Shouldn’t.
Notdoesn’t.
“Look, you didn’t do anything wrong. You wanted to stay out. You’re a grown woman. You have every right.”
He pauses, jaw tightening, as if he’s wrestling with what comes next. “But I can’t turn it off. I can’t stop feeling responsible for you, worrying about you. But I also have duties. And in my line of work, my responsibilities must come first.”
My stomach tightens. Because him blaming himself is somehow a thousand times worse than if he’d just told me I’m a mess who needs to grow up. If this was my fault, I could fix it.
I could try to be better. Try to show him I fit into his world, that I’m worth fitting into his world.
But I can’t change the way he’s already backing away, setting these careful boundaries without actually saying the words.
And I don’t know if I’m supposed to fight that. If I even can.
“Am I allowed to come in?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. Like I’m asking permission to exist in his space.
“Yes. Of course.”
I shift awkwardly, still lingering in the doorway. “Are you happy to see me, or are you just being polite?”
He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up to his. He studies me for a long moment, saying nothing. The silence is terrifying.
Then he smiles. Not a big, reassuring grin. A small, tired,sadsmile. “Do you really think I’d be this conflicted if I was just being polite? The problem isn’t that I don’t want to see you. The problem is how much I do.”
Something inside me cracks.
“I just want to make you happy,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes over my cheek. “You make me happy.”
He threads his fingers through mine. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get some sleep.”
His hand is warm in mine, grounding. I grip it tighter as we move upstairs, determined to keep him from slipping away again.
An early night withmy man. That’s all I want. I want to curl up against him, bury myself in his arms,proveto him—physically, emotionally—that thisworks. Thatwework.
He strips off his shirt and trousers, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks exhausted.
I duck into the bathroom to freshen up, needing a moment to gather myself.
Splashing cold water on my face, I stare hard at my reflection.You’ve got this, I mutter under my breath, a little pep talk to myself.
I brush my teeth too fast, spit, rinse, run a hand through my hair. Then I step back out, ready to climb into bed, press myself against him, feel his hands on me—something solid, something real to seal this fragile truce between us.
But when I emerge, heart pounding in my throat, he’s already asleep.
CHAPTER 38
Edward
For the past twoyears, this day has been a shadow hanging over me, a quiet, solemn ritual that plays out the same way: Millie’s birthday. I visit her grave. I bring fresh flowers, the same ones she carried on our wedding day. I sit with her mother. We don’t talk much anymore. Instead, we sit side by side, two people who lost the same woman in different ways. And then I go home.
I drown myself in work. I let the hours slip through my fingers, burying myself in tasks, in reports, in anything that numbs the weight pressing down on me. And when the evening comes, I sit alone in my house, staring at nothing, lost in thoughts I refuse to voice.
This morning was no different.
The flowers. The quiet conversation with her mother. The familiar ache in my chest that never truly fades.
