Twenty-four hours ago, I was asleep in my own bed, alarm set for 7 AM, Hannah’s preschool drop-off and my commute already mapped out in my mind. Structure. Routine. The only things keeping me from falling apart.
Now all of it is gone.
And the worst part—the part that makes me feel sick and warm and furious all at once—is that I still want him. Despite everything. Despite the lies.
It’s really him.
After all this time.
Has he been thinking about us? About Hannah growing up without him? About me?
My chest tightens.
Has he been with someone else?
The thought arrives unbidden, sharp as a blade. He’s Nikolai Rogov. Handsome, dangerous, exactly the kind of man women fall over themselves for. Four years is a long time to be alone.
I push the covers back and slip out of bed carefully, mindful not to wake Hannah. My bare feet are silent on the old floorboards as I ease the door open.
Nikolai sits in profile, chest rising and falling in what looks like sleep. But I know better. His jaw is too tight, his posture too rigid. He’s on guard. Still protecting us even now.
I used to imagine this moment. Late at night when the grief was unbearable, I’d let myself fantasize about him coming back. Tearful reunions. Hannah running into his arms. The three of us together, finally, the way we were always supposed to be.
I pictured warmth. Joy. Relief.
But this—standing in a dark cabin that smells like rot, my daughter traumatized, my life in pieces—this isn’t what I imagined.
Reality is cold. Uncertain. Heavy with words unsaid.
Nikolai’s eyes snap open. He turns, seeing me in the doorway, and rises halfway from his chair before stopping himself.
The space between us feels like a physical thing. Charged. Fragile.
He’s restraining himself. I can see it in every tense line of his body.
And so am I.
We stand there, silent, oceans apart even though we’re only feet away from each other.
I have a thousand questions. Four years’ worth of them.
But I can’t ask any of them right now. Can’t give him that yet.
Not when everything still hurts this much.
The air between us feels charged. Electric.
I forgot what it was like to be this close to him. How his presence alone could make my heart race, my breath catch. Even now, even after everything that happened, my body remembers. The pull is still there, as powerful as it ever was.
Maybe more so, after four years of absence.
I force myself to look away.
This isn’t just about me anymore. Every choice I make affects Hannah. I can’t afford to be reckless, can’t let old feelings override the reality of what he’s done. What he’s put us through.
Part of me wants to close the distance between us. To fall into his arms and let four years of grief pour out. To tell him how much I’ve missed him, how many nights I’ve ached for him,how seeing him alive has broken something open inside me that I thought had healed.
But another part—the part that’s spent four years rebuilding from nothing—wants to scream at him. To make him feel even a fraction of the pain I’ve carried.
