"So?"
"So stop."
"Why should I?"
"Because—" I didn't have an answer.Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because I'm losing my mind. Because I need to know if you feel it too.
I said none of that.
"Just walk with me," I said instead. "Please."
She stared at me. The sunset painted her face in shades of gold. I watched her weigh her options—run, stay, tell me to go to hell.
"Fine," she said finally. "But only because I was already walking."
We fell into step along the water's edge. The waves soaked our feet, retreated, soaked them again. Neither of us spoke. The silence was heavy, but not hostile. Just... waiting.
"I'm sorry," she said.
I glanced at her. "For what?"
"For kissing you. I was the one who said it shouldn't happen again, and then I just—" She waved her hand vaguely.
I found myself almost smiling. "Climbed on top of me?"
Her cheeks flushed. "You don't have to put it like that."
"It's what happened."
"You're insufferable."
"So I've been told." I let the almost-smile fade. "You don't have to apologize. I was there, too."
She didn't respond. We walked a little further, the sun sinking lower, the sky deepening to purple at the edges.
I didn't plan what came out of my mouth next. It just surfaced, like something that had been buried too long.
"I never thought I'd be divorced."
Aria's steps faltered. She looked at me, but I kept my eyes on the horizon.
"Four years. That's how long we lasted." The words felt strange, saying them out loud. I never talked about this. Not to anyone. "I thought we had something solid. A plan. A future. Then one morning, I woke up and she was gone. She’d packed a bag while I was sleeping. Left a note saying she couldn't do it anymore."
The waves rolled in. Rolled out.
"I got served papers that night," I continued. "She'd had them drawn up weeks before. Maybe months. I never asked." I picked up a shell, turned it over in my fingers. "She said motherhood wasn't what she’d expected. Said she wasn't built for it. I think she meant it. Some people aren't."
"Sebastian..."
"Evie was three." I threw the shell into the water. "She doesn't remember much, but she remembers enough. Kids always know when something's wrong, even when you try to hide it." I finally looked at Aria. "Our relationship suffered. I didn't know how to be a father on my own. So I did what I always do. I kept my distance. Buried myself in work. Let the nannies handle the parts I couldn't figure out."
Aria was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"The foundation changed things," I said. "Working with you, with your team—she started opening up. Started talking to me. Started being herself instead of a silent shadow in the hallways." I paused. "I have you to thank for that."
She was quiet for a moment. Then, "I shouldn't have judged you. That day in the principal's office. I saw one moment and thought I understood everything."
"You weren't entirely wrong."
