18. Lucas
— ? —
Lucas
I wake before she does.
The storm has passed. Pale morning light filters through the dusty windows, soft and gray and gentle in a way the night wasn’t. The cottage smells like old wood and candle wax and something else - something that might be her shampoo, drifting through from the bedroom.
I lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The pull-out mattress is thin and lumpy, springs digging into my back, but I’ve slept worse. I’ve slept in airports, in rental cars, on the floor of Allana’s room when she had nightmares.
I’ve slept alone in our bed for too many nights now. That’s worse than any lumpy mattress.
Moving quietly, I fold the blankets, push the bed back into the couch. The floor creaks under my feet - old wood, old house, everything talking - and I freeze, listening. No sound from the bedroom.
Good.
The kitchen is small. Barely a kitchen at all - more like a kitchenette, with a two-burner stove and a mini fridge and cabinets that probably haven’t been restocked in years.
But I find what I need: an old waffle iron, some mix in the back of the cupboard, eggs that are still good, milk that’s close but not quite turned.
Heart-shaped waffles.
I haven’t made them in years. Not since - when? Before Allana was born? After? The timeline blurs, one year sliding into the next, mornings becoming rushed briefings, breakfast together becoming a luxury we couldn’t afford.
I ladle the batter into the iron and close the lid. The first one overflows, more blob than heart. The second is better. By the third, I’ve got the rhythm back.
While the batch cooks, I drift to the bedroom doorway.
There’s no door - just an open frame, the door having fallen off its hinges at some point and never been replaced.
Delilah lies on the narrow bed, face soft with sleep.
The harsh lines of worry that have marked her features lately are smoothed away.
Her hair spills across the pillow, dark against white.
She’s beautiful.
She’s always been beautiful - I knew that the first moment I saw her, standing in Storm’s paddock with her chin raised and her eyes daring me to underestimate her - but I’d forgotten somehow. Forgotten to look. Forgotten to see.
How did I let that happen?
How did I let work and investors and the business consume me until I couldn’t see the woman right in front of me? Until I started looking past her, through her, around her?
I want to kiss her. Just her cheek. Just to feel close to her again.
But I don’t.
I stand there like a man at a museum, looking at something beautiful that isn’t his to touch anymore. Something behind glass. Something he lost the right to hold.
Her eyes open.
For a moment, she looks confused - that soft, unguarded moment between sleep and waking where nothing is wrong yet. Then she sees me, and her expression sharpens.
“What are you doing?”
“I was just-”
“That’s creepy.” She sits up, frowning, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “Why aren’t you back home? The storm’s over.”
“I made breakfast.”
She stares at me. “You made breakfast.”
“Yes.” I step back from the doorway. “In the kitchen. If you want it.”
She follows me - reluctantly, suspicion written in every line of her body - and stops when she sees the plate.
Heart-shaped waffles. Golden and slightly lopsided, exactly the way I used to make them. Steam rising from the stack, butter melting in pools on top.
She laughs.
Not the bitter laugh I’ve gotten used to. Not the sharp, defensive sound that’s replaced her real laughter over these past weeks. Something closer to genuine amusement. Something that sounds almost like the woman I married.
“It took me leaving for you to make these again.”
The words hit me in the chest. Because she’s right. It took losing her - truly losing her, watching her walk out the door - for me to remember the things I used to do when I was trying to win her.
When did I stop trying?
“I’m sorry.” The words come out rough. Inadequate.
But I push forward anyway, because I have to say this.
Have to try. “I was wrong. I’ve been thinking, and - if you want, I can remove Aimie completely.
I already told her she can’t come into the house anymore, that she needs to focus only on training. ”
Delilah’s expression doesn’t change. She’s watching me like she’s waiting for the catch.
“You wanted me to choose.” I meet her eyes, holding them even though it hurts. “I choose you.”
She laughs again.
Louder this time. Longer. But there’s no joy in it. No warmth. This is the bitter laugh - the one that makes my stomach drop, the one that tells me I’ve already lost.
“You think you can make some heart-shaped waffles and tell me you’ll choose me now?” She shakes her head. “After you already didn’t?”
“Delilah-”
“You failed me, Lucas.” Her voice is steady. Almost calm. That’s worse than yelling would be. “You had chance after chance to choose me, and every time, you chose her. You chose the business. You chose everyone and everything except me.”
“I know. I know I did. But I’m trying to-”
“You missed your opportunity.” She cuts me off, and the finality in her voice makes my blood run cold. “I’m continuing with the divorce paperwork. Christina says the papers should be ready by next week.”
The name hits me like a punch.
Christina. Christina Charles. She hired a lawyer. She’s actually - this is actually-
“Delilah-”
“Please leave.”
Two words. Quiet. Absolute.
I open my mouth. To argue. To beg. To say something, anything, that will fix this, that will make her see that I’m trying, that I can be better, that I can be the man she married-
But she’s not looking at me anymore.
She’s looking at the waffles. At the lopsided hearts that I made because I remembered, too late, what used to make her smile.
There’s nothing left to say.
I walk to the door. Grab my shirt - still damp from last night, cold against my skin. Push my feet into my shoes.
The door creaks when I open it. Morning light floods the cottage, pale and washed-out after the storm.
I look back once.
She’s still standing by the kitchen counter. Small and fierce and lost. The divorce papers probably already printed, probably already waiting for her signature.
“I love you,” I say. The words scrape out of me. “I know that doesn’t fix anything. But I need you to know.”
She doesn’t respond.
I close the door behind me.