I step away first and head for the kitchen. My shoulders are tight and my head is buzzing. I grab a glass and fill it at the sink, then lean my hip into the counter so hard, the edge bites. Gabe follows a moment later. I don't turn. "You should go," I say,staring at the backsplash. "You saw him. You fed him pizza. You watched a movie. Have your hero points for the day and leave."
He doesn't laugh. I hear his footsteps cross the room and he stops a few feet away. "If I walk out right now, I'm not a hero," he says. "I'm the same man I was five years ago."
I swallow water that tastes like sand. "Newsflash. That's the man I remember."
He exhales. "Lena."
"No." I put the glass down harder than I mean to. "You don't get to say my name like that anymore."
His voice drops. "You think I walked away because I didn't care?"
"I know you did," I shoot back. "You left a note, Gabe. A note. After everything we did. After the way you touched me. After the way you talked to me. You left a brownie and a cup of coffee like that was supposed to soften the hit. And then you left the house so you wouldn't have to look me in the eye and say you were done. I had to read it like it was a memo."
He runs a hand over his face. "I thought I was doing the right thing."
"There it is," I say. "The noble speech."
"I was messed up," he says, and there's real strain in his voice now. "I'd just come off two tours. I'd seen things I still don't sleep over. I didn't know what the word stable meant anymore. I didn't understand how to be in one place. I didn't even know who I was when I wasn't on a job. And then there you were, soft and bright and looking at me like I could be something good, and I knew I would break you if I tried to stay."
My throat closes around something thick. "You broke me anyway."
He goes quiet.
I push on, because if I stop now, I will never say any of this again. "Do you know how many times men have told me I deserve better while they walk away? My ex before you told me he'd commit when I lost twenty pounds. He tracked my calories on his phone and told me I would ‘thank him later'. The first guy I ever slept with called me ‘a lot to handle' and told his friends he liked skinny girls better. Then you. You made me feel like my body was the best thing you'd ever touched. You made me watch myself in that mirror, like you were proud of every inch of me, and for one night, I believed I wasn't broken or too much or some project. Then I woke up alone. Again. And this time, it wasn't some twenty-something jerk. It was the man I'd been half in love with since I was old enough to have a crush."
He flinches hard at that. His eyes shine in the low kitchen light.
"I thought you were different," I say. My voice drops to a rough whisper. "But you hurt me the same. You just used better stationery."
He steps closer, slow and careful, until he's in front of me. "I never thought you were too much," he says. "Not once. I thought I was the one who wasn't enough. For you or for anything real."
"Congratulations," I say. "You chose yourself over me. That's not noble. That's just selfish."
His hand lifts, then hesitates. I can see him fighting himself, the way he used to when he was trying not to touch me in front of other people. Finally, his fingers settle at my hip, warm through the thin cotton of my dress.
I jerk slightly at the contact. "Don't," I say. It comes out weak.
"I am sorry," he says. The words are low and raw. "I am so fucking sorry, Lena. For that morning. For every day I didn't come back. For not knowing I had a son. For making you carry all of this alone."
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I blink fast and they spill anyway.
He steps closer. His chest is almost touching mine now. His hand tightens at my hip. His other hand comes up to brush a tear off my cheek with his thumb. "I'm not worth your tears," he says.
"That's the problem," I snap. "You keep deciding that for me."
His jaw clenches. "Then tell me what to do," he says. "Tell me how to fix what I broke. Tell me how to be in your life without hurting you more. Because I want to be in it. I want to know my son. I want to know you, and not from old photos and memories. Really know you, the woman you are now. The mother you became. The one who built this life from scratch while I was off chasing other people's wars."
He's too close. His words are too much. My head feels light. My chest hurts.
"You can't fix it," I whisper. "You don't get to parachute in and patch the hole and call it good. You left. I learned to live without you. I had to make peace with this body on my own. I had to push through every appointment where someone looked at my ass before they looked at my skills. I had to hold my baby and promise him I would always be there, even when I wanted to hide under the covers myself. I did that without you. And now you show up on my doorstep because I sent the wrong fucking picture and you think you can just… slot yourself in?"
His eyes flick to my mouth. "No," he says quietly. "I don't think it's that simple. I know I have a lot to make up for. I know I might never earn back your trust. But I'm not leaving this time because I'm scared of staying. I am scared of what happens to both of you if I walk away again."
My pulse thuds in my ears. His thumb is still on my cheek. His palm is hot at my hip. My body remembers him in a way my head doesn't approve of at all.
"I hate you," I breathe. It isn't the whole truth, but it's the part that feels safest. His eyes go dark. "You hate me," he says. "I get that."
He leans in, just a fraction. His breath brushes my mouth. My stomach turns inside out.
