28. Paige
Paige
Aiden’s expression tightens. He turns, opens the front door, and switches on the living room lamp.
The click echoes, too loud in a house without Josie.
The television is dark, and no little voice calls from another room.
The staircase at the edge of the living room leads toward every drawer, hanger, and shelf he cleared for me.
“Come inside.”
I stay on the porch. “Are you asking?”
His jaw shifts. “Will you come inside so we can finish this?”
“Yes.”
I step past him. Aiden closes the door and follows me into the living room. I remain on my feet. He crosses to the far side of the couch, planting both hands on the back. Every time he reached for me tonight, I moved away. Now he keeps the furniture between us like a barricade.
“I never said you didn’t get a choice.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Then tell me what I did, Paige.”
“The key...” I look toward the stairs. “I loved it because I could come in without waiting for you, and because...”
“You said it felt like coming home.”
His fingers tighten around the couch. I can see from his expression he heard regret instead of what I meant.
“No. You heard the wrong part. The key opens your door. It didn’t move me into your house.”
“You leave clothes here.”
“Because I sleep here.”
“I cleared space so you wouldn’t have to pack a bag.”
“And I loved that too.”
“Then what did I do wrong?”
“You treated each yes like it answered the next question. I never agreed to live here.”
“I never told you to give up the cabin.”
“You call it an exit every time I defend it.”
“Because you talk about it like you need somewhere to retreat from us.”
“It’s my home, Aiden.”
“So is this.”
“When I choose it.”
His gaze shifts toward the stairs, the closet he cleared, the empty hangers, the space beneath the sink. His brow furrows as if he’s rereading a page he can’t make sense of, searching for the proof he knows is there.
Then his gaze snaps back to me. “You liked being mine.”
“Yes.”
“So that means something only when we’re naked?”
“No. In the tack room, I asked you to call me yours. I told you what it meant, and you listened.”
“I don’t own you.”
“I know.” My voice catches. “That’s why I could want it. I asked for it. I chose the word, and I chose what it meant. I didn’t give anyone permission to decide where I live, or which holidays I show up for.”
His knuckles go white against the shadowed couch.
His voice is low. “You trusted me with that.”
“I still do.”
“But not with a future.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then say it so I can understand.”
My voice sharpens. “In bed, if I say yes to one thing, you never turn it into permission for everything after. You ask. You wait. Why is this—the rest of our life—different?”
“Because we’re talking about the rest of our lives.”
“Then you should be asking me every step of the way.”
“I thought we agreed.”
“You decided the key meant moving in. You decided loving each other meant we were headed for marriage.”
“You don’t want to marry me?”
“You never asked me.”
Aiden pushes away from the couch, then stops after one step. His hands return to the worn fabric.
“I’m asking now. Do you want the same things I do? Marriage. A shared home. A life where every Friday isn’t a separate agreement?”
“You think that’s all I’ve given you?”
“I think you give me tonight, this weekend, maybe next month. I can’t build a life one Friday at a time forever.”
“I’ve given you more than Fridays.”
“Have you?”
A floorboard creaks upstairs, where no one is walking. The house settles into itself, empty.
“My cabin has your coffee in it. Josie’s drawing is on my refrigerator. You know my work, my friends. I came here, to your family. And I love your daughter.” I swallow. “I love you. How can you call that visiting?”
“Then why does every permanent thing scare you?”
“It scares me when you decide it for me.”
His hands stay locked on the couch. “You protect your cabin, your job, your time. I keep making room, and you keep making sure you can use your exit.”
“I need to know I’m still me inside whatever we build.”
“You are.”
“You say that while a drawer, a row of hangers, and half your bathroom wait upstairs like I already answered.”
He looks toward the staircase. “I thought making room showed you I was serious.”
“It did. Then you started treating the room like my answer.”
His fingers loosen. “I need a partner who wants to build toward a shared home. I need to know I’m not the only one looking past next Friday.”
