I freeze.
My mind has already proven itself to be ruthless, conjuring illusions only to tear them away. This could be another. A phantom of longing, a trick of memory sharpened into torture.
Her voice calls again, panicked, urgent.
Through the haze, I see her form—blurred at first, then sharpening, impossibly vivid. My chest lurches. I must be hallucinating. But god—god, she’s beautiful. Even as a phantom, she’s the most exquisite thing I have ever seen. Just the sight of her, real or imagined, cuts through the static and softens the terror clawing at me.
She moves quickly to the glass, hand pressed flat against it. “Nathaniel?” Her voice is sharp but not raised, edged with alarm. “What are you doing?”
I can barely hold her gaze. My breath tears ragged from my chest. Still, I manage a weak smile. “Hi, baby…”
She doesn’t think twice. The door slides open, water spraying her clothes. She steps into the shower with me, hands finding my arms, turning me toward her. My body is rigid, my skin ice-cold, my eyes unfocused.
“This water’s freezing!” she exclaims, her voice clearer now that she’s close. Her palm squeezes my forearm, grounding me. “You’re shaking! You’re going to make yourself sick, my love.”
I hear the words, but they feel distant, muffled under the roar in my head. I stare at her blankly, my lips moving before I can stop them.
“I’m so happy to see you…”
The words sound flat, like I’m speaking to myself, narrating a delusion. And maybe I am. Even if she isn’t really here, even if this is only the cruelty of my imagination—what comfort it is, to look at her one last time.
Her hand brushes across my chest as she reaches past me, adjusting the temperature. The change hits slowly, but her touch is immediate—her fingers leaving fire against my skin. My body trembles under it. I blink, once, twice, as if my eyes are relearning how to focus. She’s under the spray now too, her hair damp, her clothes soaked, refusing to move away.
She brings one hand to the side of my neck, thumb tracing my jaw. With the other, she steadies my head, holding me there, not letting me drift. “I’m here,” she says quietly, low and sure. “I’ve got you. Look at me.”
I do. My vision comes into focus. She doesn’t flicker out of existence.
She stayed.
My hands, shaking violently, lift and find her waist. And Ifeelher. Warm beneath the wet fabric. She’s solid.My Olivia is here.
The relief crashes through me so sharp and sweet it nearly buckles me. My throat closes, my voice breaking as I choke out, “You stayed.”
Her eyes soften, relief flooding her features as if she can see me clawing my way back to her. She nods, lips curving into the faintest smile. “Yes, my love. I did. I’m here with you.”
She coaxes me into her rhythm. Her breaths are slow, measured, and I try—god, I try—to match them. At first it’s impossible; my chest seizes, every inhale clipped and shallow. But her hand stays at my jaw, her gaze tethering me, her body pressed into mine under the water. I cling to her breaths, to the gentle rise and fall, until slowly, painfully, my lungs begin to follow.
“Baby, it’s you,” I whisper hoarsely. The words fall out again, again, like prayer. “You’re here.”
“Yes,” she answers gently each time, patient as if there’s nothing else in the world more important than repeating it. “It’s me. I’m right here.”
The storm inside me starts to recede, leaving exhaustion in its wake. My heart still thunders, but not with the same terror. My grip on her waist loosens, not from wanting to let go, but because the panic is finally loosening its hold on me. My breaths deepen, ragged but real. And through it all—her touch, her voice, her presence—the one thing I was sure I’d lost is pressed against me, bringing me back to life.
My gaze drops. Through the haze of water and damp fabric, I see it—the necklace, clinging to her shirt, the solitaire diamond catching the bathroom light in a sudden, merciless flash. I blink once. Then twice.
It’s here.On her.
My hand trembles as I lift it, fingers curling around the pendant before sliding up, closing gently—claiming—around her throat. Her pulse flutters against my palm. The scattered edges of me sharpen, snap into focus. I meet her eyes, voice breaking but steady with need.
“What does this mean?”
She smiles. Soft, sure, impossibly beautiful. Fuck, I want every smile she’ll ever give, all of them, for the rest of my life.
“I think you know what it means,” she whispers.
The words pierce through me.
Yesterday wasn’t a dream. She knowseverything—my obsession, my transgressions—andstill, she’s choosing this.
