Maisie waves from the yard, mittened hands high. “Uncle Jude! Look!”
I step out into the cold, breath fogging, boots crunching against the snow. “Looks perfect, bug,” I call back.
And somehow, it does.
Even with everything cracked and unfinished, even with Amber’s chaos hanging in the air, this small, snow-dusted moment feels whole.
I shove my hands into my coat pockets, watching her spin in slow circles as Rufus chases his tail.
It’s the holidays. There’s no plan. But for now, she’s safe.
I will keep her safe.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Norah
I should know better.
I’ve lived long enough, loved hard enough, lost enough pieces of myself to him to know better. And yet waking up to an empty space where his body should be still slices straight through me like I didn’t learn a damn thing the first time.
Or the second.
Or the twentieth.
I lie there in the dent he left, sheets twisted around my waist, the faint scent of bergamot and leather sinking into my skin like a bruise that won’t fade. My eyes burn. My throat’s tight. The ceiling blurs above me.
Fuck, I’m pathetic.
My fingertips dig into the mattress. I’m on my back still, like my body forgot how to move. Like standing might break me in some way that staying still can postpone.
He’s gone.
Of course he’s gone. It’s what he does.
It’s what he always does.
But knowing the pattern doesn’t stop the sting.
Tears slip down my temples, sliding into my hairline as I stare at nothing. It’s been… three hours? Maybe more.
I’m not even sure what time he left. I barely remember falling asleep—just the warmth of his chest under my cheek, the rhythm of his breathing, the storm howling outside the window.
And now there’s nothing but cold.
My chest throbs in that way heartbreak has of announcing itself. A deep, hollow ache behind the ribs.
My muscles are sore, every inch of me humming with the echo of him, and I hate it. I hate how my body remembers him even when he doesn’t remember how to stay.
“What the hell is wrong with me?”
My voice cracks in the empty room. No answer. Just the faint drip of melting snow from the gutter outside.
I drag my arm over my face and force myself upright. The movement makes everything hurt—my legs, my hips, that tender place between them that reminds me exactly how quickly I gave in.
One touch, one whisper, and I folded like I always do.
Weak. Stupid.
