I huff a quiet laugh.
“She would want me dramatic.”
“Exactly.”
We stand there body to body—taking in the moment and preparing for tonight. The energy between us hasn’t been this intimate in months. It didn’t feel forced. Nor guilt-ridden. Only a warmth that reminded us we’re still living and loving for each other and Lena. His thumb brushes lightly along my waist.
“You’ve been… different,” he says carefully.
“Good different?”
“Braver.”
I swallow. “I had therapy,” I admit.
He nods slowly.
“Solo?”
“Yes.”
He studies my face, waiting. I almost freeze. Almost default back into silence. But I remember Dr. Manning’s words. Move like a team.
“My family’s been reaching out,” I say quietly.
His jaw tightens instantly but relaxes again. “Is that good or bad?”
“Every time they reach out, they refer to me as Zaire.”
His hands shift slightly on my hips. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
There’s no anger in his tone.
Just hurt but not because I didn’t tell him. Hurt for me because he is fully aware of how harmful it is to deadname.
“I’m used to handling it alone,” I answer honestly.
He exhales through his nose. “You don’t have to.”
I meet his eyes fully. “I know.”
Silence settles between us.
“If they call again,” he says steadily, “we’ll handle it together.”
We.
The word means more to me than I’ve ever cared to admit.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He presses his forehead gently to mine. “I don’t want to be in the cold when it gets rough,” he adds softly.
“You won’t be,” I promise.
His hands slide down to squeeze my hips once before stepping back. “Now,” he says, reaching for his tailored tux jacket, “let’s go honor our girl.”
I step back to take him in fully before we clean up and finish getting dressed. I’m nearly drooling as he slips into the cream Tom Ford tux, crisp white shirt, velvet bow tie. I wonder if we have time for him to bend me over when his gold Rolex catches the light.
