When we get back home, I’m bone-tired—my muscles aching, shirt clinging to me with sweat and drywall dust.
I spot my truck already parked where Mia left it earlier. My heart kicks a little at the sight, even though the house is quiet. Too quiet. No music, no movement through the windows. The porch light’s on, but the living room is dark. She must be sleeping.
A part of me itches to go check, to knock on her door and say everything that’s been clattering around in my chest since she left the café. But the other part knows she needs more space. My mind won’t rest until I say what needs saying, so I grab a pen, scrawl the words that have been clawing at my chest, and leave the note on the kitchen counter.
Mia,
The cottage is yours for as long as you want it—rent-free, no strings attached. I was wrong to keep the truth from you. I was scared of losing you, and instead of trusting you with that fear, I tried to control the situation. I'm sorry.
I respect your independence and your right to make your own choices. Whatever you decide about staying or going, I'll support you.
When you're ready to talk—I'll be here.
Grant
I leave the keys beside the note.
“That's a big move,” Mason comments, reading over my shoulder.
“It's the right one,” I reply, suddenly certain. “This place was always meant for someone who could appreciate it. Might as well be her.”
Mason heads home, and when I get into bed, I fall into a restless sleep, dreaming of Mia swimming in the river, always just out of reach.
***
Morning brings the sound of the coffee machine brewing in the kitchen. I'm on my feet instantly, heart hammering against my ribs as I hear movement down the hall. Mia stands at the fridge taking out the creamer, her face carefully neutral.
“Hey,” I say, my voice embarrassingly hoarse.
“Hey.” She sets her cup down between us. “I got your note.”
“And?” Hope rising in my chest.
“And I've accepted a training opportunity in London with Dr. Mikhailov's team.” She keeps her eyes on the counter, not meeting my gaze. “I leave in two days.”
The news hits me like a rodeo bull to the chest, knocking the wind from my lungs. London. An ocean away. In two days.
“That's... that's amazing,” I manage, forcing a smile I don't feel. “His programs are legendary.”
“You know about Mikhailov?” She looks up for the first time since I’ve walked into the kitchen, surprise coloring her features.
“I might have done some research.” I shrug, aiming for casual despite the way my world is crumbling. “When you care about someone, you try to understand what matters to them.”
She flinches and her expression softens slightly. “Thank you for the cottage. You didn't have to do all that.”
“Yes, I did.” I take a careful step toward her. “Mia, what I did was wrong. I see that now. I was so afraid of you leaving that I... I became the very thing you've been running from.”
“You're not like my father,” she says quietly. “That was unfair of me to put that on you. He would never have admitted he was wrong.”
Hope flickers, fragile and wavering. “Does that mean you forgive me?”
“It means I understand.” She meets my eyes at last. “Fear makes us do stupid things. I know that better than most.”
I stuff my hands in my pocket and shuffle on my feet. “London, huh?” I try to keep my voice steady. “That's a big opportunity.”
“It's what I've been working toward my whole career.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture I've come to adore. “Two months with the best training team in the world, right before Olympic qualifiers. I'd be crazy to turn it down.”
“Yeah, you would,” I agree, my heart breaking with each word.
