My fingers slip on the counter.
The whole kitchen tilts for a second.
“You don’t get to wake up today and blame the wine,” Kai continues, voice steady in a way that terrifies me more than the anger I expected. “You don’t get to call me an hallucination. Or a dream. Or a mistake.”
A pause.
A slow exhale.
“I’ll tell you what was a mistake.”
He lets the silence stretch—like he’s leaning close to the speaker, letting me feel his breath through the phone.
“Letting you walk out of that courtroom without dragging you with me.”
I choke on air.
My hand flies to my chest like I can hold myself together.
“You think I didn’t want to?” he asks, quieter now. “You think I didn’t imagine grabbing your wrist, pulling you behind me, and running until the world couldn’t find us?”
A harsh, shaky breath punctures the audio.
“Four years,” he whispers, voice breaking in a way that feels like a knife sliding slowly between my ribs. “Four years of wanting to undo one moment.”
He shifts—something rustles, something like fabric or movement or pacing.
“But that doesn’t matter anymore. Because now…”
Another pause.
He breathes out, slow and hot.
“…you asked for me.”
My heart stops.
I grip the counter so hard the edges dig into my palms.
“You said you wanted me to come back,” he murmurs. “You said you remembered. You said you missed me.”
Heat crawls up my neck, shame and longing tangled so tightly I can’t tell them apart.
“And then you said something else.”
A sound like a laugh—but not amused. Not even close.
It’s wrecked.
Ruined.
Hungry.
“You said you still loved me.”
My vision blurs.
Tears slide hot and fast down my cheeks.
