I don’t miss it. The deeper tenor of his voice as he says that. “Is there something you wanna say?”
“No.” He grabs two beers, pops the caps, hands me one, then leans against the counter. “Yes.”
I remain silent, waiting for him to speak.
He doesn’t right away, chugs half his beer. Then, “Every time you leave, it costs her something. I know it’s not your intention, but that’s the reality of it.”
“You know I hate hurting her.”
“I do. Just be aware that I'm the one there when the bill comes due. I see her fall apart. Not you.”
The kitchen is quiet except for the last sizzle of the pan.
Outside, Sophia is sitting on the edge of the pool now, feet in the water, face toward the horizon.
Ian watches her for a second.
That second confirms it.
“You care for her.” I keep his gaze.
“Of course, I fucking care for her. We spend twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week with each other. Plus…” he points out toward the pool, “she’s… her. You know? Sophia, this little fucking light in our dark, fucked-up world. I’d have to be a goddamn wall not to care for her.”
I turn the beer bottle in my hands and let the truth settle in my chest like a blade I can’t pull out.
I should be angry. I wait for it, dig around for the clean, righteous burn. It isn’t there. Not really. Because Ian caring for her is the reason she's okay. Ian caring for her is the reason she has good days. Ian caring for her is the reason someone was in the next room when the nightmares came.
He's been doing the things I can't do.
Showing up. Staying. Being present in all the ordinary, daily, unglamorous ways that I keep leaving her without. And he's done it well—better than I had any right to expect, better than I probably deserve—and for that, I owe him something I don't have the language to express and probably never will.
But… There’s always a fucking but.
The gratitude and the jealousy sit side by side in my ribs like two knives in the same wound. I knew this could happen. Months in Paris, two broken people sharing the same small world—grief, quiet dinners, two a.m. nightmares. Of course something would grow between them.
I just didn’t know it would feel like this.
Watching him look at her in the pool. That small, unguarded glance. The way his shoulders ease when she laughs at something he said. It tightens something ugly in my chest that has no right to exist.
She’s mine. But there’s this deep, dark space in me that whispers about how she isn’t mine. Can’t be mine. Because I’m me. Reth Hale. The man who has nothing to offer her but tears and nightmares and days of longing. I walked out and left a lollipop on her pillow like a coward’s apology.
Ian’s right. I’m not there for the aftermath. He is.
You don’t get to abandon someone and then feel possessive when someone else shows up to do the job you can’t.
I clear my throat, push off the wall, and go to stand by the counter across from him. “Thank you.”
“Oh, Jesus. Are you dying?”
“What? No.”
“Is this one of those moments where you feel an impending doom days before you die in your sleep? Because I’m telling you, a man in your line of work, dying in your sleep would be anti-climatic as fuck.”
I pull a palm down my face. “I’m just saying thank you.”
“Yeah. For the second time in one night.” Ian studies me. “So either you’re dying, or you have a brain tumor that’s eating all your non-asshole cells.”
“I’m thanking you for being there for Sophia when I can’t.”
