The absolutely mind-blowing, surreal part?
My husband, Nathan Freaking Thorn—a man who used to live out of suitcases, who barely slept, who partied on yachts and toured the world—he is here.
Every single day.
Every single night.
Like clockwork.
He cooks dinner.
He helps her with homework even when she pretends she doesn't need help.
He walks Bella to her friend’s house.
He fixed the squeaky hinge on the hall closet and didn’t even brag about it.
He’s surprisinglydomestic.
Competent.
Thoughtful.
And damn it all to hell, I am just as in love with him as I ever was.
Which is so fucking frustrating for one major reason.
Ever since our wedding night, Nathan has slept somewhere else.
Not far.
Not distant.
Not cold.
Just—somewhere else.
Sometimes I hear him moving in the small music room off our bedroom, soft chords drifting through the wall like he’s trying not to wake me.
Other nights, he’s in the big studio he had built behind the kitchen, up until God knows when.
A couple of times, I padded out to lock up the bakery receipts and found him asleep on the couch, a notebook full of scribbled lyrics resting across his stomach.
And then there was the night Bella told me—thrilled—that he made her a midnight snack and walked her upstairs “so he didn’t wake his sleepy little Sparky.”
Sleepy.Little.Sparky.
What the actual hell?
He’s over here calling me pet names, feeding my niece grilled cheese at one in the morning, being the most thoughtful man alive, and yet he treats me like a polite acquaintance.
Because he still hasn’t climbed into our bed.
Still hasn’t kissed me once since we moved in.
Not after that Vegas night where he devoured me like he’d been starving for sixteen years.
Not after he washed me tenderly in that ridiculous marble bathtub.
