Chapter Fifteen
Jules
Corbin stares at me from across the table as Tate regales us with stories about first grade. I know he’s talking—I know I should be listening—but I can’t seem to take my eyes off Corbin.
I told him I was still attracted to him. Sexually. And he didn’t brush it off. He didn’t deflect. Instead, he said, I’m not sure I’ve moved on.
I thought I could show up with a peace offering—lunch—and tell him I was still processing everything. And I am. I want to. People don’t just sleep with their ex-husbands. That’s not a thing. At least, I don’t think it is.
“Mom?” Tate’s voice cuts through my haze, snapping me out of whatever trance Corbin’s icy blue eyes have me locked in.
I blink, turning to my son. “Yes?”
Tate frowns, his little shoulders slumping as he rubs his stomach. “My tummy hurts.”
Corbin’s gaze sharpens with concern. “Why don’t you try going to the bathroom, bud?”
Tate shakes his head, his face crumpling. “It hurts really bad.”
I immediately push back from the table and kneel beside him, brushing his blond hair back from his forehead. “Come on, let’s go to the bathroom. Maybe—”
“I don’t feel so good,” Tate groans, his face turning an alarming shade of green.
Oh, no.
“Trash can!” I shout at Corbin, my voice all urgency.
Corbin’s out of his chair in an instant, sprinting toward the kitchen. He returns just in time, shoving the bin into Tate’s arms as he heaves violently into it.
His tiny body shakes with each retch, and my heart clenches as I rub soothing circles on his back. Corbin kneels beside us, murmuring soft reassurances.
“You’re okay, bud,” Corbin tells him, his voice gentle. “It’ll be over soon.”
Tate wipes his teary eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t wanna throw up,” he whimpers.
Corbin’s jaw tightens, his expression pained. “I know, bud. But it’s over now, okay? You’re okay.”
Tate sniffles, pushing the trash can away as exhaustion washes over him.
Corbin stands, then crouches to Tate’s level. “Come on. Let’s get you in your pajamas. It’s gonna be a long night.”
Tate reaches for him without hesitation, and Corbin scoops him up effortlessly, cradling him close as he carries him down the hall.
I stay frozen for a moment, watching them disappear into Tate’s bedroom, something heavy settling in my chest.
Corbin’s always been a good dad. Even when we weren’t good together. Even when everything else fell apart.
And somehow, I think that’s what makes this all so much harder.
I clean up dinner—tacos—while Corbin gets Tate settled in bed. The house feels eerily quiet except for the occasional groan from down the hall. I hate when Tate’s sick. I hate feeling helpless.
I grab a cool washcloth and a glass of water, then make my way to Tate’s room. Corbin is perched on the edge of the bed, his large frame somehow making the space feel smaller. I place the water on the nightstand and gently press the damp cloth to Tate’s forehead.
“I don’t like this,” Tate whimpers, shifting uncomfortably under the blankets.
“I know, baby,” I say softly. “I don’t like it either.”
Tate’s lower lip trembles. “Leo had the stomach bug on Monday. I think he gave it to me.”
“He probably did,” I murmur sympathetically.
As I straighten, Corbin rises, and suddenly, he’s close . The heat from his body wraps around me, pulling me into his orbit. I don’t step away. I should, but I don’t.
Tate’s glassy blue eyes flick between us. “You’re gonna stay, right, Dad?”
“I’ll stay,” Corbin promises without hesitation.
Tate sniffles. “Can you read me a story?”
Corbin’s hand grazes the small of my back as he moves around me, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. His touch is brief, but it lingers. God, why does it still affect me like this?
“What book do we want to read?” Corbin asks, already scanning the bookshelf.
“Something funny,” Tate mumbles, his eyelids growing heavy.
Corbin selects a book and settles back onto the bed. I linger for a second, watching the way Tate relaxes as Corbin flips to the first page. The sight is too much—too tender, too intimate.
I slip out quietly, giving them their moment.
Back in the kitchen, I clean out the trash can, then grab a small bucket for Tate from the hallway closet before turning on the teapot. The routine keeps my hands busy, but my thoughts wander.
This is what we should’ve been. The two of us, raising our son together. Taking care of him as a team. Why did it take a divorce for us to finally get it right?
By the time I return to Tate’s room, his little body is curled up under the covers, but the moment he spots me, his face twists in discomfort.
“Oh, no.” I rush forward, handing the bucket to Corbin just as Tate lurches. Our fingers graze—warm, solid, lingering just for a second too long.
Tate whimpers. “I don’t wanna throw up again.”
Corbin’s voice is gentle but firm. “I know, bud. But the sooner you do, the sooner it’ll be over.”
My chest tightens as I kneel beside them, rubbing soothing circles on Tate’s back. His tiny body trembles, but he clings to the both of us, needing our comfort.
And even through his misery, I can see it. The small flicker of relief in his tired eyes. His parents, standing together. Existing in the same space.
For him.
And for some reason, that realization makes it even harder to breathe.
It goes on for several more hours. Every thirty minutes, Tate throws up. And every thirty minutes, Corbin and I are there rubbing his back, wiping his face, murmuring reassurances until his exhausted little body finally collapses into sleep.
By the time it’s over, I feel like I’ve been through a war.
Corbin scrubs a hand down his face. “He’s out cold.”
