Sunlight cuts across my face like a judgment. For a moment, I'm disoriented, my brain struggling to catch up with reality. The weight that anchored me to the mattress all night, Summer's desperate embrace, is gone.
My heart rate spikes. I pat the empty space beside me, finding only rumpled sheets still warm from her body. The panic is immediate and overwhelming. Did I dream it all? Her return, the tears, the broken woman wearing my wife's face?
Or worse, did she leave again? Did she wake up and remember she preferred the life she built without me?
I sit up too quickly, head spinning as blood rushes from my brain. My eyes scan the bedroom for any sign that she was here. The bathroom door stands open, revealing empty darkness. No sound of running water, no humming, nothing.
Then I smell it. Butter. Cinnamon. Coffee.
I rub my eyes, willing my brain to work faster. From the kitchen comes the soft clatter of utensils against cookware, the sizzle of something on the stove. My legs swing over the side of the bed, bare feet touching cold hardwood.
"Summer?" I call out, my voice rough with sleep and uncertainty.
No answer comes, just more domestic sounds from the kitchen. I stumble toward the doorway like a man following a mirage across the desert.
When I reach the kitchen threshold, I freeze.
Summer stands at the stove, spatula in hand, her back to me. She's wearing my flannel pajama pants, rolled at the waist and ankles, and the sweater from last night. But what stops me cold is her hair, the loose, wild mane from last night now tamed into the neat braid she used to wear every day before everything fell apart.
She turns, sensing my presence, and the smile that greets me is nothing like the manic, desperate grin from last night. This one reaches her eyes, softening the sharp edges I saw when she first appeared at my door. There's still something haunted lurking beneath, but it's buried deeper now, controlled.
"Good morning," she says, voice steady and warm. "I made breakfast."
The kitchen is immaculate. No sign of the cake I hurled against the wall, no ceramic shards, no evidence of my breakdown. The table is set for two, orange juice in glasses, steaming coffee in mugs, mine, the chipped blue one I've had since college, and hers, the white ceramic with tiny painted daisies I bought her for our second anniversary.
"You cleaned everything," I say stupidly, my brain still struggling to reconcile this domestic scene with the broken woman from last night.
"I promised I would, remember?" Summer's smile has a fragile quality to it, like porcelain that's been broken and carefully glued back together. She turns back to the stove, flipping what I now see are perfect golden pancakes.
That's when I notice the oven's on too, its digital display counting down minutes.
"What are you baking?" I ask, gesturing toward the oven.
The question hits something raw in her. Her eyes immediately well up with tears, the blue suddenly swimming and vulnerable. She blinks rapidly, sucking the emotion back in with visible effort as she slides pancakes onto our plates.
"You'll see," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sizzle of the pan. She adds bacon and scrambled eggs to each plate with the precision of someone performing a ritual. "It's a surprise."
We sit across from each other at the small table, the familiar scene so achingly normal it feels surreal after everything that's happened. I cut into the pancakes, finding them filled with cinnamon and tiny bits of apple. Her specialty, from before.
The silence stretches between us, punctuated only by the sounds of forks against plates and the steady ticking of the oven timer. I search for something to say, something that won't shatter this fragile peace.
"So..." I clear my throat, stabbing at a piece of pancake. "What's, uh... what's new with you?"
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to punch myself. What's new? As if we're casual acquaintances catching up after a vacation, not estranged spouses with a chasm of trauma between us.
Summer's eyes dart around nervously, blinking rapidly as she processes my ridiculous question. Her gaze shifts from my face to her meticulously prepared breakfast, then back to me. For a moment, I think she might cry again, but instead her expression settles into something more composed, almost clinical.
"You're still sober," she says quietly. Not a question, but a statement of fact, like she can somehow sense it in me, see it written across my skin. The abrupt change of subject hangs between us.
"Yeah," I confirm, surprised by how normal my voice sounds despite the chaos in my chest.
Her face softens then, a genuine smile breaking through the carefully constructed facade she's been wearing all morning. "I'm so proud of you, Scotty," she whispers, reaching across the table to brush her fingers against mine.
The nickname hits me harder than I expected, stirring up memories of better times when those words meant everything to me. Coming from her now, they're both balm and burn.
"Thanks," I manage, pulling my hand back slowly. "It wasn't... it isn't easy."
Her hand slides across the table and wraps around my wrist, her grip gentle but firm. The touch sends an electric current through me that I wasn't prepared for.
