CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN: New Harry!

Harry moved differently now.

It was subtle so subtle that anyone who did not know him intimately would miss it. But Elena noticed. She always had. The way he paused before speaking, the way he listened without interrupting, the way his eyes lingered as though committing moments to memory rather than letting them pass unchecked.

This time, he was deliberate.

Harry knew what was at stake.

He had been given something rare: not forgiveness, not absolution, but a second chance to prove that he could be trusted again. And he understood, perhaps more clearly than ever before, that if he failed this time if he misstepped, doubted her instincts again, or allowed fear to cloud his judgment the door between them would not merely close.

It would lock.

And he would deserve it.

So he moved carefully, not out of fear, but out of respect. He no longer assumed Elena would always remain, no longer relied on the history between them to carry him through moments of uncertainty. He was learning, painfully and intentionally, that love did not survive on memories alone. It survived on choice. On consistency. On believing the person standing in front of you even when doubt whispered otherwise.

Elena watched all of this quietly.

She did not comment on the change. She did not test it. She simply observed, the way she always did when something mattered deeply. She had learned, over time, that people revealed their truth not in grand declarations, but in repetition in what they did when they thought no one was counting.

And Harry was counting now.

Every word.

Every silence.

Every decision.

What unsettled Elena was not the effort itself, but what it revealed.

She was seeing a version of Harry she had never fully known.

Not the guarded man she first met.

Not the grieving husband.

Not the conflicted father torn between hope and logic.

But a man stripped of certainty choosing humility instead.

It startled her.

When Elena first walked into Dubois Lounge all those years ago, Harry had been cold. Not cruel, but distant in a way that suggested experience had taught him caution. He spoke only when necessary. He trusted few people. His presence commanded respect without demanding it, and she had sensed immediately that whatever warmth existed beneath the surface had been carefully buried.

She had not intended to grow fond of him.

It happened gradually, without permission.

In the early days, their conversations were transactional about schedules, performances, logistics. But Elena noticed the way he watched people, the way he absorbed the room rather than dominated it. She noticed how his silence wasn’t empty, but observant. Thoughtful.

And then came the difficult days.

Don.

Those memories surfaced now, uninvited but vivid.

Don had made her life unbearable in ways she rarely spoke about. Not because she lacked the courage, but because she had learned early on that survival sometimes meant choosing silence over confrontation. The tension, the manipulation, the subtle undermining it had all threatened to break her spirit.

But Harry had seen it.

He hadn’t needed an explanation.

He stepped in without spectacle, without announcement. He shut doors quietly. Drew boundaries firmly. Protected her not as someone fragile, but as someone valuable. And Elena remembered how that had felt being defended without being diminished.

That was when something shifted inside her.

She hadn’t fallen in love all at once.

She had trusted him first.

And trust, for Elena, had always been sacred.

Which was why the betrayal though unintentional cut so deeply when it came.

Standing in La Rivera now, watching Harry move with such care, she found herself returning to the same question she had avoided since everything unraveled:

How had he chosen not to trust her instincts when it mattered most?

The question was not accusatory anymore.

It was curious.

Because this man the one standing before her now was capable of listening. Of doubting himself. Of prioritizing truth over comfort.

So what had changed then?

The answer, Elena realized, was painfully simple.

Hope.

Harry had wanted something so badly that it silenced his reason. He had wanted to believe in a miracle for Naomi, for himself, for the life he thought he had lost. And in that wanting, he had ignored the one person who had never lied to him.

Elena.

She watched him closely as they prepared for the upcoming La Rivera festival. He asked for her input on everything now not because he needed permission, but because he valued her perspective. He followed through on promises, even the small ones. He showed up when he said he would.

It was not perfection.

It was effort.

And effort mattered.

One evening, as they walked through the venue together, reviewing final arrangements, Elena found herself studying him again not the present Harry, but the man she had first met.

“I never told you,” she said suddenly, breaking the quiet, “but I almost didn’t come back after those early months.”

Harry stopped walking.

“Why didn’t you?” he asked.

She considered the question carefully.

“Because you scared me,” she admitted. “You were distant. Closed off. I wasn’t sure there was space for anyone else in your world.”

He absorbed that in silence.

“And yet you stayed,” he said.

“Yes,” Elena replied softly. “Because when it mattered, you showed up. You didn’t say much but you acted. That mattered to me.”

Harry looked at her then, truly looked at her, and something in his expression shifted. Not guilt. Understanding.

“I forgot that version of myself,” he said quietly. “Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to listen.”

Elena nodded. “I noticed.”

They shared a quiet smile not playful, not light, but honest.

The past was no longer a weapon between them.

It was a lesson.

Harry knew now that love was not proven by grand gestures or declarations. It was proven by believing someone even when the truth felt inconvenient. By trusting the person who had earned that trust repeatedly, not the illusion that offered comfort.

And Elena, watching him try really try felt something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.

Hope.

Not the reckless kind.

Not the blind kind.

The steady kind.

She was not ready to surrender completely. She knew that healing required time, and trust, once fractured, did not repair itself overnight. But she also knew this:

Harry was no longer the man who dismissed her instincts.

And she was no longer the woman who would silence them.

They were different now.

Wiser.

Scarred.

More intentional.

As the night settled over La Rivera, Elena stood beside him, listening to the hum of preparation and possibility. She felt the weight of everything they had endured and the quiet strength of everything they had survived.

Harry had chosen to do things right this time.

And Elena, for the first time in a long while, was allowing herself to believe that maybe just maybe that choice would be enough.