Traitor organ.
Relief flashes first—bright and stupid—before the rest of me catches up.His dark hair is a mess, like he’s dragged his hands through it too many times, and his face is stripped completely bare, no walls, and I see the hurt and shock and something broken and bleeding.
Then I notice where he’s standing, in front of my desk.My open laptop.
No.No.No.
The butter and salt turn to acid in my mouth, clawing up the back of my throat, and I swallow hard to keep it down.
“You want to tell me what this is?”His voice is flat.
“It isn’t what you think.”The words tumble out, thin and useless.
A short, empty laugh leaves him.“You wrote it, didn’t you?”
“That isn’t?—”
“Don’t.”His jaw locks.“Don’t rewrite the truth, Grace.I read it.All of it.”
His hand drops to the edge of the desk, fingers splaying wide across the surface, gripping it.He pulls in a breath as if to steady himself but shudders anyway.And something about his unbalance undoes me a little—we’re both hurting—even as I stand here trying to hold my ground.
I step toward him, needing to get through to him this time.He doesn’t move, but there’s no longer anything open about him; every line of his body is drawn tight and closed off.
My hands tremble when I set the paper bowl on the console.“I was angry and hurt.You didn’t trust me.You shut me out, and I needed somewhere to put all of it.”I hold his gaze.“So, I wrote it.I wrote the version I couldn’t say to your face.”
“You decided to blow up my life instead.”
“That isn’t what I did.”My voice fractures down the middle.“I wrote another version—one that doesn’t mention your retirement, not in this context.That’s the one I’m giving my editor.That has always been the one I’m giving my editor.”
He shakes his head once, slow and final, landing heavier than any argument he could make.“You expect me to believe that.”
“I need you to.”I close the distance between us, the air thick enough to press against my skin.“I need you to believe me the way I believed you, the way I have been believing you, even when you gave me every reason not to.”
The silence that follows is heavy and unforgiving, pressing into my ribs until breathing feels like something I have to consciously choose.
Then his gaze lands on me, really looking at me, in that way he did in the beginning before things got complicated between us.“Tell me what you want.”
The words land like a slap and a memory at once—his voice warm and low, the first time he touched me when we were both bare to each other, literally and figuratively.
Tell me what you want.
Now it’s a fucking negotiation tactic.My eyes sting, and I turn away before he can see how deep he’s hit.Before he can see my hand curl into the hem ofhissweatshirt, knuckles going white as I drag in a breath that refuses to settle.
“You don’t get to use that.”The words scratch at my throat.
His brow furrows, and then understanding moves across his face.“Grace?—”
“No.”Heat spreads through my chest, sharp and fast.“You said that when you had me.When I trusted you and you hadn’t given me any reason not to.”
He threads his fingers through his already tousled hair.“That’s not fair.”
“Fair.”The word is more a taste than a sound, bitter and biting on my tongue.“You told me to relax.You said you were there.You made me believe I could count on you, and the one thing—the one thing—you couldn’t bring yourself to do was trust me back.”
He freezes, and when he speaks his voice is quiet, colored all the way through with something a lot like regret.“I’m here now.”
I hold his gaze even though it fucking hurts to do so.“Then why does it feel like you already left?”
He doesn’t answer, only holds my gaze as the silence stretches between us, wide and airless.