She laughs, but there's no humor in it.
She turns to face me and?—
God.
The look in her eyes guts me completely.
There's hurt there. Raw and deep and trying so hard to hide behind the bravado, behind the dry humor, behind the claim that she wasn't angry.
But I can see it.
The betrayal does something to a person. Changes them. Leaves marks that don't show up in photographs but are visible in moments like this—when their guard drops for just a second and you see exactly how much damage was done.
And she's trying to act like it doesn't matter. Like being relieved instead of heartbroken is somehow better. But relief doesn't put that particular shade of pain in someone's eyes.
Every protective instinct I have roars to life. I want to fix this. Want to hunt down the man who put that look on her face and make sure he understands what he's done. Want to promise her that she'll never be hurt like this again, that I'll make damn sure of it.
But I can't.
Because she doesn't need me to fight her battles. Because the last thing she needs right now is me making this about what I want to do to Wes instead of what she needs from me.
So I stay silent, letting her words settle between us. Letting her have this moment without my rage crowding into it. Even though it's taking everything I have.
"I should have known better," she continues, and her voice has gone small, defeated. "The signs were there. The way he'd be distant for days, the late nights that didn't quite add up, how he never really wanted to know me—the real me, not the version that looks good at industry events. I should have seen it coming."
I hate that she's blaming herself. For his choices. For his betrayal. I can't let her do that.
I do something reckless and reach out, cup her face in my hands, turning her toward me so she's forced to look at me. Her eyes widen slightly at the contact, but she doesn't pull away.
"Don't you dare do that," I say, voice firm but gentle.
"Do what?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Blame yourself for his fuck-up. He's the one who cheated. He's the one who lied. He's the one who asked you to marry him and then betrayed that trust."
My thumbs brush across her cheekbones, and her breathing changes.
"You did nothing wrong here, Nora. Nothing."
Her breath catches, and it ghosts across my palms—that small intake of air that speaks of something shifting.
Her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second before coming back up to meet mine, and the look in them makes every rational thought evaporate.
Kiss her.
The voice in my head is insistent, demanding.
Kiss her and tell her everything. Tell her the truth. Tell her that you never stopped, that seven years didn't change a damn thing, that she's still the only person who's ever made you feel like this.
But I don't.
Instead, I let my hands drop, force myself to create distance even though it feels like tearing away from gravity.
She's quiet for a moment, then asks, "Do you have your phone?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah. Why?"
"Can I borrow it?"
