But I tightened my arm around his back, guiding him inside anyway, pretending the ground beneath us was solid.
Inside, the air felt heavier than I remembered—eerily still, stripped bare and spotless, like someone had scrubbed the place of every trace of life.
Eli hesitated just past the threshold, fingers curling in the fabric of my sleeve. His eyes darted around as if trying to piece together something that used to make sense.
“It smells different,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I… cleaned before you came home.”
A lie. I hadn’t cleaned. It was his mother. She’d come by one morning while I was at the hospital, unable to sit idle any longer. The flowers on the counter were hers too—sunflowers, cheerful and wrong for this space.
I guided him toward the living room. Eli’s gaze caught on everything—the couch where he’d fallen asleep watching old courtroom dramas, the crooked painting he’d always threatenedto straighten, the space where the vase used to sit before I’d shattered it in grief.
He didn’t say a word about it. Just stared for a long moment, then looked away.
“I’m tired. Can I just go to bed?”
“Of course.”
The staircase loomed at the end of the hall, more terrifying than a nightmare.
“Why didn’t we have the foresight to buy something with a downstairs bedroom?” Eli joked.
I stepped in close, slid one arm behind his back and the other under his knees, and lifted him before doubt could settle in. He gasped softly, more surprise than protest, his hands gripping my shoulders.
“I’ve got you,” I said, meaning more than just the climb ahead.
He went still against me, his forehead dropping to my neck, breath warm and uneven. The weight of him—solid, alive—was a promise I hadn’t realized I was making again.
Each step creaked under us as I climbed, slow and steady, my heart thudding harder than the effort required. By the time we reached the top, his grip had loosened, trusting me in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.
Damn, his scent and the heat of his body felt so right.
At the bedroom door, he stirred. The late afternoon light spilled across the floor, catching the edge of the untouched and waiting bed. It didn’t look inviting. It looked like a place that remembered too much.
“It feels strange,” he murmured. “Being back in here.”
“I know,” I agreed, easing him down onto the mattress. I didn’t let go right away. Neither did he.
For a moment, we just stayed there—my hands still full with him, his breath finally slowing—both of us relearning what it meant to come home, hovering in that fragile space between what we’d been and whatever came next.
The sheets were fresh. I’d changed them yesterday, hoping it would feel like a new start, but the sight of him there undid me anyway, alive and whole.
I stepped back too soon. The silence stretched. Not empty—just… cautious, both aware of how easily we could break this if we moved the wrong way.
I busied myself with small things—adjusting his pillows, setting his water within reach—anything to keep my hands from reaching for him the way they used to.
“You need anything else?” I asked.
He watched me for a second, something tired and searching in his expression. “No. Just… stay a minute?”
My throat tightened. “Yeah. Of course.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, leaving a careful inch of space between us. Close enough to feel his warmth through the blanket, not close enough to assume it was mine to take. The house settled around us, quiet in a way that felt almost like listening.
He turned his head toward me, eyes half-lidded. “It’s strange,” he whispered. “I dreamed of this. Being home. Only it didn’t hurt.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just reached for his hand, tracing the familiar line of his knuckles, the faint scar where he’d once cut himselfchopping onions.