“You aren’t.”
“Then tell me what you see.”
“You. I don’t have the rest yet.”
His fingers curl against the couch again. “Can you picture marrying me? Can you picture years from now, a shared home, and a life centered on us?”
I meet his gaze. “I can picture you.”
Aiden’s hands loosen on the couch.
“I can picture marrying you. I can picture waking up beside you years from now and knowing I chose the right man.”
The tension drains from his shoulders so quickly it hurts to watch.
“But I need to recognize myself inside that life.”
His fingers close again. “What does that mean?”
“My work stays mine. I get time alone. I decide if and when this house becomes my home.”
“Then keep the cabin.”
The answer comes too fast. The lamp throws his shadow toward the stairs, stretching it up toward the empty spaces he made for me.
I shake my head slightly. “That sounds reasonable now, but tonight you answered for me about Thanksgiving. Josie thinks I’m moving in. You’re building a room for me, and you never asked what I wanted it to be.”
“I was trying to give you space.”
“You gave me the space you thought I should want.”
The house goes quiet. No Josie turning pages upstairs. No small feet crossing the hall. Only the old clock on the mantel marks the passing seconds.
His gaze hardens. “Your version of a future includes a plan for surviving without me.”
I know what he hears. I can’t lie to make it hurt less.
“Yes.”
Aiden looks away.
“That doesn’t mean losing you wouldn’t destroy me. I would miss you and Josie every day. I need to know I’d still be a person afterward.”
“You’re already planning for the end.”
“I’m trying not to disappear inside us.”
He turns back. “That sounds like you need proof you can take me or leave me.”
“I choose you every day.”
“Until you don’t.”
His voice cracks on the final word.
My body moves before I can think. I make it around the edge of the couch, one step toward him, then stop. Touching him now would be a promise—an answer I’m not giving. Aiden watches me stop, and pain pulls his mouth tight.
Neither of us speaks.
My voice drops. “Anyone can leave. Marriage can end—a shared address doesn’t take that risk away.”
“I know that better than most.”
“I know.”
“Then why can’t you understand why I need more than another Friday?”
“I do understand. It’s you I want. And Josie. Breakfast here, nights at my cabin, even your terrible opinions about the men in my books.” My throat burns. “I want more. I just don’t know yet if more means one house, marriage, or our whole lives centered together.”
Aiden says nothing. He braces himself against the couch, the lamp catching the tendons in his hands.
“If I promise those things tonight, I’ll be saying yes because I’m terrified you’ll leave if I don’t. I won’t make that promise to keep you.”
“I can’t keep building alone.”
“You weren’t supposed to build alone.”
“Then tell me what to build with you.”
“I am.” My voice breaks. “You keep hearing maybe as no.”
“And you keep asking me to build on maybe.”
Silence settles between us.
His voice is hollow. “Maybe we want different lives.”
The words knock the air from my lungs.
“Maybe we do.”
He flinches.
I could take it back. I could promise to move in and marry him and let relief carry us past the truth. By morning, I would know I said yes because I panicked.
Aiden releases the couch. His hand lifts halfway toward me, then closes at his side.
“Then I think we need to stop.”
A tremor runs through me, sharp and deep. I press my fingertips into my palms, letting the pain become an anchor.
I force the words out. “If that’s what you need.”
He stares at me. “Is it that easy?”
The question hangs between us.
“No.”
“You look pretty fucking certain.”
“I’m trying to respect your decision.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw as he turns from me. “You always know how to walk away.”
The pain beneath the words almost sends me back across the room.
My voice is steady. “I won’t ask you to accept less than the future you want.” “I also won’t promise it because I’m afraid to lose you.”
Aiden nods once, a short, sharp movement. The last of the hope drains from his eyes, leaving them flat and empty. I’ve confirmed it.
I cross to the entryway and step into the shoes I left beside the door. My fingers fumble once at the heel. I pull myself upright, hoping he can't see.
