Margot
Ross spent less than five minutes telling Elias he’s moving back home. Now he’s emptying his side of the walk-in closet to move it to the guest bedroom. I appreciate it. Ross carries each arm full with resolve. He looks lighter somehow, though the space between us feels vast.
I watch as he unloads his life: framed photos of his first projects, worn books stacked unevenly, the few clothes he still owns. Each item lands with a soft thud, settling into the room. I stand still, feeling the air shift. As he moves, the room feels tight, the oxygen sucked out by the weight of our history.
In the mornings, we slip into a fragile routine.
Coffee is the anchor. I stand by the espresso machine, fingers tapping the counter. I focus on the hiss of steam and the crunch of grinding beans. Ross walks in, still in his t-shirt and low hung sweatpants, rubbing his eyes. He’s a ghost of the man he once was, before the high-rises demanded he polish himself into something hard and unrecognizable.
“Morning,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.
“Hey.” His tone is unguarded.
He reaches for a mug, movements deliberate. He avoids brushing against me, a careful navigation of the small kitchen. The distance between us is tangible.
I pour his coffee. When I pass him the mug, our fingers nearly brush. A pulse of longing flares under my skin, but I pull back.
Breakfast is a string of neutral topics.
“How was work?” I ask.
“Good,” he says. “I started on the community center project.”
I catch the spark in his eyes. The cold professionalism is gone, replaced by a raw enthusiasm I haven’t seen in years. It draws me in.
“Sounds promising,” I say, leaning against the counter.
“It is. We’re collaborating with local artists on a mural. It’ll run along the playground.”
“Really?” I lean in.
His eyes gleam. Joy washes over me, chipping away at my hesitation. I want to reach across the distance. I want to touch him. But I hold back. We are walking a line, balancing closeness and avoidance.
He relaxes, shoulders dropping an inch.
Over the next few days, unease lingers, a fear of slipping back into old patterns. I see it in the way he pauses mid-sentence, or in the slight arch of his brow when I ask a question that cuts too deep.
Evenings are quiet. We eat at the small kitchen table, the food painstakingly ordinary. We stick to the safe, the weather, the neighborhood, the sunset.
Then come small accidents: shoulders brushing at the sink, hands almost meeting as he passes the salad bowl. The air between us warms.
I don’t know how much is fixed, or how much is still fragile. But we aren’t just sharing a room anymore. We are inching back into each other's lives. The past feels smaller now, and the future finally has enough room for both of us.
Chapter 25
Margot
The problem with a “trial separation” under the same roof is the weight of what’s left unsaid.
It has been three weeks. Ross is living in the guest room, a space that smells of lavender detergent and impermanence. We are polite. Excruciatingly, painfully polite.
“Good morning,” he says, entering the kitchen. He wears jeans and a soft flannel shirt, the uniform of the “New Ross,” but his posture remains rigid, as if bracing for a board meeting.
“Morning,” I reply, tightening my grip on my mug.
He moves to the coffee pot. “I made a fresh pot. Ethiopian blend. I remembered you liked the acidity.”
“Thank you.”
