Alex's POV (Present Day)
The House You Burned Still Stands in Her Eyes
He sat in his car again.
Same street. Same view.
Different ache.
The windshield framed them like a cruel portrait — Ava unlocking the front door with one hand, the other resting on Adrien's back. She looked tired. Heavier. Like the years had layered weight on her shoulders that no amount of sleep could fix.
But she still smiled at Adrien.
That same damn smile.
It should've soothed him.
It should've reminded him of what was once his.
Instead, it gutted him.
He gripped the steering wheel until the leather groaned.
He'd done this.
He'd built this distance with his own hands — then set fire to the bridge.
But somehow, the house he burned still stood in her eyes when she looked at Adrien. All that softness. All that patience.
She was supposed to hate him.
She should've hated him.
But she never learned how to unlove.
Not even when she was broken on the floor, begging him through bloody lips.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and the memories clawed through the cracks.
A scream.
A slap.
A broken glass.
Her hunched over in the corner, shielding her stomach — shielding their son — whispering, "Please, not again. Please, Alex. He's listening. He can feel it—"
And him?
Cold. Detached. A stranger to himself.
Then minutes later, sobbing apologies into her lap, swearing he'd never touch her again.
Lies.
It didn't stop. He didn't stop.
God, how could he?
She was sixteen. Sixteen.
And he was supposed to be her first love.
Not her first trauma.
He remembered the blood on his hands — hers. Not from fists. From fear. From the baby coming too soon. From stress and bruises and everything she never deserved.
He wasn't there when Adrien was born.
Didn't hold her hand. Didn't wait outside.
Didn't even know until the next day, when her friend texted him a photo.
And what was he doing?
Some girl. Some bed. Some night he didn't remember because he didn't care.
He told himself he'd fix it.
He told himself she'd understand. That she was dramatic. Emotional. Too much.
But she wasn't.
She was right.
He was a monster.
Even now, all these years later, the guilt didn't fade. It festered. It took new shapes. Sometimes it looked like rage. Sometimes it looked like longing. But mostly, it looked like silence.
Because he couldn't say sorry loud enough to drown out what he'd done.
He watched through the window. Adrien dropped his bag on the couch and flopped down. Ava disappeared into the kitchen, probably making tea.
Alex's eyes burned.
He never got that version of her — the tired but content, the homebody with fluffy socks and messy buns, the one who left lights on and music low. The one who fussed over dinner and laughed at bad sitcoms.
He got the Ava who walked on eggshells.
And it wasn't her fault.
It was his.
He'd turned their love story into a crime scene.
And now all he could do was sit in the car, watch through the glass, and wonder how it might've been — if he'd just been better.
Not perfect. Just… enough.
Because love wasn't enough.
Not when you ruined it with your own hands.
And now, every time he looked at Ava, all he saw was the girl he once loved — and the woman who survived him.