"You can rely on me now, Scott," she says, her voice soft but steady. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'll help you stay sober."
I stare at her, feeling something dark and bitter rise in my throat. The audacity of this woman who abandoned me, who chose Taevion and his world over our marriage, now offering to be my rock. My fucking salvation.
I want to yank my arm away. I want to tell her to fuck off, that she lost the right to make promises the moment she decided to stay away. That the tattoos etched into her skin are permanent reminders of how easily she replaced me.
But the truth sits heavy in my chest. I played my part in her leaving. The pills. The debt. The empty promises. I'd pushed her to the edge long before Taevion pulled her over it.
So I bite my tongue, forcing down the venom that wants to spill out.
"Thank you," I say simply, the words burning like acid.
Her smile widens, blooming across her face like she's won something precious. The sight of it makes my stomach twist into complicated knots.
"You really will let me stay?" she asks, voice tinged with childlike wonder.
I hesitate, reality crashing back. "Wouldn't you rather go live with your parents for a…"
She cuts me off before I can finish, her expression darkening so rapidly it's like watching a storm roll in over calm waters. Her eyes go wide and manic, pupils dilating until the blue is just a thin ring around black pools.
"Why would I need to do that, Scotty?" The question comes out sharp, almost threatening. Her fingers tighten around my wrist until I can feel my pulse throbbing against her grip.
The mood shift is so jarring that I find myself leaning away from her. This is what scares me most about the new Summer, these sudden plunges from sunshine to shadow with no warning, no transition.
"I just thought," I start carefully, watching her face for signs of another shift, "that you might want some space. Some time to... adjust."
Her grip loosens slightly, and something like hurt flashes across her features before being replaced by determination.
"I don't need space from you," she says, each word deliberate. "I need you."
The timer on the oven goes off with a shrill beep that makes us both jump. Summer releases my wrist and stands quickly, smoothing down the front of my sweater with trembling hands.
The oven timer's beep seems to trigger something in Summer. Her eyes suddenly widen with panic, darting between me and the oven.
"Scotty," she says, voice tight with anxiety, "can you go into the bedroom for a few minutes?"
I frown, confusion replacing my earlier unease. "Why?"
"Please," she whispers, her hands twisting the bottom of my sweater. "It's part of the surprise. I need to get it ready."
I stare at her, skepticism clear on my face. "Really? Right now?"
Her eyes immediately fill with tears, the blue turning glassy and vulnerable. Her bottom lip trembles as she nods desperately, silently begging me to cooperate.
I exhale slowly, feeling my resolve crumble under the weight of those tears. "Fine," I mutter, pushing away from the table. "Just... let me know when you're done."
Relief floods her face as I stand, her shoulders sagging slightly. I trudge back to the bedroom, shutting the door behind me with perhaps more force than necessary. Sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, I listen to the muffled sounds of Summer moving around the kitchen, drawers opening, cabinet doors closing, her soft footsteps across the tile floor.
What am I doing?
The question circles my mind like a shark. This woman isn't the Summer I married, not really. She's some strange hybrid of my wife and whatever Taevion and his friends turned her into. The tattoos alone tell a story I'm not sure I want to hear.
Yet here I am, playing along with whatever this is, letting her back into my life like the past year never happened. Like she didn't choose to stay away. Like those pictures never existed.
"Ready!" Summer's voice calls from the kitchen, high and hopeful.
I push myself up from the bed, steeling myself for whatever awaits me. When I step into the kitchen, I freeze.
There, on the table where we just had breakfast, sits a chocolate cake. Not the one I destroyed last night, but a new one, carefully frosted and decorated. Ten candles stand tall across its surface, each flame dancing steadily in the still air of the apartment.
Summer stands behind it, hands clasped tightly in front of her, eyes wide and hopeful. She's cleared away our breakfast dishes, set out clean plates, and forks.
"Happy ten-year anniversary, baby," she whispers, voice trembling slightly. "I know it's a day late, but I wanted to make it right."
"Happy anniversary," I manage, the words sticking in my throat like shards of glass. My eyes burn as I stare at the flickering candles, each flame another year we've spent together, another year we can't get back. Except one candle burns a little bit less brightly. Just like us.
"Go ahead," I tell her, my voice steadier than I feel. "Blow out the candles."
Summer's smile falters, confusion creasing her forehead. She glances between me and the cake, then back again. "But... didn't you already make a cake? Last night?" Her eyes drift toward the now-spotless wall where chocolate had exploded just hours before.
