She looked at me directly now.
“I’m going to stay,” she said firmly. “Because I gave my word.”
I did not like that. I opened my mouth to tell her this was more, but before I could say it, she continued.
“But you do not get to yell at me like that again,” she added. “Ever.”
The line was a clean boundary.
I nodded once. “Never again.”
She studied me like she was waiting for pushback. There was none.
“I wasn’t angry at you,” I said carefully. “I was angry at memory.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
Silence stretched between us again. She looked tired. I wanted to say, ‘I do not wish for this to be a business arrangement,’ but this wasn’t the time. That conversation deserved more than a defensive moment in someone else’s living room.
“For now,” I continued evenly, “I would like you to come home.”
I waited.
I did not press. I did not bargain. I waited for her to choose as my heart pounded away in my chest.
Belle studied me for a long moment before she nodded.
“Will you tell me about the rooms?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation.
As we stood there in Eleanor’s living room, the weight of the morning settling into something more manageable, I allowed myself a quiet admission.
Somewhere along the way, I developed feelings for her. Not just the protective instinct that I thought it was. No, this was something real. It was inconvenient and destabilizing. It was also undeniable.
Now the challenge was not convincing her to return, but rather convincing her that this was not temporary. That I was not temporary. That this, whatever we were building, was no longer bound by a six-month clause.
And for the first time in a very long time, I found myself wanting to be chosen.
27
BELLE
The drive home was quiet. While I wasn’t sure what to think, I loved that his hand rested on my thigh the entire way. The feeling of his thumb moving in slow, absent arcs like he needs the contact to ground himself grounded me in return. When we stopped at a red light, his fingers curled slightly tighter, as if confirming I was still there.
I didn’t pull away. I think I needed it just as much as he did.
When we pulled into the driveway, the house looked the same as it always does. It lay tall and imposing against the river.
But there was something different.
He didn’t let go of me when we walked inside. His hand rested on my lower back. Then my waist. Then my hand in his. Always something. It was as if he were afraid I'd vanish.
We didn't talk. Not yet. Upstairs, the air felt charged, but there was no anger left in him. Just something raw and open.
He touched me as if I might break. I kissed him like I wouldn't.
