POV: Bea Sharpe

Ben's hand found mine across the breakfast table, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. Six months since everything fell apart. Six months since we almost lost each other.

Six months of rebuilding.

"You're doing it again," he said, that familiar warmth in his voice.

"Doing what?"

"That thing where you get lost in your head. Overthinking."

I squeezed his hand. "Can you blame me? After everything?"

"No." His expression softened. "But we're okay now. We made it through."

We ...