"Fi, are you with him?"
Fiona closed her eyes. "Yeah."
Another pause, longer this time. "Are you okay?" Emma's voice was gentler now, worried.
"I don't know," Fiona admitted quietly, and Dean's hand stilled on her skin.
"Do you want me to come get you?"
Fiona looked at Dean again—at his concerned expression, at the careful way he was trying not to influence her answer. The choice was entirely hers.
"No," she said finally. "I'm okay. I just... I need to think."
"Okay. But Fi? Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."
"I will."
After she hung up, silence settled between them. Dean's fingers resumed their gentle movement on her shoulder.
"Regrets?" he asked quietly.
Fiona considered the question. She should have regrets. Should be panicking about what this meant, what she'd done. Instead, she felt… lost.
Fiona took a breath, steeling herself for what she had to say.
"Dean," she started quietly, not looking at him. "This doesn't change anything. Between us, I mean. The divorce, everything... this doesn't change any of that."
She felt him go completely still beneath her. When she finally looked up, his face was carefully blank, but she could see the devastation in his eyes.
"I know," he said simply, his voice rough.
The acceptance in his voice, the way he didn't argue or try to convince her otherwise, somehow made it worse. He was letting her go again, even after this. Even after everything they'd just shared.
"I just needed you to know that," she whispered.
"I know," he repeated, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. "I know, Fi."
CHAPTER 48
Dean
Dean stood in the kitchen,staring at the contents of the refrigerator like they might hold answers to questions he was afraid to ask.
Fiona was in the shower. Probably thinking about how to extract herself from this situation gracefully. How to leave him again.
This doesn't change anything.
The words echoed in his head as he pulled ingredients from the fridge. Eggs, cheese. He could make her an omelet. Something simple, something that wouldn't take too long, wouldn't trap her here longer than she wanted to be.
His hands moved automatically. How many times had he made her dinner in this kitchen? How many evenings had they spent here together, her reading class worksheets at the counter while he cooked, both of them existing in that comfortable domestic rhythm he'd taken for granted?
He cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisking them with more force than necessary.
She was right, of course. This didn't change anything. One afternoon didn't erase two years of betrayal. Didn't undo the online hurt, the humiliation, the way he'd let strangers mock the woman he claimed to love.
But God, for a few hours, he'd been able to pretend. To hold her and touch her and hear his name on her lips like it used to be. To feel like her husband again instead of her biggest mistake.
The omelet came together perfectly—fluffy, golden, the way she'd taught him to make it during their first month of marriage when they were still learning each other's preferences. He plated it carefully, adding the sliced tomatoes she liked, the fresh herbs from the plant on the windowsill that somehow hadn't died in her absence.
