"Okay." He picked the bowl up, balanced it on his palm. "Water?"
She nodded, reaching automatically. Their fingers brushed as he passed the glass over. Her hand trembled slightly as she drank, the condensation running down the side. When she handed it back, she looked like someone had turned down her dim switch another notch.
"I'm too tired, Connor," she said wearily. "I can't... not tonight. Let's talk tomorrow."
He was grateful for the reprieve. Tomorrow. If there might still be a tomorrow for them to pick apart.
"Yeah," he said. "Of course. Sleep."
He stood, the old floorboard under his foot creaking as he shifted. He hesitated at the door, the words like stones in his mouth—too big to swallow, too jagged to spit out.
"Fern?"
She'd already slid down again, curling on her side facing Coral, back presented to him like a closed door. "Mm?"
"Can I... " His throat clicked. "Can I just hold you tonight?"
Her shoulders immediately stiffened. "Connor, I don't—"
"I know." He slowly stepped back toward the bed, like he didn't want to spook a wild animal. "I know this is...this might be it for us. And I'm not asking you to forgive me. I just..." He drew in a breath that hurt. "I understand now that I'm messed up. That I've been unworthy of you. Of Coral."
Her fingers tightened in the duvet.
"Until I settle things here, I can't be what she needs," he said, voice low and urgent, trying not to wake their daughter. "And I can't be what you need. I get that. But if… if you ever gave me another chance, I want to be. I want to do it right this time. I am coming back to Manchester. I have already talked to Davis; Joe is going to take over for me."
He risked looking at her then. Her face was turned half toward him over her shoulder, eyes glinting in the lamplight, blue and hard—like a frozen sea, he thought crazily, utterly out of his reach.
"I have been wrong not to trust you. None of this would have happened if I’d just told you what was going on," he added quickly. "Jacob is a child, and I need to say my goodbyes. But please, let me try to rebuild what I have destroyed with Coral. And you, if that's what you want. I have given my time and attention to Matilda and Jacob when I should have been focussed on you. I know what it is to have a learning disability, but I wasn't helping you with Coral. I took you for granted, and now I am paying the price. I'm sorry I didn't do better."
The silence stretched like a rubber band.
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. He could see the exhaustion, the way her defences were down. He was ashamed he was exploiting that, but he knew this might be his last chance to hold her. Her body leaned instinctively toward Coral, even while her mind weighed whether to allow him an inch of space.
"Just for tonight," she said finally, voice a rasp. "I can't—I don't have the energy to fight you on this as well. But that's all it is, Connor. Tonight. It doesn't mean anything because I am leaving as soon as I am packed."
He nodded, throat too tight to answer. He set the bowl and glass back on the bedside table, flicked off the lamp so the room dipped into soft darkness, lit only by the streetlight glow seeping around the curtains.
He usually slept in boxers, skin against cool sheets. Tonight, he pulled on sweats and a T-shirt, the cotton damp under his arms. It felt right to keep a layer between them. A barrier to respect her boundaries.
He walked around to the other side of the bed and slid in slowly, careful not to jostle them. The mattress dipped under his weight; Coral muttered something and kicked out, her heel catching his thigh.
"Shh, poppet," Fern murmured automatically, her hand smoothing over Coral's leg. The domesticity of it, the muscle memory of Coral sleeping between them, punched him in the solar plexus.
He may never have this again.
He lay on his side facing Fern's sleepy face. For a moment he didn't touch her, just watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, memorising the silhouette he'd taken for granted for so long. Then, inch by inch, he lifted his arm and rested his hand lightly at her waist, splayed over the fabric of her T-shirt.
She tensed, then, after a long few seconds, let out a breath and let herself relax. He could feel the stiffness still, the space she kept even as she allowed him to curl around them both. Her eyes were closed, her hair tickling his chin.
He pulled her closer anyway, just a little, enough that he could bury his face in her hair. He breathed in her scent—salt and sleep and the shampoo she shared with Coral because it was gentler on their hair. The familiarity of it cracked something open inside him.
He hadn't meant to cry, but the tears came anyway, hot and silent, sliding down his nose to soak into the pillow and her wild hair.
Her hand moved, just once, brushing at the dampness on his cheeks. She didn't speak.
"I'll settle things here as soon as I can," he whispered into the darkness, words barely more than breath. "I'll sell this house. I'll get us out of here. I'll follow you back, wherever you go. I'll do whatever it takes to win you back, Fern. I know I fucked up, and I also know that admitting it doesn't fix anything. But I am going to take whatever you give me."
She didn't answer. Her breathing, after a while, evened out into something that might have been sleep, or the practiced stillness of someone who couldn't bear to hear another word.
