“It’s just…” It’s him. “Closure.” The lie tastes like blood. “That’s all.”
Leah folds her arms, staring at me like she’s watching a woman walk willingly into a burning building. “Closure doesn’t look like a commitment ring from a dead Saint.”
“It was Tama’s,” I whisper before I can stop myself. “Steel… he… left it.”
Leah’s expression softens. “Aria.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I know what you’re thinking. And no, I didn’t go back. I didn’t choose him. The storm trapped me there. That’s it.”
But the moment I say the words, Steel’s grey eyes flash behind them, hungry, hurting, honest in all the ways he never lets himself be.
Leah doesn’t believe a word of it. But she lets it slide, maybe because she sees how close I am to unraveling, and returns to her desk.
I make it through the day on autopilot, answering emails, prepping for court, and the normal law office garbage. Every time I lift a stack of files, the ring shifts in my pocket. Every time I blink, I smell motor oil. Every time someone speaks, I hear Isaiah’s voice instead. Leah watches me like I might shatter into dust if the wrong person says my name.
The day drags on in a blur of emails, court prep, and Leah watching me like I’m about to fall apart in the supply closet. I keep telling myself the ring in my pocket isn’t burning a hole through my coat, that no one can smell motor oil and fire on me anymore.
But I can.
Every time I shift in my chair, my jacket moves and the faintest trace of smoke, winter, leather worn soft at the collar rises. The smell hits harder than it should. Harder than I’ll ever admit aloud.
Phones ring. Lawyers argue in the hallway. The world keeps spinning like mine didn’t crack open somewhere between the storm and his mouth on mine.
The office lights flicker once, then hum steadily overhead, just enough to make my pulse jump. It’s ridiculous. He’s miles away, avoiding me, and I’m reading ghosts in the shadows.
I fake my way through the rest of the afternoon. Numb smile. Steady typing. Pretending I’m present when my pulse is still back in that garage.
When five o’clock creeps past and the building begins to empty, something in me finally caves. I can’t breathe in thisplace anymore. I shut my laptop like I’m trying to keep my thoughts from spilling out.
Grabbing my bag, I look at Leah. “I’m fine.” She gives me a look that saysyou’re not, but lets me go.
The slow elevator ride down feels too quiet. My reflection stares back at me like a woman who hasn’t slept in years.
Cold slaps my face when I step outside and into the parking garage. Purple, thick dusk has already settled over the city, heavy like a bruise.
I climb into my car, shut myself inside, and for a full minute, I just sit there gripping the steering wheel with shaking hands. The ring shifts in my pocket with every shallow breath I take.
“Get it together,” I whisper. But I don’t. Not really.
The drive home is a smear of headlights and slush, traffic crawling through streets lined with dirty snowbanks. Every red light feels like a pause I don’t want. Every quiet moment curls back to the memory of Isaiah’s hands on my spine, the rough scrape of his voice at my ear, the way he said my name like it hurt him to want me.
When I finally pull onto my street, something in me unwinds just enough to breathe again. I’m exhausted by the effort of pretending I’m ok. My small house stands quiet in the fading light, snow piled against the porch steps, curtains drawn like it’s been waiting for me to return.
I sit there for a long second, engine ticking as it cools. Then I grab my bag, step out into the cold, and cross the walk to my front door.
The moment I step inside, the warmth wraps around me. My house smells like lavender and old books and the faint lemon cleaner I used before the storm. Familiar, safe, mine. But even here, the air feels wrong without Isaiah.
I stand at the window, the small town glowing cold around me. The ring sits in my palm again, heavy with meaning I’m not ready to unravel.
After a long moment, I walk to my bedroom and pull a thin chain from my jewelry box. I slide the ring onto it with a soft metallic whisper. When it settles against my sternum, warm from my fingers, it feels… inevitable.
My reflection in the dark window looks like someone balancing on the edge of two lives.
I turn away from the window before the ache in my chest can sharpen again. The house feels too quiet, too soft, and too safe. Like I don’t quite belong in it anymore. My footsteps sound too loud on the hardwood as I move down the short hallway, fingers trailing the wall like I need the anchor. Isaiah’s flannel hangs heavy on my shoulders, brushing my thighs when I walk, too big, too warm, too him.
The kitchen light flicks on with a soft hum. I don’t remember reaching for the switch. I’m moving on autopilot, pulled by routine because everything else feels like quicksand.
I set my bag on the counter. Fill the kettle. The simple motions settle my breathing. Barely.
