Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Haydn

Four steps to the kitchen to check the fridge, four taps on the edge of the counter. Four fingers brushing over the thermostat to make sure it’s set to the right temperature. Four clicks of the hallway light, on and off, until it feels just right. It’s irrational, I know, but it’s how things stay in order. Four keeps everything balanced.

I head upstairs, skipping the third step out of habit—it creaks, and I’ve always hated how it throws off the silence. At the top, I tap the railing lightly with my fingertips, twice on the left side and twice on the right, a little ritual I’ve kept from game days.

When I finally reach the primary bedroom, I stop at the open door. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts a warm halo over Ophelia, curled up in the bed—our bed. Just as I’d asked her to. I wouldn’t kick her out; I could never do that. She loves the bed—or maybe it’s the idea of us sharing it. Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Not when I’m standing here, wondering what happens next.

What if she chooses him? Or worse—what if she leaves me? Should I leave her the house? The thought feels absurd, almost laughable, but it digs into me like a thorn I can’t pull out.

This place wouldn’t be the same without her. It never would. She’s the reason I bought it in the first place—the reason it ever felt like home. Without her, it would just be walls and empty rooms, a hollow shell of what it was meant to be.

Every corner would carry a trace of her—the way she always left her books on the coffee table, the scent of her favorite candles that lingered long after they’d burned out, the way she made everything feel alive.

“It’s okay if you have to say goodnight,” Pia says softly, her voice cutting through my thoughts.

“I thought you were asleep,” I say, hesitating before adding, “How are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” she mutters, her words heavy with exhaustion. “This morning I found out my fiancé didn’t die, and later my live-in boyfriend broke up with me.”

A pang of guilt cuts through me, sharp and unforgiving. I feel like an asshole for doing it. But what was I supposed to do? Sit back and watch her fall back in love with him? Pretend it wouldn’t destroy me to see her leave me behind?

I would hate her if she did that. I know I would. And I hate that about myself, but it’s the truth. So maybe this is for the best. Maybe it’s better to step aside and let her figure out . . . whatever it is she needs to figure out.

Do I hope she chooses me? Fuck yes. I hope for it with everything I am. But I can’t force myself into her future. That’s not how love works, not the kind of love I want to give her.

Love shouldn’t feel like a chain or a trap—it should be freedom, even if it’s a freedom that rips you apart. I want her to be sure. To choose me because she wants to, not because it’s easier or because I’m the one who stayed when the other left.

I want to be enough for her, but I won’t beg for it. I won’t hold her in place when she needs to move. Even if it means letting go.

What would be the point of keeping it if the future I imagined here no longer exists?

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you?” Her tone cuts through the silence, challenging, but beneath it, I catch the tremble of something fragile.

“Yep,” I reply, forcing a bitter smile. “It hurts like a motherfucker letting you go. But maybe someday you’ll thank me. Maybe one day we’ll sit down, have a meal, and catch up like friends.”

“Could we even be friends?” she asks, her voice cracking on the last word, as though she’s unsure if it’s even possible.

“I hope so,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Because you’re my best friend.”

The words linger between us, carrying the undeniable truth of what I just said. Sure, I have friends—guys I can grab a beer with, people who check in when life gets messy. But Pia? Pia has become my person. The one I turn to when the world feels too loud. The one I trust with the parts of myself I’m afraid to show anyone else.

She’s the one who knows how I take my coffee without asking, who can tell I’ve had a shitty day just by the way I close the front door. She’s the only person who’s seen me at my worst and still made me feel like I’m enough. And now, I’m standing here, trying to convince both of us that letting her go is the right thing to do, even though it feels like I’m tearing out a part of myself in the process.

“I don’t want to lose you completely,” I admit, my voice rough, barely holding it together. “But I don’t know how to hold on without making this harder for both of us.”

“After we arrived and I did some meditation, I came to one conclusion,” she says, her voice calm but edged with something unshakable.

“Yeah? What’s that?” I ask, bracing myself.

“I hate your mother more than I did the first time you told me the story about how she left,” she replies bluntly. Her words squeeze all the air out of my lungs and I’m unable to respond. “And I hope you can discuss what’s happening with your therapist. Not for me—but for you. One day, you’ll meet someone you’re brave enough to stick around for, and you won’t want to lose her because of that fear.”

Those words hit me lower than I thought possible. They burrow under my skin, sharper than anything I was prepared for. I want to argue with her, tell her she’s wrong—that she’s the woman I’m fighting for. That I’m here, sticking around while letting her go because it’s the only way to protect her from me. It’s a fucking balancing act, like everything else in my life. But I doubt she’d understand. She’s got her own battles, and this one isn’t about me convincing her.

“Can I say goodnight?” I ask, not acknowledging my mother, and step closer to the bed.

She tilts her head. “You can always say goodnight.”

I bend down, pressing a kiss on her forehead, one on the nose, and this time instead of two consecutive on the lips, I just kiss each cheek. Chaste, just enough for luck but not enough that I would want to make love to her right after taking her lips.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, softening my tone, trying to coax the truth from her.

“I’m fine,” she replies, but her voice wavers, cracking ever so slightly on the word. It’s the kind of crack that comes when you’re holding back too much, when the pain seeps through the edges no matter how hard you try to keep it in. There’s a faint tremor, the kind she doesn’t think anyone notices, but I do.

“Don’t lie to me, Pia. I see the pain,” I say, my voice firm but gentle.

She shifts uncomfortably, her hands curling against the blanket, her body betraying the pain she tries so hard to hide. I know how stress eats at her, how it magnifies everything—the stiffness in her movements, the tenderness she won’t admit to, the quiet battle she endures every single day.

“I’m fine,” she insists, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes that says otherwise.

“Your pride is always your downfall, Pia,” I murmur, shaking my head. “I’ll call Sherry and make sure she comes by tomorrow. The masseuse will stay a couple of hours after my session to help you relax.”

I wait for her to push back, to roll her eyes, to give me one of her stubborn excuses about not needing anyone’s help. That’s always been Pia—digging her heels in, making me work twice as hard to convince her that she deserves to be taken care of too. But this time, she only sighs, her shoulders softening into the bed, surrendering in a way that almost breaks me.

“Goodnight, Haydn. I love you,” she says, her voice light, almost wistful, like the words are both a comfort and a goodbye.

“Goodnight, Pia,” I reply, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. My lips linger just a moment longer than they should, drinking in the warmth of her skin, the quiet intimacy of a gesture I know I’ll replay in my mind a thousand times. “Love you too. And if you dream about fireflies tonight, it means someone’s thinking about how much they love you.”

Her lips curve into a faint smile, and she lets out a soft laugh, one that’s more air than sound. “Then I hope it’s you,” she murmurs, her words like a whisper carried on a breeze, her smile still there even as her eyes flutter shut.

My chest tightens, the ache spreading through me like wildfire. I hope so too, I think, though the words stay trapped in my throat. I want to tell her, to shout it, to carve it into every corner of the world where she might look for answers.

I hope it’s me she dreams about tonight. I hope it’s me she chooses tomorrow. And if it’s not, I hope she’ll know that loving her has been both the most beautiful and the most excruciating thing I’ve ever done.