Chapter 168: Unspoken Weights

Harper’s POV

I brought my laptop into the kitchen and set it carefully on the granite counter, adjusting the angle so I could see the screen while I cooked.

The latest edit was already loaded on the timeline.

I pressed play, letting the draft roll in the top corner of the screen while I turned toward the stove to start preparing dinner. I moved between the refrigerator, the sink, and the counter, pulling out fresh ingredients for Justin and me. But every few minutes, my eyes naturally gravitated back to the display.

Pause. Rewind. Play.

I wasn’t watching it like an average viewer simply taking in a story. I was dissecting it.

I studied the rhythmic cadence of how the scenes flowed into one another, the precise timing of every cut, the subtle warmth of the color grading, the audio balance, and the emotional transitions. It was good. Really good. The editor had done a fantastic job with the first pass.

But it wasn’t finished.

There were delicate, intimate details I wanted to refine myself. A few quiet moments where I wanted the camera to hold on a face just a beat longer. A harsh transition I wanted to soften. A section where I wanted the ambient score to swell differently. And another part where I felt my mother’s voice needed space to breathe before the next family interview cut in.

That was the thing about having your own editing style. You could deeply appreciate someone else’s craftsmanship without wanting to leave the final piece exactly as they handed it over.

This was my documentary. My heart. My mother’s legacy. I needed my own hands on the final cut.

I carefully plated the food, setting two steaming dishes aside, then leaned over the counter toward the trackpad. The clip was still rolling. I watched a pivotal section and immediately dragged my finger across the glass.

Pause.

I pulled the timeline backward a few seconds and hit play again, tilting my head. "Yeah..." I muttered to myself, shaking my head slightly. "That cut is too abrupt. It needs to change."

I was so deeply buried in my work that I didn’t even hear the quiet sound of bare feet against the kitchen tile.

"Hey."

I jumped, my hand fluttering to my chest. I turned around quickly. "Hey, babe."

Justin stood by the edge of the counter, looking worn down. He gestured subtly toward the glowing laptop. "What’s that?"

I glanced back at the screen, softening my posture. "Oh, the documentary. The first draft."

He stepped closer, leaning his hip against the island. "You already got it back?"

"Yeah. The editor sent over the first full cut." I pointed toward the screen. "It’s honestly pretty great, but it’s not final. I’m going through every minute of it myself to polish it."

Justin nodded slowly, his eyes drifting over to the stovetop. "What are you making?"

A tiny laugh escaped me. "You mean the food?"

"Yes, Harper. The food."

"Yes, the food," I teased gently.

He looked down at the loaded plates. "Looks really good."

"I hope so. You need to eat."

He leaned his weight against the counter, his dark eyes watching the documentary clip loop silently for a few seconds. "When are you posting it?"

"Probably tomorrow," I said softly, then paused, tapping my chin. "Or... maybe not tomorrow. I still need to do one or two more intense rounds of editing to get the pacing right."

"Okay." He nodded. "Whenever you’re ready to put it up on YouTube, just let me know."

I raised an eyebrow at him, leaning back against the counter. "Why? What do you plan on doing?"

He gave me a classic, tight-lipped Justin look. "Never mind."

"Justin."

"Don’t bother yourself about that," he murmured, reaching out toward one of the plates. "Just let me handle it."

I stared at him for a second, reading between the lines of his protective nature. "Okay."

He looked up, surprised I hadn’t pushed further.

I shrugged, giving him a small, affectionate smile. "There’s no point in arguing with you. You already know what you want to do, and you’re going to do it anyway."

A sudden, quiet laugh broke from his chest. But as I watched him, something about that laugh caught tightly in my throat. It sounded like him it had the familiar rhythm of his voice but his eyes didn’t match it at all. They remained heavy, dark, and hollow. The smile vanished from his face almost as quickly as it had appeared.

I studied the exhaustion lingering in the tight set of his jaw. "Do you want to talk about what happened at your dad’s?"

His entire body language shifted instantly. "Nah." He cast his eyes down toward his plate, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the granite. "I don’t really feel like talking about it right now."

I gave a slow, understanding nod. "Okay."

"Maybe when I’m ready... I’ll talk about it," he added quietly.

I didn’t push. I didn’t pry.

Justin reached out and picked up his fork, but he didn’t start eating right away. He just stared down at the food, the heavy silence settling back down over his shoulders.

"I think the whole thing is just... weighing me down right now," he exhaled, the sound laced with a deep, suffocating fatigue. "And I’m not sure I’m ready to actually see what happened."

My brows drew together in concern. "See what, Justin?"

He looked up, his eyes raw with unspoken dread. "What I’ve been told."

I waited, keeping my body perfectly still, letting him set the pace.

"My dad gave me some documents," he said, his voice dropping to a low, fragile whisper. "A lot of them. Medical records, transcripts... everything." He glanced toward the direction of the quiet study where the thick folder sat. "And I’m just not sure I’m mentally ready to sit down in a dark room and actually read them."

My heart completely melted for him. The sheer weight of what he was carrying was too much for anyone to hold alone.

"Okay," I whispered. I reached across the small distance between us and wrapped my fingers securely around his hand. "You don’t have to read them today. You don’t have to read them tomorrow either."

Justin squeezed my fingers back, his grip desperate and grounding. "Thanks, Harper."

I picked up his plate and held it out to him properly, breaking the dark tension with a soft nudge. "Eat first."

A faint, genuine flicker of a smile touched his lips. "You’re bossy."

"And you’re starving," I countered gently.

That earned me another tiny laugh, and this time, I could see a brief glimmer of real warmth returning behind his eyes.

I picked up my own plate and pulled up a stool beside him at the island.