Nineteen
Susanna
A month passes. Then six weeks.
Teller is trying. I can see that. He's in therapy twice a week. He comes home on time every day. He's attentive, present, and helpful.
But I can't let my guard down. Not yet. Not when the wounds are still so fresh. Except... they're starting to heal. Just a little. I notice things. Small things at first.
The way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not watching—like I'm something precious he almost lost. The way he asks about my day and actually listens to the answer, his phone face-down on the counter, untouched.
The way he does the dishes without being asked, folds the laundry, remembers that I like my coffee with just a splash of cream.
The way he doesn't make excuses anymore.
Last week, his therapist asked if I'd be willing to come to a session. I said yes, expecting Teller to be defensive, to minimize what he'd done.
Instead, he sat there and took full accountability. He didn't say "but" once. He didn't blame Frank or his own stupidity or the stress at work. He just owned it—all of it—and talked about the patterns he's working to break.
I cried in that session. So did he.
Tonight, I'm making dinner—pasta with the homemade sauce Teller loves—and he's setting the table. We move around each other in the kitchen like we used to, before everything fell apart. There's a rhythm to it, a familiarity that makes my chest ache.
"Wine?" he asks, holding up a bottle of red.
"Sure."
He pours two glasses, hands me one. Our fingers brush, and I feel it—that spark that's been dormant for months. My body remembers him, even if my heart is still cautious.
We eat dinner and talk about safe things. Work. The weather. The neighbor's new dog. But underneath the mundane conversation, there's something else. A tension that's not quite anger anymore.
It's want.
I want him. God help me, I still want him.
After dinner, we settle on the couch to watch a movie. It's become our routine—sitting together but not touching, a careful distance between us. But tonight, I'm tired of the distance. Tired of punishing us both.
Halfway through the movie, I shift closer. Just an inch. Then another.
Teller goes very still beside me.
I reach out and take his hand.
His breath catches. He looks down at our joined hands like he can't quite believe it's real, then up at my face.
"Susanna," he whispers.
"Don't," I say softly. "Don't say anything. Just... can we just sit like this?"
"Yeah. Yes. Of course."
His thumb strokes over my knuckles, gentle and reverent. We sit like that for the rest of the movie, holding hands like teenagers, and it feels like the first step toward something I wasn't sure we'd ever find again.
When the credits roll, I don't let go.
"Susanna." His voice is rough. "Can I... can I kiss you?"
My heart pounds. I should say no. I should make him wait longer, make him prove himself more. But I'm so tired of being angry. So tired of sleeping alone.
"Yes."
He turns toward me slowly, like I might bolt at any moment. His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone.
"I love you," he says. "I know I don't deserve you. I know I fucked up so badly I might never fully make it right. But I love you, Susanna. I never stopped."
"I know," I whisper. "I love you too. That's why this hurt so much."
"I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
Then he kisses me.
It's soft at first. Tentative. His lips brush mine like he's asking permission with every touch. I open for him, and he makes a sound low in his throat—relief and need and something that sounds like a prayer.
The kiss deepens. His tongue slides against mine, and heat floods through me. It's been so long since he touched me like this. So long since I let myself want him.
His hand slides into my hair, and I press closer, my hands fisting in his shirt. The kiss turns desperate, hungry. All the weeks of distance and pain and longing pour into it.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Upstairs," I say. "Take me upstairs."