Christ. This is pathetic.
The distance has been eating me alive. The careful space she’s been keeping between us since Phil, since everything went to hell. I get it—I do. But watching her today, seeing the look in her eyes when Stellan explained what the chamber wants from her… Not afraid, exactly. Resigned. Like she’s already accepted that she’ll face it alone.
That’s what breaks me.
I raise my fist and knock before I can chicken out again. Soft, but firm enough that she’ll hear.
“Bree?” I keep my voice low. “It’s me.”
Silence stretches long enough that I wonder if she’s ignoring me. Then footsteps, quiet on the stone floor, and the door opens.
She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt that hangs to her thighs, hair mussed like she was trying to sleep. But her eyes are too bright, too alert. She hasn’t been sleeping any better than I have.
“Rhett.” Her voice is careful, neutral. “Everything okay?”
“No,” I say simply. “Can I come in?”
She hesitates, and that small pause cuts deeper than it should. But then she steps back, holding the door open.
Her room is exactly what I expected—warm colors, soft textures, the sanctuary’s way of responding to her needs. Small changes since we first arrived, but it feels different tonight. Smaller somehow, like the space between us is taking up too much room.
She settles on the edge of her bed, tucking her legs under herself. I stay near the door, suddenly uncertain.
“Bree, I—” I stop, run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For pulling back. For keeping my distance when you needed me to stay close.” The words taste like ash, but they’re true. “For letting my fear make your trauma worse.”
Her green eyes search my face. “Rhett—”
“I was so scared of hurting you that I ended up doing exactly that.” My hands clench at my sides, heat flickering under my skin. “When Phil—when I realized I should have been there, should have protected you—”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“But I should have stayed closer.” The admission tears out of me. “I should have trusted that you’d tell me if I was too much, instead of deciding for you. Instead of making you feel like you had to handle everything alone.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes. “I don’t forgive you yet,” she says finally, and the honesty is brutal. “I’m still angry. Still hurt.”
My chest tightens, but I nod. “I know.”
“But I miss you.” Her voice goes softer. “I miss us. How we used to be.”
“I miss you too.” The words come out rougher than I intended. “God, Bree, I miss you so much it’s like missing a limb.”
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, at the raw honesty. But she deserves it. She unfolds herself from the bed, moves closer. Not touching, but close enough. I close my eyes, taking in her scent. I can smell her shampoo, and everything else that makes her smell like her. Like my Bree.
When I open my eyes, she’s watching me with something that looks like decision.
“I want you,” she says simply.
The mist around her feet stirs at her words, responding not just to arousal but to the raw honesty in her voice. Silver threads pulse once, like her Ether recognizes truth when she speaks it.
The honesty of it, the permission wrapped in truth, undoes something in my chest. “Are you sure?”
Instead of answering, she closes the distance between us, rises on her toes, and kisses me.
It’s different from before—not desperate or uncertain, but deliberate. She kisses me like she’s choosing me, even with all the fractures between us. Like want can exist alongside hurt, like desire doesn’t require forgiveness.
