She could not keep being like this with him.
Always on edge. Always expecting the worst before it happened.
Not in the same house. Not with Mia in the middle of it.
Not if moments like this were going to happen again.
Because they would.
Elizabeth’s gaze lifted, unfocused, settling somewhere across the room.
This distance between them—this constant edge, this habit of stepping around each other rather than through anything—it did not just affect them.
It left gaps.
Gaps that someone else was already falling into.
Her fingers tightened slightly against the mattress before easing again.
She did not have to fall back into his arms or anything like that.
That remained unchanged.
She did not have to pretend that what had happened between them had not happened, or that it could simply be picked up again as though it had never been left unfinished.
That was not something she was willing to do.
But—
Her lips pressed together, then parted again as she exhaled softly.
She could change how she handled him.
That was all.
She could be civil.
Not warm. Not open.
But enough that this—whatever this was—did not keep breaking around them.
It was the reason she had told him about the food.
She had never done that before.
Usually, she left whatever she cooked in the pot and assumed he would find it if he wanted it. That was the extent of it. No mention. No effort beyond that.
This time, she had packed it. Set it aside. Told him where it was.
Elizabeth lay back against the bed, staring at the ceiling.
It was not much.
But it was… something.
Her eyes closed slowly.
Mia came first—still did—and the image of her from earlier settled in again, softer now, less immediate but no less present.
