Not anymore.
And the truth hits me like a punch to the sternum:
If last night wasn’t a dream…
If he was actually here…
If he walked through my house like it already belonged to him…
Then he could come back.
At any moment.
For me.
And the worst part?
The part that curdles my stomach and heats my skin and knots something ugly and desperate inside my chest?
I don’t know if I want to run—or wait for him.
I don’t remember moving.
One second I’m staring at the woods like they’re breathing.
The next—I’m wrenching open the cabinet beside the fridge, hand shaking as I grab the first bottle of wine I see. A deep red. Something expensive.
Something Noah buys to impress dinner guests and pretend we’re the kind of couple who discuss notes of oak and berry instead of screaming at each other behind locked doors.
My fingers can barely grip the opener.
It slips.
Clatters.
I say, “Fuck,” too loudly.
The word cracks through the silence.
Bounces off the marble.
Sounds like it belongs to someone feral.
I try again, digging the screw into the cork with far too much force, breath uneven, jaw clenched. When it finally gives, the sudden pop makes me jump hard enough that I nearly drop the bottle.
My hands are trembling so badly the wine splashes when I pour it—dark red staining the inside of the glass like fresh blood.
I down half of it in one swallow.
It burns.
Hot.
Deep.
Unforgiving.
It settles like a bruise behind my ribs.
