He leans forward a little. “How’s Liam, really? Is he doing okay without me around?”
“He's doing alright, considering. It's cute… he reads to Oliver.”
“Good.” His eyes soften. “And… Caine?”
My stomach tightens. I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “We’re on a break. I asked for time. I’m hoping he’ll still be there when I’m ready.”
He watches me for a beat. “I know there’s no getting you back. I hate that it’s him, but…” He exhales through his nose. “I want you to be happy. If Liam likes him—if he treats you right—I’ll deal.”
“He likes Liam,” I whisper. “A lot.”
“I figured.” His jaw works. “I know he’s covering this place. Your insurance—our insurance—blows. I hate taking charity from the guy. I’ll take it anyway. ForLiam.”
Heat rises behind my eyes. I reach for him before I think better of it. He smells like soap, not beer. His arms come around me, solid and careful.
“I’m proud of you,” I murmur into his shoulder. "A month in. How are you feeling?"
"Like maybe I won't fuck everything up this time." His laugh is self-deprecating but not bitter. "First time in years I can see past tomorrow without panicking."
We talk more about Liam, about his ongoing obsession with trains and how Oliver follows him everywhere like a fuzzy shadow. Reeves’s face lights up when I tell him about Liam's progress in speech therapy.
I pull away, searching his face. "Seriously, I amsodamn proud of you."
He offers a soft smile, eyes still holding that new, unfamiliar calm. "It's a start."
We talk for a while longer, about the future. His future. My heart swells. This is the Reeves I knew, the one with dreams beyond the next poker game.
Eventually, the sun dips lower, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples. A chime signals the end of visiting hours.
"I should go," I say, a pang of sadness echoing in my chest. This newfound peace between us feels fragile, something I don’t want to disturb.
Reeves walks me to my car, his arm brushing mine. The contact is comforting, not electric. Not like Caine.
"Jenna," he says, just as I reach for the door handle. I turn, already bracing myself for what comes next. He takes a deep breath. "I know you probably don’t care anymore, but...Melissa. I ended things with her."
My breath catches. I don't know what to say. Part of me wants to scream, to ask him why it took a breakdown to make him realize what he had. Another part, the older, softer part, just feels a wave of sadness for him.
He sees the turmoil on my face. "I messed up, Jen. Worse than I ever let myself admit. But I'm trying. For me. For Liam." He pauses, his gaze earnest. "And for you. Even if it's just as friends."
"I should go." I manage to squeeze out, sliding into the driver's seat. He steps back, watching me.
As I drive away, the image of his clear, determined eyes stays with me. The knowledge that he’s genuinely trying, that he’s facing his demons, settles heavily in my heart.
This isn’t the end of our story, not really. It’s just... a different chapter. A chapter where he’s finding himself, and I'm still figuring out who I am.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I pull into my driveway, the engine ticking as it cools. The house feels too quiet without Reeves’s chaotic energy, but it's Caine's absence that's eating me alive.
Two months. Two months of radio silence, just like I asked for. Part of me is grateful—he respected my boundaries, gave me the space I needed to process everything with Reeves and figure out my next steps. But another part, the selfish, aching part, wishes he'd fought for me. Wishes he'd called anyway.
I unlock the front door, Oliver weaving between my legs with a soft meow. Liam's at daycare for another hour, giving me time to wallow in my own misery.
My laptop sits open on the kitchen counter where I left it this morning. The YouTube tab is still pulled up—highlights from the US Open in Atlanta. I know Ishouldn't torture myself, but I can't help it. I click play.
There he is. Lean and focused, moving around the table with that slow, deliberate grace that used to make my knees weak. Still does. He's wearing a fitted black shirt that shows off every line of his torso, and when he leans over for a difficult shot, I remember the feel of those muscles under my hands.
Damn, I'm dying here.
