He doesn’t.
He stays gone.
By six o’clock, everything I own is shoved into the furthest room from his. The room feels cold. Foreign and so very wrong.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my arms wrapped tight around myself, staring at nothing. My mind spins uselessly.
I’m going to have to find a place to live. Fast. But Broken Heart Creek isn’t like other towns. Options are limited.
My breath catches painfully as a new, darker thought slams into me. What if he fires me, too? What if losing Liam means losing everything? The ranch. The job I love. The only place I’ve felt at home since I left the wreckage of my old life behind. The tears come harder now, silent and unstoppable. Because the truth is it was never just about love. It was about belonging. And without Liam I don’t know who I am anymore.
I hear him come in around nine. The heavy thud of boots against the hardwood. The slow, dragging weight of him.
Squaring my shoulders, I slip out of the spare room and follow the sound.
I find him at the kitchen sink, standing with his head bowed, water running over his hand.
When I get closer, I see it.
His knuckles are raw, bleeding and split open.
“Liam!” I gasp, reaching out. “What did you do?”
He jerks away from my touch like it burns. And when his breath fans over my face the smell hits me. Sharp. Bitter. Overwhelming.
“Just a few rounds with the punchin’ bag,” he mutters, voice thick with drink.
I stare at him. At the way his shoulders slump. At the way he won’t meet my eyes.
“You’re drunk,” I whisper.
“Tryin' to be,” he says, and for a second, he sounds broken.
I press my lips together, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Here,” I say, reaching for him again. “Let me help you.”
Carefully, gently, I wash his torn knuckles. Then I cross the room, grabbing a towel and filling it with ice. He groans low in his chest when I press it against his hand. And when he sways dangerously, I grab onto his arm to steady him.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Let’s get you to the couch.”
“Bed,” he slurs.
I hesitate. Then nod. Because how can I deny him anything? Even now? Even after everything?
I lead him down the hall, supporting his weight. We reach the doorway, and he stops, swaying again. His bloodshot gaze sweeps the room.
“You moved out,” he rasps, voice hollow.
“I did,” I whisper back.
He mutters something under his breath—something I can’t make out—and stumbles toward the bed. Sinks onto my side. Or what used to be my side.
I pull a blanket over him. Start to turn away.
“Wait,” he says hoarsely.
I stop, my heart in my throat.
