THIRTY-FOUR
CLARA
I hadn’t slept much.
I knew he hadn’t either. I was painfully aware of his movements across the hall—the soft thud of his footsteps on the hardwood, the shower turning on, then off again, like he couldn’t quite settle in.
Wes had stayed in his room. I’d stayed in mine. The space between us felt bigger than the whole damn house.
I zipped the duffel and sighed.
It wasn’t even that big. A week’s worth of clothes, my toiletries, my laptop, and the overstuffed folder full of shot lists and contracts for the farm shoot. Half my closet still hung in place, my shoes still lined up underneath. My favorite sweatshirt draped over the back of the chair.
I wasn’t emptying my life into a suitcase, but I was drawing a line.
I wrapped my fingers around the strap, testing the weight. It dug into the pad of my palm, heavier than it had any right to be.
The thought made my throat close. I swallowed hard, hitched the duffel onto my shoulder, and stepped into the hall.
The house was too quiet. No TV, no music from his phone. Just the low hum of the heater and the faint clink of ceramic from the kitchen.
Of course he was making coffee.
My heart lurched when I saw him at the counter, shoulders broad and familiar in a worn T-shirt, frowning at the coffee maker as it slowly brewed. Two mugs sat on the counter, side by side.
The sight of that second mug nearly undid me.
He heard the duffel bump the wall and turned. His gaze skimmed my face, dropped to the bag on my shoulder, then snapped back up again. Confusion flickered into something sharper, alarm tightening his features.
“Where are you going?” His voice came out rough with panic teasing at the edges.
My heart thudded so hard it felt like it might leave bruises. I tightened my grip on the strap until my fingers ached.
“I’m going to stay with Kit for a bit,” I said, amazed at how steady my voice sounded. “Until after the shoot. Until I can figure everything out.”
He took a step toward me, a small hitch in his movement betraying the lingering fallout from the fall he refused to talk about.
His jaw flexed. “You don’t have to do that.”
His words were instinctive, automatic reassurance.You don’t have to go. You don’t have to change. You don’t have to leave.
I shifted the duffel higher on my shoulder and lifted my chin, forcing myself to really look at him—sleep-creased, unshaven, eyes bruised with exhaustion and something close to panic.
“That’s the thing,” I said softly. “I do.”
The words burned all the way up. I let them sit between us, hot and undeniable, then took the breath I’d been avoiding since last night.
“I love you.”
His whole body went still.
The air felt different after that—thicker somehow, charged. He stared at me like I’d just spoken in a language he didn’t know he understood, like he’d heard the words and they’d hit bone.
I didn’t look away. I wanted him to see all of it—the shake in my hands, the way my chest hurt, the fact that I meant every syllable.
“I love you, but I also love myself,” I said, my voice quieter but no less clear. “I can’t stay in a house where you choose your fear over both of us.”
Something in his expression cracked. His mouth opened, then snapped closed again. He looked like he was reaching for a denial, an argument, an apology—anything—but whatever he found wasn’t enough to make it past his throat.