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The apartment was too quiet.

Roman had left for a pack meeting an hour ago, tossing a casual “won’t be late” over his shoulder as he adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie and grabbing his keys. I’d offered to go with him, in case he wanted backup or someone to glare meaningfully at Lucien. Roman had given me that tilted smile he got when he was about to say something that sounded nice but was actually firm.

“Not yet. You’ll come when Lucien asks for you. That’s how it works.”

And that was that.

Now I was alone, wrapped in a silence that felt too clean, too still. No music, no humming, no sarcastic commentary drifting down the hall. Just me and my unraveling brain.

I scrolled through the bakery project files I was working on, pretending to care about serif spacing, but my mind drifted back to the farmer’s market. Back to Eric.

Seeing him with his yoga instructor had been as stupidly painful as stepping on a Lego. I’d brushed it off, pushed it down with Roman’s ridiculous antics and too-perfect kiss. But now?

Now it hit like a freight train.

I couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t just cheated, hadn’t just lied, but he’d chosen her. I’d always suspected he had a crush on Bianca, and seeing them together only confirmed my suspicions. I didn’t know whether he’d cheated physically or had just decided to pursue her while we were still together, but one thing was perfectly fucking clear. He was giving her the relationship I wanted. Freely. Publicly.

Bianca looked like she’d been plucked from a catalog titled Mindful & Toned: The Intimidatingly Serene Edition.

Exhibit A: Her sleek, smooth body. The kind of yoga-toned you got when your job was your hobby, and your hobby was your personality. I didn’t hate my body. I had strength, curves, the kind of softness that was real. But next to her, I felt… too much. Not enough.

Exhibit B: That attitude. She’d watched me with zero reaction, like none of it mattered. Like she wasn’t at all concerned about the woman Eric had spent three years with. I couldn’t fake that level of detachment no matter how hard I tried. I felt things. Loudly.

Exhibit C: Eric. She had him. She had my history. My bed. My future.

Probably my throw pillows, too.

I stood and yanked the freezer open, grabbing the emergency pint of Ben and Jerry’s I’d hidden behind a bag of peas I would never eat. Spoon. Blanket. Couch. The holy trifecta of heartbreak management.

The first spoonful tasted like surrender. I didn’t even pretend to hold it together. The tears came in hot, miserable waves. It wasn’t elegant or cinematic. No, it was full-snot, puffy-faced crying.

I needed noise. I needed anything else. I turned on the TV.

And of course, The Notebook was playing.

“Fuck my life,” I muttered, but I didn’t change the channel. Because of course I didn’t. I cried into my cookie dough ice cream as if Rachel McAdams herself had come to kick me while I was down.

I was halfway through a sob when I heard keys fumbling at the door. Shit. Roman.

There was no time to wipe my face or pretend I had it together. I was a sad little burrito of despair.

The door opened. Roman stepped in and froze when he saw me.

Swollen eyes. Red nose. Mascara somewhere near my jawline. Even so, I made direct eye contact. My pride had left thirty minutes ago and wasn’t returning anytime soon.

Without saying a word, he walked to the kitchen, grabbed a spoon, and crossed the room. He took a blanket out of the basket next to the couch, then sat down beside me and tucked it around us like this was a regular Tuesday and not a full-blown emotional catastrophe.

Then he scooped a bite of my ice cream, popped it into his mouth, and mumbled, “This is such a great movie.”

I gaped at him. Roman was an enigma. The man could flirt like a menace one minute and become the human embodiment of a safe harbor the next. He didn’t talk. Didn’t press. He simply existed beside me.

I kept crying, tears steadily tracking down my face, but I didn’t feel ashamed about it. Roman didn’t make me feel like I had to be smaller or quieter or more together than I was.

Halfway through the movie, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a small, firm squeeze. That single moment—no words, no performance—was like a lifeline.

Like I could break and still be wanted in the wreckage.

I didn’t thank him. I didn’t have to.