Aiden follows. His hand closes around the knob. He looks at me, and I think he might stop me.
Instead, he opens the door.
The latch releases with a hard click. Cool night air enters the silent house.
His voice is rough. “Do you need a ride?”
“My car is here.”
“Right.”
I step onto the porch, then turn back. “I love you.”
His eyes close briefly. “I know.”
The porch light steals the color from his face, leaving it pale and drawn. He watches each steady step I take toward my car, his expression gutted, as if he’s just seen proof of a truth he always suspected.
I keep walking because if I stop, he will see how completely I already have.
The drive back to my cabin takes twenty-three minutes. I know because the clock changes once before I reach the county road and again as I turn beneath the pines.
I keep both hands on the wheel. The radio stays off. My phone sits facedown in the cup holder, a silent temptation close enough that I could call Aiden without pulling over.
I do not touch it.
The restraint feels less like strength with every mile. It feels like holding a door shut while everything I love pounds against the other side.
Calling him would be easy. I could tell him to take it back, turn around, and come get me. I could offer the answer he wanted and let relief carry us through the beautiful lie.
Then tomorrow, I would wake inside a promise I made because losing him terrified me.
I pull into the gravel drive and switch off the engine. My porch light spills across the empty hammock. No boots wait beside the door. No truck settles behind mine. The quiet I spent years creating waits exactly where I left it.
Tonight, it feels merciless.
I make myself get out, lock the car, and climb the steps. The cabin key catches once because my hand is shaking. Aiden’s key knocks against it on the ring, a small metallic sound that breaks the silence.
Inside, I set the keys on the kitchen counter.
His rests beside mine.
I look at them until the edges blur. Aiden gave me that key with such certainty. He trusted me in his home, around his daughter, and inside the daily life he protects. I accepted it because I wanted every part of that access. I still do.
Wanting it never meant I stopped needing this key too.
I drop my purse on a chair and find the paperback Aiden has been reading on the end table. The page is marked with a folded scrap of paper. He claims he only reads romance to identify the hero’s mistakes, but he always reads far past the point of proving his argument.
My thumb slips between the pages. I can hear his dry voice telling me the man quit too soon. I can picture the scrape across his knuckle in the photograph he sent. I remember the care he took, choosing an angle he knew would affect me.
The book closes against my palm.
On the refrigerator, Josie’s drawing hangs beneath a library magnet. Sprinkle wears a purple crown and brown work boots, a perfect mix of Josie’s two worlds. Josie wrote her name across the bottom and added mine beneath it when she decided the picture belonged here.
I touch the corner of the paper.
That is what undoes me.
My legs give out, and I sink to the kitchen floor. The paperback lands beside me. I press one hand over my mouth, but the first sob tears through it anyway.
There is no one here to mistake my composure for indifference.
No one to watch me stay calm while the man I love decides he can’t keep building with me.
Not without a future I’m afraid to promise.
I fold over my knees and cry until my ribs hurt, until I cannot see the drawing above me.
I cry until every steady step I took away from Aiden leaves my body at once.
I wanted to run back.
I wanted him to stop me.
Respecting his decision was the only love I had left to give when I couldn't give him the answer he needed.
I don’t regret loving him. I would choose the first Friday again. I would choose Josie beside me with a book, Aiden’s coffee in my kitchen, his hands on my body, and his laugh in rooms that once held only silence.
I chose all of it freely.
Aiden began treating every choice as a step toward one ending. Tonight, love asked me to promise that ending or lose him. Maybe he never meant to make the choice that narrow. It still narrowed around me until I could no longer see where I fit inside it.
My purse, tossed on the chair, buzzes faintly against the wood. Hope lifts my head so quickly it hurts.
I know better. I cross the room anyway.
The screen shows a calendar reminder for the coming week.
I open it and stare at Friday. No dinner. No cabin plan. No Aiden or Josie arriving with overnight bags and too many books.
For the first time in months, Friday is empty.