I lean back in my chair. “I’m maintaining boundaries.”
“With who?”
“With you.”
The words land heavy.
She studies me for a long moment.
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” she asks softly.
“I’m doing what’s responsible.”
“No,” she says calmly. “You’re retreating.”
I grind my jaw. “You want me to pretend I didn’t say what I said?”
“I want you to stop acting like wanting me is a crime.”
The air shifts. I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
“It’s not a crime,” I say, voice low. “It’s a complication.”
“Because I’m younger?”
“That’s part of it.”
“Because I work here?”
“That too.”
“Or because you think loving someone again means you loved your wife less?”
That hits. Hard. I don’t answer.
She nods slowly. “That’s what I thought.”
“You don’t get to dissect me like I’m one of Lacee’s science projects,” I say, sharper than I intend.
The quiet between us thickens. She stands first.
“I won’t pretend I don’t miss you when you pull away.”
My chest tightens.
“You miss me?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Her eyes flick to mine. “Yes.”
No hesitation. No dramatics. Just truth.
“You’ve become my compass here,” she continues. “I left Boulder because I felt untethered. Lost. You and Lacee… you make things feel steady.”
That shouldn’t feel like a gift but it does.
“And when you disappear like this,” she adds, “it feels like the ground shifts.”
I stand slowly. Close the space between us. Not touching. Not yet.
