CHAPTER 6
EDEN
The lock clicked behind me, and I leaned my forehead briefly against the door, exhaustion sinking into my bones the way it always did after a long shift. My feet ached, my shoulders felt knotted and a hundred years old . . . and all I wanted was my bed.
Instead, the apartment smelled like food.
I straightened slowly, confusion threading through the fog in my head as I slipped off my shoes.
It was only then that I realized that Ryan was standing at the stove, cooking something.
I blinked a few times because it was hard to comprehend that I was seeing him awake and upright.
When was the last time I’d gotten home and he hadn’t been passed out on the couch or sprawled out in our bed too drunk to greet me?
The pan in front of him sizzled, steam curling up toward the ceiling, and my eyes widened even farther when I saw our tiny table was set with two plates. An actual candle was burning between them, its flame wavering like it was also in disbelief over the scene.
My feet had forgotten how to move. “What are you doing?” I finally asked, my voice coming out thin and incredulous.
He turned, smiling like this was the most natural thing in the world, like he hadn’t shattered my expectations simply by being vertical. His eyes were bright, and his movements were energetic in a way that didn’t match the hour.
“What does it look like?” he teased. “I’m making dinner.”
I stared at him, then at the plates, then at the candle. “It’s three in the morning.”
“So?” He shrugged, unfazed. “You work nights.”
That was true. But it had also been true last night . . . and the night before that. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, when he tilted his head and studied my face. “You didn’t really think I’d forget our anniversary, did you?”
His words immediately nauseated me.
“Oh,” I said stupidly, the sound barely more than air. My mind scrambled backward anyway, rifling through memories like drawers I hadn’t opened in a while until I landed on the courthouse and how we’d stood in front of a judge with our cheap rings and even cheaper promises.
I had completely forgotten. I was immediately ashamed of myself, and the feeling sank even deeper than my exhaustion. “I— Ryan, I didn’t—”
He laughed, and the sound caught me off guard. I hadn’t heard it in so long it almost didn’t belong to him anymore. “Relax,” he said easily. “I know you’ve been busy.”
Busy. The word felt like a kindness I didn’t deserve.
I looked at the candle again, at the care in the small details, and I wanted to throw up. I should have remembered. I should have planned something. I’d let the days blur together until even something like this slipped through the cracks.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
He waved it off, but his eyes lingered on me like he was trying to read something in my face. I concentrated hard on not thinking about the way someone else’s stare had felt earlier tonight, and how it had done something to me that my husband’s gaze never did.
“Sit,” he said gently. “I wanted this to be nice.”
I walked to the table like my body was operating on a delay, each step slower than it should have been. I sank into the chair just as he plated the food with a small, theatrical flourish, clearly pleased with himself. My breath caught when I saw what he’d just served.
Steak . . . real steak, and not a thin cut. He’d taken the time to sear it properly, which I didn’t even know he knew how to do, and he’d even melted butter on top. My first thought wasn’t gratitude or surprise, though. It was panic.
“Ryan,” I said quietly before I could stop myself, “how did you pay for this?”
The smile on his face faltered, just a fraction, before hardening into something defensive. “Fucking hell, Eden. Can you not do this?”
“I’m just asking,” I said, keeping my voice even. “We didn’t have groceries this morning.”
“So what?” he snapped. “I can’t do something nice without you interrogating me?”
“That’s not—”
“It’s always something,” he cut in, turning back toward the stove as if the pan suddenly needed his full attention. “I’m trying to do something for us, and you immediately assume the worst.”
There it was again, that familiar twist of guilt. I pressed my lips together. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Ryan didn’t look at me as he sat down and picked up his fork. “Can we just eat?”
I quickly nodded . . . and we did.
The steak was good. Better than good. It was perfectly cooked, and I savored each bite, even though I was very aware with every swallow that we couldn’t afford this. The candle flickered between us, casting soft shadows that made the apartment feel almost . . . romantic.
Almost.
Ryan talked first, filling the silence the way he always did when it grew uncomfortable. “I know things have been rough,” he said, his tone gentler now, the earlier edge gone as though it had never existed. “I know I’ve been stressed. You’ve been stressed. But it’s temporary.”
