It just makes the waiting louder.
Midnight passes without ceremony. I refresh my email. I scroll through social media without absorbing anything. I open my banking app, then close it again. Every attempt at distraction feels thin, flimsy. A paper umbrella in a hurricane.
I shouldn’t care this much. Whatever I’m feeling is leftover emotion, nothing more. Six years is a long time. Long enough to have loved someone else. Long enough to have a child. Long enough to prove that I survived him.
But survival isn’t the same thing as healing. Every kiss with David, I longed for Aiden’s lips. Every time he held me, I didn’t feel it. And I tried, God, I tried to feel something for David. When that didn’t happen, I changed my tactic.
If I couldn’t be in love with my husband, then I’d settle for being a partner to him. We had Mason, and I thought that was proof of my dedication to our partnership. That having his baby would prove it to the world. Or to myself.
But his kiss still reminded me of what I didn’t have.
One a.m. creeps by. Then one thirty. The city outside the windows begins to quiet, lights blinking out floor by floor in the surrounding buildings. The world is settling into sleep, and I’m still sitting here, keyed up too tightly to relax.
I imagine Aiden out there somewhere, soot in his hair, adrenaline sharp in his veins, doing the job he’s always done without hesitation. The thought doesn’t comfort me the way it should. It only sharpens the fear, because I know exactly how seriously he takes his responsibility. I know he doesn’t cut corners. I know he doesn’t step back when things get dangerous.
Two a.m. Why the hell is a car fire taking so long to put out?
I look up car fires on social media, and that does nothing to put me at ease. Apparently car fires burn hotter than regular house fires, so they can take longer to extinguish because of all the materials used to make cars. They are also more dangerous thanks to the same chemicals that make them burn hotter.
Hooray.
I get up and walk the penthouse again, slower now. I check the locks even though I know they’re secure. I turn off lights that don’t need to be on. I straighten a throw pillow that was already straight. Anything to burn off the restless energy buzzing under my skin.
I stop in front of the windows and look out again, resting my forehead briefly against the cool glass. I tell myself that I rebuilt my life without him, that I learned how to stand on my own, that I don’t need him the way I once did.
The truth answers back immediately and without mercy.
I never stopped hoping.
Not for reconciliation. Not for rescue. Just for the possibility that what we had wasn’t as one-sided or disposable as he made it seem. Just for the knowledge that I hadn’t imagined the depth of it all on my own.
Three a.m. arrives quietly.
I sit back down, curling my feet under me. Every sound makes my head lift. Every distant siren sends my heart racing, even though I know how irrational that is. I brace myself for the reality that sometimes people don’t come back when they say they will.
That thought settles heavy in my chest, unwelcome and insistent.
And I’m still sitting there, wide awake, when the lock finally clicks. He staggers in, clutching his arm with the other one. But he has to release it to lock the door behind himself, and that’s when I see why he was holding that arm.
The gash is huge.
I’m on my feet without a thought. “What happened?”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “It’s nothing?—”
I pull that arm straight to examine him. “It needs stitches!”
He softly chuckles. “I’ve had worse. It’s shallow. I’ll be fine.”
I circle his good wrist with my two hands and pull him toward his en suite bathroom. “You’re right. You will be fine. Once I clean you up and bandage you and ground you, because your butt is never going to another car fire again.”
He rolls his eyes but follows me without more objections. In fact, we both go quiet while I hunt for a first-aid kit beneath the sink. The bathroom is quiet in a way that feels deliberate, like it’s holding its breath with us.
Aiden leans against the counter, shoulders slumped now that the adrenaline has worn off, the cut on his forearm darkened by soot and dried blood. Up close, it looks even angrier than it did in the living room, the skin split just enough to make my stomach twist.
“Sit,” I tell him, nodding toward the closed toilet lid.
He does without arguing, watching me with an intensity that makes it harder to focus than it should be. I soak gauze underthe tap, wring it out, and step closer. When I press it gently to his arm, he inhales sharply, then forces himself to relax.
