"Not so sure. Anyway... I don't have a problem telling Lisa everything, but for me to divorce her, I'd have to have a solid reason."
I blink, trying to decode what "solid reason" even means.
He lets it hang there for a beat, and then continues. "When Lisa mentioned San Francisco, I said no instantly. Family, work, too far. I knew you were back in here and I had very mixed feelings about it, but then, things got weird and I started feeling like maybe it was supposed to happen. That it was good. Honestly? I didn't know what the hell I thought. Just... signs, coincidences, whatever, made me say yes."
"What coincidences?"
He blinks, then licks his lips and smiles. "That's for another day."
I frown, but don't push.
"What's important is that I made the move," he says, then snorts a laugh and his eyes roll up. "But, of course, you had to show up in the same damn elevator, same building, and I thought, great, whoever set this up clearly wasn't interested in my sanity."
I glare and smack his chest. "You absolute ass." Try to wriggle free, get up from bed, but his arm traps me before I move.
He pulls me back, his chin hooked over my shoulder, and his lips brush my ear. "Emma. It's never not been you."
My breath hitches as I turn, searching his eyes desperately, because he doesn't just mean now; he means always.
"You mean it?" I breathe.
"Do I mean it?" He raises a brow. "I haven't touched Lisa since us."
The words slam into me like the last blush of sun bleeding through the shutters.
He hasn't touched her since us, not once, not as her husband.
I feel like howling into the pillows out of happiness if I'm being honest, but somehow I manage calm, composed adult energy. Somehow.
"So you haven't—?"
He shakes his head, slowly. "No."
I smile. And because I'm me, I can't leave well enough alone, and prod: "But she told Richard you wanted to move back to New York."
Ben's face goes very still. Then, choosing his tone carefully, he says, "I did say that."
My internal jumping stops, my stomach stays lodged in my throat, though. "So you're leaving."
"I was," he admits. "I really miss my family. New York. But the worst was that you called me a mistake. That gutted me. I hated you for it."
"You don't say." I roll my eyes. "But now?"
"I told you. I'm not going anywhere, unless you tell me to. Actually—" his eyes darken, "—I don't care what you say. I'm staying."
"That's stalker behavior," I quip, fighting a smile.
"Then I hope you like obsessed."
"How much obsessed?"
"Completely, disgustingly, irredeemably obsessed with you." His face is serious.
"I'll think about it." I pout, exaggerated, because apparently that's how one negotiates eternal obsession. Also, this? This is the epitome of all I've ever wanted.
We go quiet for a while as I watch the sky through the window, daylight smoldering into ash, the breeze playing with the sheer curtain through the cracked window.
It's the hour that allows you to feel more than think, which is probably why I love it so much.
