The space I'd fought to carve out without him.
"Nice place," he said, setting the bags on the counter. He scanned the room, taking everything in—lingering a second too long, like he was memorizing it. "Cozy."
"It's temporary," I said too quickly.
"I like it." He smiled, that familiar crooked-boy charm. "It feels like you."
It's supposed to be free of you.
But the words wedged in my throat.
I dug plates out of a half-open box while he unpacked the food. Butter chicken. Garlic naan. Samosas still hot enough to fog the plastic container.
He remembered everything.
"I didn't realize they still delivered this late," I said, mostly to fill the air.
"I called in a favor." He shrugged lightly. "Told them it mattered."
We sat on the couch because I didn't have a table yet. He didn't complain. Didn't raise an eyebrow at the boxes everywhere or the fact that I was drinking wine out of a mug because I couldn't find the glasses.
He just… talked.
About therapy.
About Dr. Reeves, a sixty-something therapist who, according to him, "doesn't humor bullshit."
About his father. His childhood. Patterns he never learned to break.
"I'm not saying that excuses anything," he added quickly, setting down his fork. "It doesn't. What I did was... wrong. There's no excuse."
I swallowed hard.
This—this accountability—was what I'd begged for.
What I'd waited YEARS to hear.
He was trying.
God help me, he was trying.
So why did I feel like the room was shrinking?
"Garrett…" I began.
"I know." He reached out, fingers brushing mine. My body reacted before my mind—a flash of warmth, followed by the sharp memory of flinching. "You can't trust me yet. I get that. I have to earn it back.But, Candace—" His gaze found mine, raw with vulnerability. "I love you. I never stopped."
I should have pulled away.
I should have told him to leave.
I should have demanded my money back.
But his hand was warm.
And loneliness did strange things to a person.
"You should go," I whispered.
