Aurora.
The way she clutches her bear when she’s tired. The way she says Dada like it’s her favorite word in the world. The way she used to reach for me, like maybe... just maybe... I belonged to her, too.
I let my past destroy everything. Let one letter from a dead woman tear through all the progress I’d made. Through everything we build together.
A letter that at first glance, was heartbreaking.
She was everything I always thought she would be.
Loving, and tragic, andhis.
And in that moment, I saw what I wanted to see all because I was already hanging on by threads, too terrified by the realization that Kade’s home had somehow become my home. That the three of us became a family. And that the future I’d always dreamt of, the wishes I’d spent my life making, had all come true.
For months, I was living the dream. I was knee-deep in those wishes.
And I wasted it. Didn’t see it. Was too scared to grab hold and never let go.
But as the days stretch into a week, and the ugly cloud of fear has dissolved into regret, I see that letter for something else entirely.
Marlee’s words, syrupy and bitter, equal parts hurt and poison, have been echoing through my head all week.
And like the idiot I am, I listened to them. Let them get under my skin. Let them poke all the places I’ve tried to stitch closed. The old scars.
The ones that whisper,You’re not good enough. You’re just a placeholder. You’re always second best.
I didn’t even give Kade a chance to explain. Didn’t trust the man who’s done nothing but show up for me, day after day, without fail. I ran. He said he loved me, finally gave me the words on a broken rasp, and I still ran.
And now, I’m stuck in this hell of my own making.
Wrapped in the quiet and loneliness and hell I deserve.
Until a sharp knock shatters it.
I jolt upright, tissues and blankets tumbling off me in a cascade. My heart slams against my ribs.
Kade?
Oh, God.
No one else knows where I live. I never told the Archers because no one ever asked. Like they all assumed that Kade’s home was my home.
I stumble to my feet, adrenaline roaring through me. In my haste, I trip over a pillow, kick an empty mug, all in an effort to shove my way toward the bathroom mirror.
Soon as I catch sight of myself, I wince and want to cry all over again.
My curls are flat and tangled, pulled back in some limp half-knot. My eyes are red and swollen, my cheeks blotchy. I’m wearing an oversized tee with a random stain on the hem and sweatpants I may have also slept in last night. Or the night before.
Probably all week.
They’re both Kades, because even while running for my emotional life, I was still greedy and lovesick and obsessed. A few days ago, when I spilled on his stolen shirt, I sobbed even harder.
My eyes snag on that stain.
And I promptly start crying again.
“Open up, ginger tits! Or I’ll find the nearest cowboy and break the fucking door down!”
My mouth falls open, and a fresh sob punches up my throat.
