Not closer.

Waiting.

I looked at the wedding ring sitting on the chain around my neck.

I had not been able to throw it away.

Dominic noticed.

His face changed.

“I thought you wanted the divorce.”

“I did.”

“Do you still?”

I stared at him for a long time.

Then whispered, “I don’t know.”

He nodded.

No pressure.

No persuasion.

“Then we wait.”

“For what?”

“For you to know.”

“And what do you want?”

His answer came without hesitation.

“You.”

My breath caught.

“Not the promise?”

“No.”

“Not my father’s debt?”

“No.”

“Not because keeping me safe makes you feel less guilty?”

His eyes filled.

“No.”

I stepped closer.

“Then why?”

Dominic looked at me the way he had looked at the gun in Maine.

As though fear and love had become impossible to separate.

“Because you leave paintbrushes in coffee cups.”

I laughed through tears.

“Dominic.”

“You steal the blankets.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Dominic.”

“You make terrible pasta.”

“Careful.”

“You ask people questions and actually listen when they answer.”

His voice cracked.

“You make rooms feel occupied even when you’re silent.”

My heart hurt.

“You walked into my life terrified and somehow kept worrying whether everyone else was comfortable.”

He took one breath.

Then another.

“And when you look at me, sometimes I forget what people have called me.”

My eyes burned harder.

“What do they call you?”

“A lot of things.”

“And what do I call you?”

His mouth trembled.

“My husband.”

I reached for him.

Dominic froze.

I placed my palm against his cheek.

He leaned into it so slightly I might have imagined it.

“I’m still angry.”

“I know.”

“I may be angry for a very long time.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to decide what memories I can handle.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to lie to protect me from pain.”

“I know.”

“You’re becoming irritating.”

“I’ve been told.”

I laughed.

He closed his eyes.

One tear escaped.

Just one.

I wiped it away with my thumb.

“I don’t forgive you yet.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want a divorce today.”

His eyes opened.

Something almost hopeful appeared there.

I immediately pointed at him.

“Today.”

“Today.”

“Tomorrow is under review.”

“Understood.”

“And if you ever clear another debt without asking me—”

“I can reverse it.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

He smiled.

And this time, he did not hide it.

Six months later, I returned to teaching.

Not at my old school.

Some things could not be restored.

Instead, I took a position at a small private academy in Manhattan.

Dominic drove me on the first morning.

He insisted it was because security still needed to be cautious.

I knew better.

“You’re nervous,” I said.

“I’m not.”

“You’ve checked the mirrors eleven times.”

“Traffic.”

“You threatened a taxi driver with your eyes.”

“He cut us off.”

“You’re nervous.”

Dominic looked at me.

“Your students are teenagers.”

“Yes.”

“Teenagers are unstable.”

“They’re fourteen.”

“My point.”

I laughed.

When we reached the school, he walked me inside.

At the entrance, I turned.

“You can go.”

“I know.”

He didn’t.

I smiled.

“Dominic.”

“There are eighty-six windows.”

“What?”

“In the building.”

“You counted?”

“I reviewed the architectural plans.”

“Of course you did.”

A little girl walked past holding construction paper.

She stared at Dominic’s black shirt and severe expression.

Then she looked at me.

“Is that your bodyguard?”

I bit my lip.

Dominic raised an eyebrow.

“No,” I told her.

“He’s my husband.”

The girl considered this.

Then nodded solemnly.

“He looks expensive.”

I laughed so hard I had to lean against Dominic.

And for once, he laughed without checking whether anyone was watching.

That evening, I returned home to find the Maine studio recreated in Manhattan.

Not exactly.

This one was smaller.

Warmer.

Sunlight from the west.

My old wooden stool from Dad’s apartment sat in the corner.

I stopped.

“Dominic.”

He appeared in the doorway.

“I asked this time.”

I stared.

“What?”

“Your mother.”

A laugh escaped me.

“She gave you Dad’s stool?”

“She made me promise not to sand out the paint stains.”

I walked over.

Blue.

Yellow.

Green.

Layers of childhood.

I sat down and ran my fingers over the wood.

“There’s something else,” Dominic said.

He handed me a thin envelope.

Inside was one sheet of paper.

My father’s handwriting.

Emily,

If Dominic ever gives you this, then he finally ignored me.

Good.

He has a terrible habit of confusing promises with prison sentences.

I laughed through the first tear.

Your mother and I knew he would watch over you if I asked.

What I did not know was that the frightened boy who protected you that night would grow into a man who might need protecting too.

Do not love him because he saved you.

Do not stay because I asked him to keep you safe.

And for God’s sake, do not marry him because of me.

I stopped reading.

Dominic looked away.

“You had this?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Since your father died.”

“You read it?”

“No.”

I stared at him.

“Really?”

“It was addressed to you.”

“You invaded every other corner of my life.”

“I’m growing.”

I almost smiled.

Then I read the final lines.

Choose the life that makes you feel most alive.

Even if it scares you.

Especially then.

Love,

Dad.

I pressed the letter against my chest.

For several minutes, neither Dominic nor I spoke.

Then I looked up.

“Did Dad know we were going to get married?”

“No.”

“Then why did he write that?”

Dominic’s expression changed.

This time he actually looked embarrassed.

“He had theories.”

“What theories?”

“I visited him during treatment.”

My eyebrows rose.

“How often?”

“Sometimes.”

“Dominic.”

“Every Thursday.”

My heart squeezed painfully.

“For two years?”

“Yes.”

“And you never told me?”

“He asked me not to.”

“Why?”

Dominic looked toward Dad’s stool.

“He thought you would feel obligated to know me.”

I slowly sat down.

“What did you two talk about?”

“Baseball.”

“Dad hated baseball.”

“I know.”

I laughed.

“He complained about hospital food.”

“That sounds right.”

“He showed me photographs of you.”

My heart stopped.

“Which ones?”

“All of them.”

I covered my face.

“Oh no.”

“There was one from eighth grade—”

“Do not.”

“Blue braces.”

“Dominic.”

“Very memorable.”

“I will annul this marriage.”

He laughed.

Then his expression softened.

“He talked about you constantly.”

I lowered my hands.

“Why did you keep going?”

The answer took time.

“Because he was afraid to die alone.”

My eyes filled instantly.

Dominic looked down.

“And I knew what that felt like.”

That was the moment I stopped seeing the promise as the beginning of our story.

It wasn’t.

The beginning had been two frightened boys and girls hidden inside lives neither of them understood.

It had been a teenage Dominic holding his hand over my mouth so men would not hear me cry.

It had been Dad carrying guilt for years.

It had been Dominic sitting beside a dying man every Thursday, saying nothing about the child he had once saved.

It had been two lonely people moving toward one another long before either understood what the movement meant.