Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
“I’ll grab it at the station.”
A flicker of something crosses her face. Not anger. Not hurt. Recognition.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says quietly.
“I know.” But I do.
Because if I stand across the counter from her one more time and watch her mouth press against the rim of a mug while she smiles at me like I’m something steady and safe, I won’t hold the line.
She doesn’t argue.
She just nods once and turns to pour another cup for herself.
That’s what unsettles me. Her cool confidence, like she’s not rattled in the same way that I am her.
The next few days follow the same pattern.
I come home later. I leave earlier. When she talks, I answer. When she laughs, I don’t linger. When she reaches for something near me, I step back instead of forward.
And she doesn’t chase. She doesn’t flirt harder. She doesn’t try to provoke me. She simply moves through my house like she belongs here. Like she’s not waiting for me to make up my damn mind.
Lacee notices before I do.
“Why are you being weird?” she asks one evening, feet tucked under her on the couch.
“I’m not.”
She squints at me. “You are.”
Tessa looks up from the kitchen table, where she’s helping with math homework.
“Am I weird too?” she asks lightly.
Lacee shakes her head. “No. Just him.”
Tessa smiles. Not smug. Not victorious. Just… steady. That smile burns worse than anything.
Later that night, after Lacee’s asleep, I sit on the porch alone.
I expect her to stay inside but she doesn’t.
The screen door creaks open.
She steps out in one of my old sweatshirts—one I tossed over a chair weeks ago and she claimed without asking. The sleeves swallow her hands.
“Mind if I join you?” she asks.
“You don’t need permission.”
She sits across from me instead of beside me.
“So,” she says, folding her legs beneath her, “are we going to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
Her brow arches. “You’ve been calling me ‘Miss Tessa’ in front of Lacee.”
“She’s ten.”
“You’ve never done that before.”
I lean back in my chair. “I’m maintaining boundaries.”
“With who?”
“With you.”
The words land heavy.
She studies me for a long moment.
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” she asks softly.
“I’m doing what’s responsible.”
“No,” she says calmly. “You’re retreating.”
I grind my jaw. “You want me to pretend I didn’t say what I said?”
“I want you to stop acting like wanting me is a crime.”
The air shifts. I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
“It’s not a crime,” I say, voice low. “It’s a complication.”
“Because I’m younger?”
“That’s part of it.”
“Because I work here?”
“That too.”
“Or because you think loving someone again means you loved your wife less?”
That hits. Hard. I don’t answer.
She nods slowly. “That’s what I thought.”
“You don’t get to dissect me like I’m one of Lacee’s science projects,” I say, sharper than I intend.
The quiet between us thickens. She stands first.
“I won’t pretend I don’t miss you when you pull away.”
My chest tightens.
“You miss me?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Her eyes flick to mine. “Yes.”
No hesitation. No dramatics. Just truth.
“You’ve become my compass here,” she continues. “I left Boulder because I felt untethered. Lost. You and Lacee… you make things feel steady.”
That shouldn’t feel like a gift but it does.
“And when you disappear like this,” she adds, “it feels like the ground shifts.”
I stand slowly. Close the space between us. Not touching. Not yet.
“You think I don’t feel it?” I murmur.
“Then why are you fighting it?”
“Because I’m thirty-seven,” I say. “Because I’ve buried a wife. Because I have a daughter who deserves stability. Because if I let myself need you and it goes wrong—”
She steps closer.
“It won’t,” she says.
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” she agrees. “But you can’t promise it will either.”
My hands curl at my sides.
“You think this is easy for me?” I ask. “You think I enjoy lying awake knowing you’re down the hall?”
Her breath stutters.
“That’s not fair,” she whispers.
“Fair?” I step closer. “You walk around in my house wearing my clothes. Laughing with my kid. Looking at me like I’m more than a widower who survived something he wasn’t supposed to.”
“You are more than that.”
“You don’t get it.”
“Then make me get it.”
That challenge ignites something dangerous. I reach for her. Not gentle. Not rough. Just decisive.
My hands settle on her hips. She inhales sharply.
“You want honesty?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“I love my wife,” I say. “I always will. That doesn’t change.”
“I don’t want it to.”
The steadiness in her voice shakes me more than tears would have.
“And I want you,” I continue. “In ways that aren’t safe. In ways that make me question every rule I’ve built to survive.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt.
“Then stop surviving,” she whispers. “Start living.”
The porch light hums above us. The wind whispers through the pine boughs around us. I lower my forehead to hers.
“You don’t shrink,” I murmur. “That’s what undoes me.”
She swallows. “I won’t,” she says. “For you or for anyone.”