm still your physiotherapist. We still have sessions. There's still... a line."

He tilted his head slightly. "You think we crossed it?"

"I think," she said slowly, "I've been toeing that line for a while. You, on the other hand, leapt over it somewhere around week four."

He laughed. "Probably."

Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

"I never wanted you to feel like you were just a patient to me," she continued. "But at the same time... I didn't want to confuse what we had. I didn't want you to think I wanted you because you needed me. That's not fair to either of us."

Harry was still, letting her words land.

"I had to ask myself," she went on, "if this was real... or if I just felt special because you looked at me like I mattered when so many people don't. And I was scared that if it wasn't real, I'd lose both of us."

"And now?" he asked, his voice low.

She looked at him—really looked. And something in her face softened.

"I still don't have it all figured out," she admitted. "But when I'm with you, I feel something honest. Not infatuation. Not adrenaline. Just... real. You see me. Not the therapist. Not the person with the clipboard. Me."

He set down his mug. "Christina..."

"I know this started at work. And maybe I blurred the line before I should have. Maybe it's still complicated. But when I kissed you, Harry—last night, and this morning—I wasn't thinking about my job."

She leaned in a little closer.

"I was thinking about you."

He swallowed.

"I don't want to just be grateful for you," he said, quietly but firmly. "I don't want to be another thank-you note on your bulletin board. I want to matter to you. I want to be something to you. Something real."

She stared at him for a second longer.

Then she leaned forward, reached across the table, and grabbed the collar of his shirt.

And kissed him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Like she'd waited too long to stop herself.

He kissed her back with the same energy. Same clarity.

And when she finally pulled away, breathless, she murmured, "That answer I was scared of? I think I just found it."