Chloe
I see Iris the second I walk into the gym, which at this point I should just expect. She’s over by the free weights with two of her friends, all three of them in coordinated workout sets, her red hair pulled into a high ponytail, looking like she came here to be seen rather than to exercise.
She notices me at the same moment I catch sight of her, and her eyes do their usual sweep, quick and assessing, before she leans toward one of her friends and says something with a small smile that she times perfectly for me to catch the tail end of without being able to fully make out the words.
I clench my jaw and keep walking toward the treadmills.
We’ve been running into each other here for weeks now, and every time there’s something.
A comment delivered just loudly enough to reach me.
A look followed by a laugh that comes out slightly mocking.
Small, precisely aimed digs at me that are impossible to call out directly because she’s too good at this game for that.
The first few times it happened, I let it get under my skin, but I’m determined not to let her keep throwing me off balance. So I pointedly ignore her, putting my earbuds in and finding a treadmill where I can’t see her and won’t have to listen to her gossiping with her friends.
I do my workout, then shower and leave quickly, annoyed that what was once my refuge doesn’t feel like a place I want to linger in anymore.
The car takes me home along a coastal road, the ocean showing up in dark flashes between the houses as we wind up toward the property.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes.
By the time we turn down the driveway, I’m half asleep and thinking about nothing except the comfy couch that’s waiting for me.
The house is quiet when I let myself in. Tristan isn’t home yet, probably still at work. I head upstairs to swap my workout clothes for an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, then pad back down barefoot.
There’s leftover pasta from two nights ago in the fridge. I heat it up, eat standing at the island while I scroll through my phone, then grab the novel I’ve been reading off the side table and settle onto the couch.
I make it about three chapters deep before my eyelids start getting heavy, and at some point, I doze off.
When the front door opens several hours later, I jolt awake.
For a second, I blink at the ceiling, fuzzy and disoriented. Then I grab my phone to check the time.
God. It’s almost two in the morning.
I clamber off the couch as Tristan walks into the living room—and whatever I was about to say to him dies in my throat.
His eyes are bloodshot, his hair a tangled mess, and his clothes are rumpled. I can see the strain etched into every line of his face. He’s clearly drunk, but it’s not just that. He looks wrecked. He looks like he might have been crying.
He stumbles forward, and without hesitation, I rush to his side, wrapping an arm around him to steady him. The familiar scent of alcohol hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the salt-tinged breeze that drifts in from the open door.
Tristan’s gaze meets mine, and I see the turmoil reflected in his eyes—pain, need, and something else, something I can’t quite grasp. His voice is raw with emotion as he speaks, his words a whisper that cuts through the heavy silence between us.
“You’re here,” he murmurs. He sounds… surprised, almost. Like he was expecting to arrive to an empty house.
I swallow. “Of course I’m here. I’m your wife.”
Something moves across his face at that, quick and unguarded, and he leans in and rests his forehead against mine.
His eyes close. His breath comes out slow and unsteady against my face, and I go still and let him do it, bringing my free hand up to rest against the side of his jaw.
His stubble is rough under my palm as I brush my thumb over his cheek.
I don’t know what happened to him today or what put him in this state, but I can sense that he needs this—and if I’m honest, I do too.
We stand like that for a while. Long enough that my arm starts to ache from taking most of his weight, but I don’t move.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally without lifting his head. “For showing up like this. For getting home so late. I’m sorry, dimples.”
“It’s okay.”
“No.” He pulls back and looks down at me, his jaw working. “It’s not okay. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be the husband you deserve.”
I start to say something, but he keeps going before I can.
“I’m afraid I’m going to ruin everything,” he rasps. “For you.”
My eyes sting. I press my hand flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under my palm, fast and unsteady. “You won’t ruin anything,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, slow and heavy. “I spent my whole… my whole life trying to deny it, but I’m my father’s son.”
I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but the anguish in Tristan’s voice is undeniable. I want to ask what he’s talking about, but right now he can barely stand up straight.
He takes another half-step toward the living room, stumbling over his own feet. I steady him, my hands pressed against his chest.
“Come on,” I say, getting a better grip around his waist. “Upstairs. Let’s go.”
He doesn’t argue, which tells me a lot about how far gone he is.
We take the stairs slowly, one careful step at a time, his hand on the rail and my arm locked around his waist, and by the time we make it to the top, I’m breathing harder from the effort of holding him upright.
I steer him through the bedroom doorway and get him to the edge of the bed, then sit him down.
He follows my guidance without resistance, his elbows dropping to his knees for a second before he lifts his head and looks at me.
I work his jacket off his shoulders and drape it over the chair by the window, then crouch down and deal with his shoes and socks.
I straighten back up and start on the buttons of his shirt, working from the collar down, and he sits there and watches me do it with those tired, raw eyes, not saying a word.
His shirt falls open, and I ease it off his tattooed shoulders and arms, leaving him in just his pants.
That’s good enough for now, so I reach over to draw back the blanket on the bed. But he catches my wrist before I can, his grip firm yet desperate.
“Tristan—”
He tugs me onto his lap, settling me into a position where my legs straddle his thighs as he gazes up at me with a fierce, wild emotion in his eyes.
“You need to sleep,” I tell him quietly, brushing his mussed hair back with my fingers.
“I know.” His hands drop to my waist. “Just… give me a minute.”
I nod, staying where I am as his fingers dig softly into the flesh of my hips through my clothes. He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes glinting in the low light.
“I want this marriage to work,” he finally whispers, as though he’s voicing a confession.
“It is working,” I assure him, my voice soft. “We’ve already gotten this far. We’re almost two months into our three years, and it’s going great.”
He shakes his head, and the look on his face stops me. “No. Not three years. I… I want… I need more than that.”
My heart skips a beat as Tristan reaches up to caress the side of my face, his fingers tracing a path of warmth along my skin. His slurred words wash over me like the wind off the ocean, stirring a hurricane of emotions inside me.
“I’m obsessed with you, Chloe. I’m always noticing more about you.
When you smile, your lips lift up higher on the right side than the left.
You make these adorable fucking noises in your sleep.
Your favorite colors are black and gold—they’re the ones you always choose.
And…” He trails off, staring up at me as if he’s absorbing more details right now, in this very moment.
I’m speechless, unsure how to reply. For a moment, both of us are silent, his fingertips resting at my hairline as he looks up at me, tears leaking from the corners of his red-rimmed eyes.
“When you’re in a room with me,” he says hoarsely, “I can’t look anywhere else. I never could. Not from the first time I saw you.”
My heart is going so fast I can feel it in my throat, and I don’t say anything because I have no idea what to say.
He looks at me for a long moment, his thumb resting against my cheekbone, his eyes heavy but holding mine, and then the exhaustion finally wins.
His eyelids drop closed as his hand slides slowly from my face.
I catch it in my own and clamber off his lap, urging him upward on the mattress so that he’s sprawled out on top of it.
He murmurs something else that’s too garbled to make out, and then his breathing deepens and evens out. Within a few breaths, he’s completely out, his chest rising and falling in a slow steady rhythm.
I ease myself carefully off the bed and pull the blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders. Then I stand there in the dimly lit bedroom, looking down at him.
Handsome. Powerful. Possessive.
Damaged in ways I’m only beginning to understand.
My husband.