I don’t argue.
The heat hits me first. Then the smell—wool, leather, something sweet and sharp. Melissa’s coat is in the backseat, her scarf draped over it like she stepped out of the story to give us space.
We drive in silence.
I watch the road unfurl through the windshield, my reflection ghosted over the glass. My neck burns where her hands were. Every bump in the road sends a reminder through my body that I almost didn’t make it out of that bed.
Tony doesn’t fill the silence.
He never does when it matters.
The ski lodge glows warm against the dark, windows bright, smoke curling from the chimney. We park. He gets out first,waits until I’m steady enough to stand before slinging an arm around my shoulders—not holding me up, just making sure I don’t fall apart in public.
Inside, it smells like fire and pine and old money.
We take seats near the hearth. Tony returns with two glasses of brandy without asking.
The first burn makes my eyes water.
The second loosens something deep in my chest.
I stare into the fire, watching the logs shift and collapse.
“I thought she was it,” I say finally.
Tony doesn’t react. Just nods once.
“When it was good,” I continue, voice flat, “it was everything. Like… cosmic. Like we found each other in the dark.”
I swallow.
“And then there was this other side. Ugly. Twisted. Like love with teeth.”
Tony exhales slowly. “Yeah.”
“I kept thinking—if I just understood her more. If I loved her better. If I didn’t trigger her.”
My hands curl around the glass.
“She’s been hurt,” I say, hating how automatic it sounds. “She’s got trauma. Past abuse. A million reasons.”
Tony finally looks at me then.
“Those are explanations,” he says quietly. “Not permissions.”
The words land clean. Sharp. True.
I nod, throat tight.
“I kept excusing it because when she was gentle… she was unreal. Like she saw every good part of me and worshipped it.”
The fire pops. A log collapses inward.
“And now?” Tony asks.
I lift my eyes.
“Now I know her trauma doesn’t get to become mine.”
