But hope was a fragile thing. Easily crushed. Easily destroyed by the weight of everything I did wrong.
I shifted in the bed, the sheets rustling loudly in the silence. Across the hall, I could picture her in her own room, probably unable to sleep either. Probably holding Travis’ letter, reading his last words, processing whatever he wrote.
Travis.
The man haunted me more in death than he ever had in life. Not because I hated him. I didn’t. He was a good man, a loyal brother, someone who loved Melissa with a devotion that was both beautiful and heartbreaking. But because I knew the truth that Melissa was probably only now confronting: she loved me more than she loved him.
And that knowledge was its own kind of torture. Because if she loved me more, then my absence had hurt her more. My betrayal, and it was a betrayal, no matter how Sinclair framed it as protection, had cut deeper than Travis’ death ever could.
The clock on the nightstand read 2:47 AM. The witching hour had passed, leaving only the dead space of early morning when the world felt suspended between yesterday and tomorrow. I closed my eyes, trying to will myself into sleep that wouldn’t come. My mind kept circling back to the same questions: Would she forgive me? Could she trust me again? Was love enough to rebuild what I broke?
And then I heard it.
The soft click of a door opening across the hall.
My entire body went rigid. Every muscle tensed, every nerve suddenly alert. I held my breath, afraid that even the sound of breathing might shatter whatever was happening, might send her back to her room and lock the door between us forever.
Footsteps in the hallway. Soft, hesitant, barely audible against the hardwood floor. The kind of steps someone took when they weren’t entirely sure they should be moving forward but couldn’t seem to stop themselves.
My bedroom door was open. I’d left it that way deliberately, some pathetic hope that she might need me in the night, that she might cross that threshold. But I hadn’t actually believed it would happen. Hadn’t let myself hope for something that felt too much like a miracle.
The footsteps stopped. I could feel her presence in the doorway, could sense her standing there in the darkness, probably second-guessing herself, probably fighting the urge to turn around and retreat to the safety of her own space.
Please,I thought desperately.Please don’t leave.
The silence stretched. Seconds that felt like hours. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was certain she could hear it, certain the sound would give away that I was awake, that I was aware of her presence. And then the footsteps resumed.
Closer now. Moving toward the bed with a determination that felt both terrifying and hopeful. I kept my eyes closed and my breathing as steady as I could manage, playing the part of someone asleep even though every cell in my body was screaming with awareness. I didn’t want to spook her. Didn’t want to do anything that might make her change her mind.
The bed dipped.
The sensation was so subtle, so gentle, that if I hadn’t been hyperaware of every movement, I might have missed it. The mattress shifted as she climbed onto it, her weight barely registering, as if she was trying to make herself as small and unobtrusive as possible.
I felt her settle beside me, felt the warmth of her body radiating through the space between us. She was close, closer than she had been in months, but not touching. Not yet.
My throat tightened. My chest ached with the effort of staying still, of not reaching for her, of letting her come to me on her own terms.
And then she moved.
Slowly, tentatively, she curled herself around me. Her front pressed against my back, her arm sliding around my waist, her hand coming to rest against my chest where she could probably feel my heart trying to beat its way out of my ribcage.
The sensation was overwhelming. After six months of absence, of imagining this moment, of wondering if I’d ever feel her touch again, and having her actually here, actually choosing to be close to me, was almost more than I could process.
She fit against me perfectly. Like we slotted together this way, her curves matching my angles, her breath warm against the back of my neck. I could feel the slight swell of her pregnant belly pressed against my lower back, a tangible reminder of the child she and Travis created, and the future they were supposed to be building together.
For the first time since everything had fallen apart, since I walked away from her to do what needed to be done, since I chose the IRA over the woman I loved, since I spent six months telling myself it was necessary, I felt something inside me release.
The tension I carried like armor, the fear that had been eating at me from the inside, the terrible certainty that I had destroyed something irreparable, all of it dissolved in the simple act of her choosing to be here. Choosing to curl around me in the darkness. Choosing, even if just for this moment, not to be alone.
My body relaxed into hers, muscles I hadn’t realized were clenched finally loosened. The breath I had been holding escaped in a quiet exhale that sounded too loud in the silence. She tensed slightly, probably realizing I was awake, probably second-guessing her decision to come here. I waited, afraid tomove, afraid to speak, afraid to do anything that might break whatever fragile spell had brought her to my bed. And then she spoke, her voice quiet and defensive, carrying the weight of someone trying to protect themselves from hope.
“This doesn’t mean anything.”
Her words should have hurt. Should have felt like a rejection, a reminder that proximity didn’t equal forgiveness, that her body being here didn’t mean her heart had followed.
But instead, I found myself smirking in the darkness.
Because I knew better. I knew that everything she did meant something, that she didn’t make careless choices, that coming to my room in the middle of the night and curling around me was the opposite of meaningless.