I nodded, keeping my eyes on my plate.
“I’ve got things in the pipeline,” he continued. “Real things. Opportunities. You’ll see. We’re not going to be scraping by like this forever.”
Pipeline. Opportunities. The words were familiar, and worn thin from repetition.
I murmured something agreeable, going through the motions of lifting my fork and chewing and swallowing. On the outside, I played my part of the supportive, patient wife who believed him . . . while inside, I was just sad.
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to so badly.
I wanted to let his confidence settle into me, to trust that this time was different, that this promise would finally stick.
But it was hard to forget how these last few years of promises had felt hopeful and reassuring in the moment and then they’d be gone like smoke slipping right through my fingers.
“Thank you,” I said as I finished my steak, hoping my smile seemed genuine. It was hard to lean into the version of myself that knew how to keep the peace when I was this tired. It also didn’t help that an aching part of me wondered how many more anniversaries would pass like this.
Beautiful on the surface.
And empty underneath.
He reached for me after dinner like it had fixed everything.
Like the candle and the steak and the words pipeline and opportunities were enough to smooth over the months that had worn me to nothing.
I let him pull me close anyway, because that’s what I did.
Because saying no would turn into a conversation I didn’t have the energy to survive.
The bedroom was dim, the air heavy. His hands felt familiar in the way routines do, predictable and . . . expected. I tried to be present, I tried to give him what he wanted, what he was reaching for with that hopeful edge in his voice.
But it felt wrong immediately.
Not painful. Just . . . empty. Like I was somewhere else already, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to be over while my body went through the motions without me.
I closed my eyes, and that’s when it happened, uninvited, unwanted . . . unavoidable.
There was a flash of blond hair and a dangerous smile that promised things I wasn’t supposed to want. Silver-flecked eyes locked on mine, watching me as if I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
My breath stuttered, and Ryan groaned, thinking it was for him.
But it wasn’t.
It was for him instead, burning behind my eyelids .
. . those tattooed forearms caging me in, the weight of him pressing me down, the low rasp of his voice in my ear saying look at me while he thrust deep inside me.
I imagined the stretch of him, that huge dick dragging against every sensitive spot until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but shatter.
My hips lifted on instinct, chasing the fantasy.
I knew this wasn’t okay. I knew I should stop it, push the image away, focus on the man actually inside me. And I tried . . . I really did.
But my body betrayed me anyway.
The moment crested fast and intense—nothing like the hollow blankness I’d been stuck in seconds before.
Pleasure tore through me like wildfire, and my back arched off the bed as I clutched the sheets so hard my knuckles bleached white.
A cry tore out of my throat, and my walls clenched around Ryan, pulsing hard, wave after wave crashing until black spots danced behind my eyelids, and my legs trembled uncontrollably.
It was the best orgasm I’d ever had. And it wasn’t for the man on top of me.
Ryan finished a few thrusts later with a grunt and collapsed beside me, his breathing heavy and satisfied. I lay there staring at the ceiling with slick thighs and shame burning hot under my skin.
I’d come screaming for a stranger whose name I didn’t even know.
The worst part wasn’t that my body responded. It was that for the first time in a long time . . . I’d felt something at all. And it wasn’t because of my husband.
I rolled onto my side, curling in on myself, trying to hide the tears that slipped out anyway.
Because it felt like I’d just crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.
Morning came too fast and without mercy.
The coffee shop smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon syrup, a combination that usually smelled good to me, but today it just made my temples throb. I tied my apron with fingers that felt heavy and slow, then stepped behind the counter, already bracing myself for the shift.
Mara was leaning against the register, scrolling through her phone as if the place ran itself. She had one hip cocked, and all her weight fully committed to not helping.
“Morning,” I said.
She hummed without looking up.
I swallowed the irritation and got to work.
Filling the ice bin. Wiping down counters already sticky from spilled syrup.
Restocking lids and sleeves with hands that moved on autopilot.
The espresso machine beeped impatiently, and I stepped in to fix it before anyone else even looked up.
I always did. It was easier that way. I was used to being the one moving while everyone else conserved energy.