"I mean…" She gestured between us. "At least there's that, right? We're going through the same thing. We understand each other. That has to count for something."
Something cold spread its wings me. "Angela…"
"Maybe..." She trailed off and looked down at her glass. "Maybe this was supposed to happen. Maybe we were supposed to lose everything so we could… I don't know. Figure out what really matters."
"Angela, that’s?—"
"We work together," she said, talking faster now. "We understand each other, and we're both alone now. We both lost everything." She stood up, came around the counter. "That has to mean something, right?"
"Angela, I don't think?—"
But she was right in front of me now, close enough that I could smell the whisky on her breath, the perfume that was too familiar, the same scent that had been on my clothes after those nights at the clinic.
"We're good together," she said softly. Her hand came up to my chest, fingers splaying against my shirt. "You know we are. We always have been."
I should have stepped back and put distance between us. But I was frozen, my brain stuttering between instinct and revulsion, between the familiar pull of her touch and the growing certainty that this was wrong.
"We could make this work," she continued, her voice dropping lower, more intimate. Her other hand found my arm, sliding up to my shoulder. "Start over, both of us. Together. No more hiding, no more sneaking around. Just... us."
She leaned in closer, her body pressing against mine, and I could feel the heat of her, the want radiating off her like something tangible. Her lips were inches from mine, her eyes half-closed, and for a split second my body responded the way it always had with her. Automatic, thoughtless, the muscle memory of all those times before.
And then I thought of Elena's face, the way she'd looked at me with nothing. The shotgun in her hands. The door closing.
All I felt was disgust.
Not at her, no… at myself.
I stepped back and put space between us. Her hands fell away from my chest, confusion flashing across her face.
"Matt—"
"No," I said. "This isn't… we can't do this."
"Why not?" She reached for me again. "We're both free now. We don't have to hide anymore. We can?—"
"Angela, stop." I caught her wrists gently, held them between us. "This isn't fate. This isn't some grand plan. This was a mistake. A huge fucking mistake that ruined both our lives."
"But we have each other?—"
"No, we don't." I let go of her hands. "We have nothing. This…" I gestured between us. "This was never real. It was just... an escape. A stupid, selfish escape from problems we should have been fixing instead of running from."
Her face crumpled. "So what, you're just going to throw me out? After everything?"
"I'm not throwing you out. But I'm not doing this either. Whatever you think this is, whatever you want it to be… it's not happening."
She stared at me for a long moment. Then her expression shifted, hardened. "Is this about Elena? You think she's going to take you back?"
"No," I said quietly. "I know she's not."
"Then what the fuck does it matter?"
"Because it matters to me." I ran a hand through my hair. "Because I can't keep being this person. The guy who fucks up and then fucks up worse trying to fix it. I need to… I don't know. I need to stop, just fucking stop."
Angela laughed. "Oh, so now you're having a crisis of conscience? Now you want to be the good guy again?"
"I'm not trying to be the good guy. I'm just trying not to be the worst one."
"Please." She grabbed her glass, drained what was left. "You want to know what your problem is, Matt? You were always too goddamn noble for your own good. Elena must’ve been thrilled with your whole gentle-husband act. Bet she barely had to move. Probably just lay there and let you do your noble little routine. But me? I actually made you?—
