The boys pout but agree. They race back downstairs with the same energy they came up with. I pretend to look through my own luggage while Karan places his own stuff on his side of the bed, but after a single minute of silence, I can no longer breathe.
“We should head down,” I say, already moving toward the door. “Your mother’s making dinner.”
“Rachel, please.” He reaches for me but stops short of actually touching me. “Just... five minutes?”
I look at him then, really look at him. At the worry lines creasing his forehead, the way his shoulders slump with exhaustion.
“Not now,” I finally say. “The boys need you.”
I’m not ready to talk. Plus, I’m not lying. His boys need him more than I do.
I leave him there, surrounded by our matching luggage and shared memories, all the words I can’t say yet heavy on my tongue.
After dinner, comes bedtime, which is a carefully orchestrated dance we’ve perfected over five years of parenting. Even with the tension between us, our bodies remember the choreography.
Karan gets their pajamas while I supervise teeth brushing. I fetch fresh water while he checks for monsters under the unfamiliar bed. Together, we tuck them into the queen bed they share, our hands occasionally brushing as we smooth the blankets.
“One more story?” Cayce pleads, his dark eyes wide and hopeful.
“You’ve already had three,” I remind him, but Karan’s already reaching for another book.
“It's their Christmas vacation,” he says softly, and for a moment, he sounds so much like his mother that I have to bite back a snarl.
I should argue. Should maintain the routines we’ve worked so hard to establish. But watching him settle between our two sons on the bed, his deep voice bringing the story alive with different characters and sound effects, I can’t bring myself to interrupt.
By the time he finishes, both boys are fighting to keep their eyes open. We kiss them goodnight and leave the door cracked just the way they like it.
The hallway of the second floor feels smaller than ever as we stand in it, listening to their breathing even out. The sounds ofthe family downstairs have quieted; everyone is starting to settle in for the night after a long day of cooking and catching up.
“They missed you,” I whisper, because it’s safer than saying I missed him too.
“I know.” His voice cracks slightly. “Rachel, I—”
“We should get ready for bed too,” I cut him off, already moving toward our room. “It's been a long day.”
He follows me silently, and soon we’re engaged in another familiar dance. Taking turns in the small upstairs bathroom. Carefully avoiding each other’s eyes as we change in our guest room. The bed seems to shrink with each passing moment, the space between us growing impossibly wide even as we’re forced to share such intimate quarters.
I slip under the covers first and immediately turn to face the wall. The mattress dips as Karan joins me, his warmth radiating across the careful distance we maintain. This is the same bed where we’ve spent so many Christmas nights. Where we’ve shared whispers, whimpers, and moans alike.
Where we now lie like strangers.
I'm almost asleep when his hand brushes my shoulder. The touch is so light I could pretend I didn't feel it, could let myself drift off into the safety of unconsciousness.
But my body betrays me. It leans into his warmth like a flower seeking sunlight.
God damnit, why do I still crave him so much?
“Rachel.” My name on his lips is barely a whisper. “Please look at me.”
I shouldn’t. Everything I've planned, everything I've decided—it all depends on maintaining this distance.
But fourteen years of loving him wins out, and I turn over.
In the dim moonlight filtering through the window, his eyes are impossibly dark. His hair is loose around his shoulders—hemust have taken it down while I was facing the wall—and my fingers itch with the muscle memory of running through it.
His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing across my skin with aching tenderness. I should stop this. Should remind him of all the reasons we're broken.
Instead, I let him draw me closer.
