I walk slowly into the kitchen, running my fingers over the edge of the counter.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
And I hate that.
Hate that he made it perfect.
Hate that I still want it.
Hate that a part of me—stupid, broken, hopeful—wonders what it would feel like to stay.
I laugh softly, shaking my head.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Esme.”
You’re here for one thing.
Get the papers signed.
Get closure.
Leave.
That’s the plan.
That’s always been the plan.
Only now?
Standing in the middle of the life we almost had—I’m not so sure it’s going to be that simple.
Because the truth?
I never really left. Never gave up on the dream.
Not really. Not in my heart.
And judging by what I’m standing in right now—neither did he.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen, fingers brushing the edge of the counter like I need to convince myself it’s real, when I hear the door open behind me.
I don’t turn right away.
I know who it is.
I can feel him.
The air shifts.
It tightens.
Like the house itself knows he’s here.
My pulse starts climbing before I even face him.
Slowly, I turn.
