Page 103 of The Endless Want

She cooks quietly. Eggs, toast, fruit. Nothing complicated, but it feels like something I don’t deserve. I watch her hands shake slightly when she sets down my plate.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Morning sickness,” she says. “It’ll pass.”

I swallow too hard. The words hit differently now. More real than they ever have. Morning sickness. Ailish. My child. I pick up my fork mostly to have something to do with my hands. We eat in silence for a moment. Not awkward. Just… careful.

She glances at me as she takes a sip of water. “Did the mission go well?”

I nod. “Clean. Efficient. Liam’s happy.”

“Are you?”

I look up at her. Really look at her. Her eyes are soft but steady. Searching again. Bracing, maybe, for whatever truth I choose to give her.

“I’m… better than I’ve been in a long time,” I admit. “But I don’t know what that means yet.”

She swallows. Her fingers move unconsciously to her stomach again, brushing along the fabric of her robe. “Thank you for telling me,” she says quietly.

We sit there, breathing the same air, holding the same thousand unspoken things between us. She looks tired in a way that frightens me—not physically, but emotionally. Like she’s carrying too much alone.

“I’m not leaving,” I say. “Not today.”

She closes her eyes for a second, like she’s absorbing the words before she lets them settle. “Okay,” she whispers.

We finish our food. The house stays quiet, and as the sun rises fully, the light softens across the hardwood floors. For a moment, it feels like a life we might’ve had in another world—one where there’s no war room, no Russians, no threats, no years of bad choices between us.

When she stands, I stand. When she starts clearing dishes, I move to help. She doesn’t fight me this time. We work side by side, elbow to elbow, in a kind of quiet rhythm we’ve never allowed ourselves before.

When everything is clean, she rests her hand on the back of a chair, steadying herself as a wave of dizziness passes.

I react instantly. Too quickly. “You alright?”

She nods. “Just a head rush. It happens.”

My jaw tightens. “You should be resting more.”

She shoots me a look that could peel paint. “Don’t start.”

I hold up my hands. “I’m not trying to⁠—”

“Yes, you are.”

I almost smile. “Fine. I’m starting. Because you’re not taking care of yourself the way you should.”

“I’m taking care of myself just fine,” she snaps. “What I’m not taking care of is dealing with you.”

And there it is. The honesty I’ve been craving even when it burns.

I take a slow breath, grip the back of the counter, steadying myself before I say anything we’ll both regret. “Ailish,” I start, low, quiet, “I’m trying.”

“I know,” she whispers. Her voice breaks on the second word. She looks away quickly, blinking hard. And something in me fractures cleanly down the center.

Without thinking, I reach out—just enough to touch her wrist. A gentle pressure. A question. An apology. Everything I don’t know how to say.

She doesn’t pull away. Not at first. But she does close her eyes. “Don’t,” she says softly. “Not unless you mean it. Not unless you’re staying for more than a night on a couch.”

It hits like a punch. “I’m here,” I tell her. “I’m staying.”