Page 171 of The Wright Man

I padded down the hall and into the bathroom. Flipped on the light. Closed the door.

The moment it clicked shut behind me, I exhaled. Not in fear. But in release.

I turned the water up as hot as I could stand it and stripped out of my clothes. The hoodie hit the floor first, followed by my leggings and bra. I stepped under the stream and let it burn. Let it sear away every scream, every sob, every lie Gavin had ever laid at my feet.

I washed myself from head to toe. Hair. Skin. The backs of my knees. Behind my ears. My belly. My thighs. My grief.

Maleek's soap smelled like cedar and citrus and something holy.

I brushed my teeth until my gums tingled, until the taste of vomit and betrayal and blood was gone.

I stepped out of the shower and dried off, still shaking, still tired, but lighter somehow. I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

I could still see the tear stains. I could still see the bags under my eyes. But I also saw the woman I'd become. Strong. Soft. Not whole, but healing.

I pulled on the panties I kept in my purse. (Tina always said stay ready, just in case.)

Then I lifted his shirt from the folded pile. A worn Bleach t-shirt—black with Ichigo's orange hair faded from a hundred washes.

It smelled like him. Felt like him. And as I slid it over my head, I let myself pretend—just for a moment—that I belonged to him again.

Maybe I always had.

When I left the bathroom, I didn't plan on going to his room.

I'd intended to crash on the couch. Maybe cry into a throw pillow or two. But my feet moved before my mind caught up. Carried me down the hall and right to his space.

It seemed bigger. Calmer. Still bare-bones in a way that was so him, but warmer somehow. Lived in.

He had his back to me when I stepped in.

I froze in the doorway.

He was tugging a tank top over his head, and every muscle in his back flexed with the motion—shoulders broad and rippling, that dip of spine trailing down to the waistband of his sweats. For a second, just a second, my grief forgot itself. My mouth went dry. My thighs clenched.

And then he turned around, eyes catching mine like he already knew I was there.

His gaze traveled down my body, slow and unrushed. Not disrespectful, not demanding. Just... seeing me. Every inch of me wrapped in his shirt, hair wet, eyes tired. He saw all of it. And still—still—there was heat behind those brown eyes. Not lust. Want. That quiet, aching kind.

"My shirt looks good on you," he murmured, voice low and soft, like it belonged to the space between us.

"You have decent taste," I replied, my voice hoarse but steady. A tired smile crept to my lips.

He smiled back, slow and warm. But there was something just beneath it. A question he hadn't asked yet. A worry he hadn't voiced.

He wanted to know what happened.

And part of me wanted to tell him.

But how does a person begin to explain something like that? How do you even begin to say: I went to tell my husband that I kissed you and I wasn't sorry, and I wanted a divorce... but surprise, his pregnant mistress and his secret child were there?

How do you say: I'm broken. I'm bleeding. And I still want you anyway?

You don't. At least, not right away.

"I was just grabbing something to sleep in," he said, breaking the silence and gesturing toward the dresser. "You can take the bed. I'll crash on the cou—"

"No."