I nod, exhaustion settling into my bones. “Come on,” I motion toward my bedroom. “Let’s get some sleep while we can.”
He glances down the hall, toward the front door. “I’ll head home.”
It’s half-hearted at best. He’s too tired to argue, but he’s still trying.
I shake my head. “If he wakes up and you’re not here, there will be hell to pay.”
Corbin lets out a quiet laugh, but I can tell he’s still debating. “I’ll take the couch.”
“You won’t fit on it,” I deadpan. “Come on. Stop being difficult.”
There’s something indecipherable in his face. Something hesitant. Not about being here, but about being here . In my space.
“We’re closer to him if we’re right across the hall,” I add, giving him the out he seems to need.
A muscle feathers in his jaw, but then, just like that, he caves.
I flick on the bedside lamp, the soft golden light spilling over my room as Corbin steps inside, looking… unsure. It’s almost ridiculous. This man has seen every part of me. Lived with me for years. And yet, here he is, standing in my bedroom like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.
The walls are lavender, my white dresser painted with delicate blue and pink flowers.
The ceiling is so different from his. It’s not white.
I painted it. Splashes of cobalt and crimson and copper.
My bed—the one he’s never slept in—is a mess, but I quickly work to straighten out the sheets and comforter.
I point to his crumpled dress clothes. “I might have an oversized tee you can wear.”
His icy blue eyes meet mine, holding. “If you’re okay with it, I was just going to strip down to my briefs.”
My heart stumbles. “Y-yeah.”
That was breathy. Raw. Too much.
And Corbin definitely notices.
I spin toward my dresser and grab my pajamas, barely managing to mutter, “I’ll be right back.”
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, gripping the edges of the sink as I take a steadying breath.
Pull it together, Jules. This is just Corbin.
The same man I married. The same man I undressed more times than I can count.
The same man who kissed his way down my stomach and came apart inside me.
I can handle this.
Except… when I step back into my bedroom, I realize I might not be able to.
Corbin is sitting on the edge of my bed, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his muscular thighs. His very toned, very muscular thighs.
And he’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs.
Heat floods through me so fast I almost forget how to breathe.
“I didn’t know which side you normally sleep on,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion.
“This side.” I motion to the left and slide into bed.
As Corbin stands, his abs tighten in the low light, casting sharp angles across his stomach. My eyes betray me, dragging down his torso before I can stop them.
And he knows it.
A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he says nothing. Instead, he grabs his phone off the nightstand, frowns at the screen. “Dead.”
I blink, trying to find my train of thought. “Oh.”
“Can you set an alarm on yours for six?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, turning over to plug my phone in. My fingers tremble slightly as I set the alarm and turn off the lamp, plunging us into darkness.
For a second, it’s quiet. Just the sound of our breathing. Just the awareness of him inches away.
But it does nothing to quell the ache between my thighs.
“Thank you for staying,” I whisper into the darkness. A beat passes before I add, softer, “You know… for Tate.”
Corbin shifts slightly, turning onto his side. The indelible urge to reach out and cup his cheek is almost too much to resist. But somehow, I resist.
“I’d do anything for him,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.
I turn over, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“I would, too,” I say.
Silence stretches between us, thick and weighted. I don’t know why, but I scoot back. Just a little. Just enough to feel his body heat beneath the sheets.
Somehow, he notices.
His arm slides over my waist, steady and sure, and then he’s tugging me back against him. My back collides with the hard wall of his chest, and his fingers come to rest lightly against my rib cage.
My breath shudders.
This crosses so many boundaries. This is dangerous. Too dangerous.
But I don’t pull away.
I lean in.
Corbin’s lips brush the base of my neck, soft and chaste.
A whisper of warmth that sends goosebumps scattering across my skin.
My fingers twitch against the sheets, then reach behind me, searching, finding the solid muscle of his thigh.
I trail my fingertips up, up, up, until they graze the soft fabric of his briefs.
At the same time, his hand moves, slipping under my pajama top. His palm splays against my stomach, warm and grounding. A slow, torturous ascent. His thumb brushes the underside of one breast, then the other, and I arch instinctively, pressing closer, needing more.
The shape of him—hard and heavy—nudges against me, sending a deep ache spiraling through my core.
“Corbin,” I mumble, my hand sliding lower, gripping the firm curve of his backside.
I want him.
Right now.
And he wants me.
His breath is hot against my skin, his fingers trailing higher, pushing the limits of restraint—
“Dad?” Tate’s voice drifts from across the hall.
Everything inside me freezes.
Corbin stills, his body taut for one agonizing second before he exhales and presses one final kiss—soft, lingering—to the sensitive spot behind my ear.
Then, without a word, he pulls away.
The warmth of him disappears, and the bed feels too big. Too cold.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, pressing a trembling hand against my racing heart.
That was close.
Too close.
I can’t do this with Corbin.
I’m supposed to be painting.
Not… touching him.
When he finally crawls back into bed, reality has settled over both of us like a heavy fog.
And this time, he keeps his distance.
For some reason, that confuses me more than I care to admit.
Because I should be relieved.
I should be grateful that he’s respecting the invisible boundary between us.
But as I stare into the dark, painfully aware of the space between us, all I can think is—
Why does it feel like he’s further away than ever?