Something about the way she says it—concern threaded through sarcasm—hits me square in the chest.
I step off the machine, wipe my face with a towel, and shrug. “Helps me think.”
She snorts softly. “That explains a lot.”
I smile despite myself.
Because there she is. In my house. In my space. Looking at me like she cares whether I make it through the morning.
And that?
That’s the most dangerous thing of all.
I take the stairs two at a time.
Not because I’m in a hurry—but because if I stay near her any longer, I won’t be able to pull myself back together.
The gym did nothing except remind me how deeply she’s already under my skin. The way she looked at me standing there in the doorway—sleep-soft, concerned, real—nearly cracked something open that I don’t know how to close again.
I need distance.
It’s the only way I know how to regain control.
The shower is hot, punishing. I stand under the spray longer than necessary, hands braced against the tile, letting the water beat down on my neck as I force my thoughts into clean, orderly lines.
One year.
She’s said it more than once. Casually. Like it’s a fact she’s already accepted.
I’ll do a year.
She didn’t sayforever.
She didn’t sayus.
And I can’t—won’t—leave my heart on the line when she’s already halfway out the door. Especially not when I know she’s done it before. Packed up. Disappeared. Left without explanation.
I dry off, dress with mechanical precision, and pull my phone from the counter.
Me:
I’ll be in today. Full schedule.
Jack responds almost instantly.
Jack:
Thought you were off. Everything okay?
Me:
Fine.
It’s a lie. But it’s one I’m good at.
By the time I get downstairs, she’s already set breakfast out—coffee poured, plates warm. She’s sitting at the island, watching me too closely.
“You okay?” she asks gently.
