The first night she’s back, she doesn’t speak to me beyond what’s necessary.
She's not cruel or dramatic. Just… stripped down to the essentials, like she’s rationing herself. She showers. She sleeps for a few hours. She wakes and moves through the penthouse like it’s a hotel she doesn’t trust. When she passes me, she doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t soften either.
The coldness isn’t a weapon.
It’s a boundary.
And I deserve it.
I do what I should’ve done from the beginning.
I show up, not with words, but with my presence.
The next morning, I’m up before her because I can’t stand the idea of her waking up alone in a house that suddenly feels like an enemy.
I have coffee waiting.
The one she likes, the way she takes it. The mug she always reaches for without thinking, the ceramic one with the tiny hairline crack near the handle that she refuses to replace because she says it “feels right in her hand.”
I leave it on the counter like an offering I’m not entitled to see accepted.
When she comes in, hair damp, face bare, wearing my sweatshirt, she pauses.
Her gaze flicks to the mug.
Then to me.
The smallest moment of hesitation.
Not forgiveness or warmth. Just… the awareness that I’m here.
I keep my voice even. Low.
“The car is downstairs whenever you’re ready.”
She doesn’t respond right away. She wraps both hands around the mug.
“Thank you,” she says eventually, quiet, almost reluctant.
I nod once. “I’m coming with you.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Julian...”
“I’m not asking,” I say, and then I catch myself. The old instinct. The command. The control.
I force it down.
I try again. Softer.
“I’m not going to leave you alone in this again.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. She doesn’t agree, but doesn’t tell me no.
She just turns and takes a sip of her coffee; eyes fixed somewhere beyond the glass.
I take that as permission.
Or at least not a rejection.
