I woke up to the sound of breathing that wasn't mine.
It took a moment to remember why that mattered.
Alexander lay on the far edge of the bed, turned slightly away from me, one arm thrown over the pillow as if it were a barrier he didn't quite trust. The early morning light softened the sharp lines of his face, made him look younger, less like the man who had dismantled my marriage with a sentence, more like the stranger I'd fallen in love with once.
I shouldn't have been looking.
I shifted carefully, trying not to wake him, but the mattress dipped ever so slightly.
"I know you're awake," he said.
His voice was rough, still tangled in sleep.
"So are you," I replied.
He exhaled and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "You breathe differently when you're asleep."
I frowned. "That's an oddly specific observation."
He glanced at me then, something guarded in his eyes. "I've had a lot of time to notice things. I just didn't realize they mattered."
The words landed heavier than he probably intended.
I sat up, pulling the sheet around me. "Is that what this is?" I asked. "Noticing things?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I didn't come here to hurt you," he said finally.
I let out a quiet laugh. "That makes one of us."
His jaw tightened. "You know what I mean."
"Do I?" I asked. "Because from where I'm standing, you came back into this room because you said you would. Not because you wanted to."
He pushed himself up on his elbows, turning to face me fully now. "And what if I did want to?"
The question hung between us, fragile and dangerous.
I looked at him for a long moment, then shook my head. "Wanting something for thirty days isn't the same as choosing it."
His gaze sharpened. "You don't think I can choose you."
"I think you already did," I said softly. "And then you un-chose me. I'm just trying to understand which version of you is here now."
Silence.
He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, took a slow sip, buying time. He was good at that; pauses, deflections, control.
"I don't expect forgiveness," he said. "But I don't think this month has to be cruel."
"I'm not being cruel," I said. "I'm being honest."
He studied me then, really studied me, as if trying to reconcile the woman in front of him with the one he thought he knew.
"You're different," he said.
I felt something tighten in my chest. "I didn't change. I just stopped asking to be seen."
That seemed to unsettle him more than anger would have.
Later that afternoon, Elena called.
I knew because his phone lit up on the kitchen counter while he was in the shower. Her name glowed against the dark screen, familiar and unwelcome.
I didn't touch the phone. I didn't need to.
When Alexander came back into the room, towel draped around his neck, he saw the look on my face and followed my gaze.
He picked up the phone and stared at it for a long moment before silencing the call.
"I didn't answer," he said.
"I didn't ask you to," I replied.
"I know," he said, quieter now. "But I want you to know."
I turned away, busying myself with pouring coffee. My hands shook slightly, and I hated that he noticed.
"You don't owe me reports," I said. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?" he asked.
I met his eyes. "It's a reminder. Of what it feels like to almost have something and know it can still disappear."
He didn't respond.
That night, we attended a small charity dinner together. Nothing extravagant. Just enough people to notice us arriving side by side.
Alexander's hand hovered at the small of my back as we walked in, unsure. When he finally rested it there, the warmth startled me.
I didn't lean into it.
I didn't pull away either.
During dinner, someone commented on how well we looked together.
"Some things don't fade," the woman said warmly.
Alexander smiled politely.
I didn't.
Back home, the tension followed us upstairs, thicker now, heavier with things neither of us wanted to name.
He stopped at the bedroom door. "If this is too much…"
"It's not," I said, before I could stop myself.
His eyes darkened slightly. "Then why do you look like you're bracing for impact?"
Because I was.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell the familiar scent that used to mean safety.
"Seraphina," he said quietly. "If I cross a line, tell me."
I looked up at him. "And if I want you to?"
That was the moment.
The breath he took. The hesitation. The restraint.
He stepped back.
"I won't," he said. "Not unless you're sure."
The disappointment was sharp and immediate, and so was the relief.
"Good," I said, even though my voice wavered. "Because wanting something doesn't mean it's good for you."
He watched me for a long moment, then nodded.
We lay down again that night, the same careful distance between us. But this time, sleep didn't come easily for either of us.
I stared into the dark, painfully aware of every inch of space separating our bodies.
The distance wasn't empty.
It was charged.
And I knew deep down that the closer he tried to come, the more carefully I would have to decide when to step away.
Because the most dangerous thing in the world wasn't losing Alexander again.
It was starting to believe that this time, he might actually stay.