“I am fine.”
She gives me a flat look. “You cried on my doorstep wearing a coat that’s not even zipped.”
I glance down. It’s true.
She cups my cheek. “You deserve someone who shows up. Who stays. Who doesn’t leave you to wake up alone and blame yourself for loving him.”
Emotion rushes up my throat so fast it steals my breath. “I don’t love him.”
She arches her brow.
I can’t argue with her on this. “I don’t blame myself,” I whisper instead.
“Yes, you do.”
I look down at Pancake, stroking him gently. “I don’t know how to be around him without falling apart.”
“You don’t have to fall apart,” Wren says softly. “You just have to be honest. Maybe, for once, let him be the one who has to think about the weight of things. He’s the one making all these decisions. Let him figure all of it out.”
The thought terrifies me. Makes my pulse jump.
But her words land somewhere deep, settling in that part of me that still remembers how Dorian used to hold me like the world made sense. Like I was something he couldn’t live without.
“Just talk to him,” she whispers. “You don’t have to decide anything. Just talk.”
I lean into her, tears sliding free again. She holds me, her hand stroking my hair, Pancake purring against my thigh, the house humming around us.
Wren holds me until the shaking in my chest fades into something softer, something manageable. She brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, her thumb still tracing small, grounding circles on my arm.
“You’re not alone,” she murmurs. “Not today. Not ever.”
I nod into her shoulder.
The world outside is frozen and gray, but here, wrapped in this couch with her robe brushing my cheek and Pancake’s tail thumping lazily against my leg, the weight on my ribs finally loosens.
Just a little.
Enough.
Wren shifts enough to look at me, eyes warm and worried. “You wanna stay for breakfast? Beau made way too many cinnamon rolls this morning.”
A broken laugh slips out of me. “I could eat a whole tray right now.”
She grins. “Good. Then you’re staying. We’ll figure out the rest.”
I curl closer, letting her tuck the blanket around both of us. Letting myself be held. Letting the ache have somewhere to go that isn’t inside my chest.
For a long time, neither of us speaks. We just breathe, the snow tapping faintly against the windows, Pancake kneading the blanket like he’s trying to stitch me back together.
Eventually, Wren whispers, “You deserve better than being someone’s almost.”
My eyes sting again, but I don’t cry this time. I just breathe.
“I know,” I whisper. “I just… don’t know how to stop wanting him.”
“You don’t have to stop,” she says softly. “You just have to stop letting him decide everything.”
I let her words sink into the cracks in me.
