“Stop.” I reach for her hands, surprised by how cold they are. “Just stop.”
We stand there in the cramped hallway, both of us crying now, the weight of eight years pressing down on us.
“Tell me what happened that night,” she says quietly. “All of it. I should have let you explain eight years ago.”
I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “Britney asked for a ride back to your stepmother’s house after the Christmas party. Said she was too drunk to drive. I didn’t think anything of it. She was eighteen and your little sister.”
Cassidy nods, waiting.
“She offered me a glass of eggnog. Said it was a thank you for the ride. I remember drinking it, remember feeling dizzy. The next thing I knew, you were hitting me and screaming, and she was naked next to me.” My voice cracks. “I tried to tell you I didn’t remember anything, that something was wrong, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“I was so hurt,” she whispers. “So angry. And jealous. Everyone else always chose her… I thought you did too. I’m so sorry, Ethan. We’ve lost so many years.”
“And our child,” I say bitterly. “She had it all planned out, right down to making sure you’d find us.”
“I’m so sorry. It’s my fault.”
“No.” I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. “None of this was your fault. Britney did this to us. She planned it, executed it, and then spent years traumatizing an innocent child.”
“I was so scared,” she admits. “Of forgiving you, of getting hurt again. So I ran. I’ve been running for eight years.”
“Tell me about our baby,” I say quietly. “How far along were you?”
She closes her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Fourteen weeks. I was two weeks away from finding out if we were having a boy or a girl.” Her voice breaks. “I was so excited, Ethan. I loved our baby so much already.”
The pain in her voice destroys me. Fourteen weeks. She’d been carrying our child for three and a half months, loving a baby I never knew existed.
“That was my first child,” I whisper, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. “Our baby was my first child, not...” I can’t finish the sentence.
“I know,” she breathes. “I know.”
“I’m so sorry, Cass. I should have fought harder. Should have made you listen, should have—”
“No,” she interrupts, placing her fingers against my lips. “We were both hurting. Both scared. And young.”
Pulling her against my chest, I hold her as tightly as I can. She fits against me just as I remember. I bury my face in her hair, inhaling the scent of roses.
“Sometimes I dream about our baby,” she admits against my shoulder. “Wonder what they would have looked like, what kind of person they would have been.”
“I wish I could have been there for you. For both of you.”
I think about all the years we lost, all the conversations we never had, all the ways we could have healed each other instead of nursing our wounds alone.
“Never stopped loving you,” I whisper. “Not for one single day.”
“I love you too,” she breathes. “For years I’ve tried so hard not to, but it’s impossible. Seeing you with Axel, watching you be the man I always knew you were—”
My lips find hers before she can finish, kissing her like I should have eight years ago, like I should have fought to do every day since. When she responds with equal desperation, everything finally clicks into place—we’re home.
I press her back against the wall, and she whimpers into the kiss. Her nails dig into my shoulders, and I swallow the sounds like they’re the only thing keeping me alive.
“Ethan—”
Her voice is raw, broken, but I don’t let her finish. I can’t. Not when her thighs part enough for me to step between them and her hips roll against mine.
“Axel—” she gasps, but her hands are already sliding under my shirt, her palms hot against my skin.
“Distracted with a movie.” My voice is rough, my lips trailing down her throat. “I need you. Just like this. Just for a minute.”