The question hangs between us, heavy with all the things we're not saying. I take a deep breath, feeling my heart hammer against my ribs.
"I did," I admit quietly. "I made that one to say goodbye."
Her face crumples, understanding washing over her like acid rain. The carefully constructed mask she's been wearing all morning dissolves, revealing the raw, wounded creature beneath.
"Scott..." she whispers, her voice barely audible.
My throat tightens as tears well up in my eyes. The weight of everything, her return, the cake, the desperate attempts to recapture what we lost, crashes down on me all at once.
"Summer, I'm not sure I ..." I begin, my voice cracking.
Before I can finish, she lunges forward, closing the distance between us. Her lips crash against mine, desperate and hungry. For a split second, I'm transported back to before everything fell apart, when her kiss was the only home I needed.
But reality crashes back like ice water. I push her away, my hands firm against her shoulders. She stumbles back, confusion and hurt blooming across her face.
"What's wrong?" she whispers, reaching for me again.
I step back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "I can't, Summer. For all I know, you could have... picked something up." The words taste bitter, but I force them out anyway. "I'm not risking my health until we know for sure."
Her face twists with pain, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. "You think I'm dirty?" she asks, voice small and broken. "You think they made me dirty?"
"I don't know what to think," I say, hating how cruel it sounds but knowing it's the truth. "I don't know anything about what happened to you this past year."
She wraps her arms around herself, shrinking before my eyes. "I got tested," she whispers. "Every month. They let me. I'm clean, Scott. I swear."
Her face suddenly hardens, a flash of anger replacing the vulnerability. "So you don't believe me?" Her voice rises, echoing in our small kitchen. "You think I'm lying?"
"I didn't say that," I backpedal, but the damage is done. "It's just…"
"It's just what?" She steps forward, eyes blazing. "You think I'm diseased? That I'll infect you somehow?"
I run my hand through my hair, frustrated. "Summer, this isn't about believing you or not. It's about being careful."
She stares at me, her expression shifting from hurt to something calculating. The transformation is unnerving.
"Fine," she says, her voice suddenly steady. "If I get tested today, will you sleep with me?"
The bluntness of her question catches me off guard. My mouth opens, then closes again. I try to find the right words, something that won't send her spiraling again.
"I don't know about that," I say carefully. "But I'd be more comfortable with kissing if I could see you get tested and look at the results myself."
Her expression transforms instantly. That manic smile I've come to dread spreads across her face, her eyes lighting up with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
"You'll come with me?" she asks, practically vibrating with excitement. "To the clinic?"
I nod slowly. "Yeah, I can do that."
She claps her hands together like a child promised a trip to the amusement park, then slides back into her chair at the table. The mood whiplash is dizzying.
"Come on," she says, gesturing to the cake between us, the candles still flickering. "Let's have a quick slice before we go."
I hesitate before lowering myself into the chair across from her. "Okay," I agree, the word feeling awkward and heavy in my mouth.
She cuts into the cake with precision, serving me a perfect wedge. The frosting is immaculate, nothing like my messy attempt from last night.
I take the fork and slice into the cake, watching the moist layers separate under the pressure. It's perfect, the kind of dessert that belongs in bakery displays, not our tiny kitchen table with its scratched surface and water rings. The frosting clings to my fork, thick and glossy.
"Try it," Summer urges, her eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. She hasn't touched her own piece, just watches me like my reaction is the only thing that matters in the universe.
I lift the fork to my mouth, bracing myself. The first bite hits my tongue with a burst of rich chocolate and something deeper, maybe espresso or dark rum. It's incredible, just as good as the desserts she used to make. The texture is velvety, dissolving on my tongue in a way that makes my eyes close involuntarily.
"It's really good," I admit, opening my eyes to find her still staring, hunger written across her face. But it's not for the cake, it's for my approval, my reaction. She's devouring every microexpression that crosses my features.
She finally takes a bite of her own slice, never breaking eye contact. A small sound of pleasure escapes her throat, but it feels performative, like she's mimicking what she thinks I want to see.
"Scotty," she whispers, reaching across the table to touch my hand. Her fingers are cold against my skin. "I love you."
The words hang between us, fragile and dangerous. I know what she wants to hear. The old Scott would have said it back instantly.
"Thank you," I say quietly, pulling my hand away to take another bite of cake.