“You thought I was going to kick you out.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“Aren’t you?” she asks, and her voice is so small it nearly breaks me.
I shake my head.
“No.”
The word feels fragile between us.
She swallows. “Then what do we do?”
The question lingers in the air between us. There’s no anger in it. No defensiveness.
Just raw, trembling desperation.
I move closer, my chest tight, my voice lower when I finally speak.
“Will you ever do it again?” I ask.
Her answer is immediate. No hesitation. No calculation.
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“What will you do if I ever mess up again?”
She lets out a shaky breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Yell at you,” she says, smiling through her tears. “A lot.”
And somehow… that’s the most honest thing she could’ve said.
When I look at her now, I don’t see the bathroom. I don’t see the lies.
I see the life we still have left.
The birthdays we haven’t celebrated yet. The vacations we’ve talked about but never booked. The gray hair we’ll complain about. The quiet mornings. The loud holidays.
I realize I can’t give that up.
Maybe that makes me weak.
Maybe it makes me a fool.
But I love her.
And I always will.
“Okay,” I say.
Her brows knit. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat.
And then I close the distance.
