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Chapter sixteen

Blaire

Iwatch Simon carry Theo inside, his little casted arm tucked against that broad chest, those wild curls brushing Simon’s jaw. Theo doesn’t even twitch. The kid could sleep through the end of the world. Simon tucks him into bed—blue sheets, the army of stuffed animals standing guard—and for a moment I just stand in the doorway, heart twisting at how natural he looks doing it. How careful his hands are.

I slip into the hall closet for the extra blanket, mostly so I don’t have to keep staring at them. When I come back out, Simon is still there, watching our son breathe like he’s memorizing every rise and fall of his chest. Like he’s trying to memorize this whole apartment, too.

My place is small, but it’s mine. His house has always felt like a museum by comparison—beautiful, expensive, and hollow. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing right now.

When he walks into the living room, I’m just standing there like an idiot, clutching the blanket too tightly because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.

“I’m sorry,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t have a guest room.”

Heat floods my face. I hate how small it makes me feel.

Simon takes the blanket from me, and his voice is gentle when he answers. “It’s fine, Blaire. If I can manage on the ground in Afghanistan, I think I can tolerate a couch.”

The faintest smile tugs at my mouth—sad, but real. I nod and try to step back, but my feet won’t move. My fingers twist into the fabric of my sweatpants, and my breathing feels too loud in the quiet. I can feel the tears threatening again, hot behind my eyes.

Simon takes a step closer. Just one. Close enough that I catch the familiar scent of him—soap and cedar and something that still feels like home even though it shouldn’t.

“What’s in your head, swe—”

The word dies on his tongue, but I hear it anyway. Sweet girl. The old nickname slams into me like a ghost I thought I’d buried. My eyes snap up to his, startled, and for one impossible second the years fall away. I can almost feel his mouth against my neck, whispering it like a secret.

He clears his throat and tries again, softer this time. “What’s going on in your head, Blaire?”

I swallow hard, chin trembling. For one fragile heartbeat I almost tell him. Almost let it all spill out—the fear, the exhaustion, the way seeing him here in my space makes everything hurt and ache and want at the same time.

But I can’t. I won’t.

“Just a stressful day,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “First time he’s gotten injured like that.”

The words come out clean and controlled—the same voice I use when I’m locking doors, when I’m protecting what’s left of me. Simon nods, but something in his expression tightens, and I have to look away before I break.

I cross my arms over my chest, shoulders curling inward as I feel the walls sliding back into place brick by brick. The same walls he taught me to build.

“Blaire—”

My name comes out rough, almost like a confession. I can’t let him finish.

“Goodnight, Simon.”

The words taste like ash on my tongue. I turn before I can see the way they land, before I can let myself look back at the man standing in my living room with my blanket in his hands and too many unsaid things in his eyes. My heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it. I force my feet to keep moving, one step after another down the short hallway, until I reach my room.

The second the door clicks shut behind me, the last thread of control snaps. I sink straight to the floor, knees buckling, and press my fist hard against my mouth to muffle the sob that tears out of me. It’s raw and aching and years overdue.

He’s here. In my home. Close enough to touch. And I sent him away like I always do, even when every part of me is screaming to open the door again.

I bite down harder on my fist and let the sobs take me, praying the sound doesn’t carry down the hall.

***

I wake slowly, the kind of slow that only happens when you’ve finally crashed after too many nights running on fumes. Sunlight filters through the blinds in soft stripes across the sheets, and for one blissful second I don’t remember anything except how good it feels to be horizontal. Then the panic hits like a bucket of ice water.

Theo.

I bolt upright, heart already hammering, before the sound reaches me—low voices drifting from the living room, one small and animated, the other deeper, familiar. Simon’s laugh, followed by Theo’s high-pitched giggle. My shoulders drop. I press a hand to my chest, breathing through the adrenaline crash, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.