Chapter 29
ETHAN
Winter here is cold. Beautiful. White flakes every morning.
The lake goes still and dark, like glass.
And somehow Sage is still here.
Not here-here.
But… around.
Like a radio station you barely pick up unless you tilt the antenna just right.
Therapy turns into routine.
Same chairs.
Same peppermint tea smell.
Same stupid ticking clock on the wall.
We sit closer now.
Not touching.
Just… less distance.
She talks. I listen.
I talk. She doesn’t interrupt.
No spirals.
No crying jags.
No rewriting history.
Just facts.
“I opened a second checking account,” she says one afternoon, sliding papers across the coffee table like evidence. “Closed three cards. Consolidated the rest. Automatic payments. You can see everything.”
She doesn’t say for you.
She doesn’t say so you trust me.
She just sets the paperwork down and leaves it there.
Like a mechanic showing you the parts they replaced.
I nod.
“Good,” I say.
And we move on.
No parade.
No medal.
Just… good.
Some weekends she drives up.
Not every weekend.
She asks first.
Always asks.
“Is it okay if I come up Saturday?”
Like she’s booking a dentist appointment.
Like I might say no.
Sometimes I do.
Sometimes I don’t.
When she’s here, it’s weirdly normal.
Suspiciously normal.
She cooks.
Not fancy shit.
Real food.
Tomato sauce bubbling on the stove. Garlic popping in oil. The house smelling like something alive.
She wears my old flannel like it belongs to her.
Sleeves too long. Hair messy.
We bump hips in the kitchen.
Argue about whether the pasta’s done.
Laugh at dumb things.
The kind of laughing that sneaks up on you and makes your stomach hurt.
And every time it happens, I feel it —
That old current.
That old pull.
Like gravity.
Like if I stop paying attention, I’ll slide right back into her.
At night we sit by the fire.
I play guitar.
Same chords. Same songs.
She curls up on the couch with her feet tucked under her.
Listening.
Just listening.
No performance.
No seduction.
No “look how good I am now.”
Just quiet.
Sometimes I catch her watching me like she’s memorizing something she’s afraid of losing.
That look almost undoes me.
Almost.
The first time she stays over again, it’s colder than I expect.
She brushes her teeth in my bathroom like it’s muscle memory.
Folds her clothes neatly on the chair.
Slips under the covers like she’s done it a hundred times.
Like nothing ever happened.
Like we didn’t burn the whole thing down.
I stand there in the doorway.
Heart thudding.
Because this is it.
This is the moment.
This is where old Ethan would crawl into bed, wrap himself around her, pretend the last year never happened.
Pretend love fixes everything.
She looks up at me.
Soft.
Hopeful.
“Come here,” she whispers.
God.
My chest physically aches.
I want to.
I want to so bad it scares me.
But wanting isn’t the same thing as safe.
I shake my head.
“Guest room,” I say gently.
She blinks. “Oh.”
Not angry.
Just… small.
“I just—” I clear my throat. “I’m trying to go slow. Okay?”
She nods immediately. Too fast.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course. That’s… that’s good. Slow is good.”
She grabs her pillow like it weighs nothing and walks down the hall.
Doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t cry.
Doesn’t manipulate.
Just goes.
Which somehow hurts worse.
I lie awake for a long time.
Listening to the house breathe.
Listening to the quiet.
Thinking about how insane it is that the hardest part isn’t fighting her.
It’s not touching her.
This time the falling isn’t fire.
It isn’t crashing into each other like two trains.
It’s slow.
Careful.
Like stepping onto thin ice and testing every inch before you move.
No declarations.
No “I love you.”
No dramatic promises.
Just:
You hungry?
Want coffee?
Did you sleep okay?
Domestic.
Gentle.
Dangerous in its own way.
Because this version?
This version makes you forget why you left.
Some mornings I wake up and she’s already outside with a rake, leaves piled high, hair tied back.
Like she belongs here.
Like she’s always belonged here.
My neighbor, Seth, waves at her. He helps me out when he can. Seth drives rigs. Walmart. CVS. He’s mostly on the road or here.
They assume.
Everyone assumes.
And I don’t correct them.
Which feels like a lie.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For the old Sage to surface.
For the edge.
The control.
The heat.
But she stays steady.
And that’s what scares me most.
Because if she’s really changed—
If this is actually who she is now—
Then leaving her would make me the villain.
Not the survivor.
One night, by the fire, she falls asleep sitting up.
Head tipped against the couch.
Breathing slow.
Peaceful.
I throw a blanket over her shoulders and just stand there watching her for a minute.
Trying to figure it out.
Who she is.
Who I am with her.
Whether love is supposed to feel like this—
Or if I’m just getting used to the quiet before another storm.
My guitar rests against the chair beside me.
The fire pops.
Outside, the wind moves through the trees.
And I realize, with this heavy, sinking clarity—
I’m right on the edge.
One step forward and she’s back in my life for real.
One step back and she’s gone for good.
And I don’t know which one scares me more.
Snow comes down like ash.
Soft. Quiet. Constant.
The kind that makes the whole world feel smaller.
Muted.
Forgiven.
I string white lights along the porch rail one afternoon, hands numb, breath fogging in front of me. Nothing big. Nothing festive. Just enough to keep the place from looking abandoned.
Inside, I drag a small tree from the hardware store into the corner of the living room.
Three feet tall.
Crooked.
Half the branches already shedding.
It’s pathetic.
Perfect.
I hang the lights. No ornaments. No tinsel. Just white.
Simple.
Temporary.
Like everything else.
Sage watches me from the couch.
She’s been restless all week.
I can feel it.
The way she moves around the house like something’s coming. Like she’s bracing for a verdict.
She cleans things that are already clean.
Rearranges books.
Folds blankets twice.
Every now and then she opens her mouth like she’s going to say something — then doesn’t.
We’ve been living in this careful, fragile almost for months.
Almost together.
Almost healed.
Almost safe.
But “almost” doesn’t survive the holidays.
The holidays demand answers.
That night we make dinner together.
Soup. Bread. Cheap red wine.
The kind of meal that tastes better because it’s cold outside.
She hums while she stirs the pot.
Wearing my gray sweater again.
Bare feet on the wood floor.
Domestic.
Soft.
The exact picture of the life I thought I wanted once.
The exact picture that scares the shit out of me now.
After we eat, we sit by the little tree.
The lights blink slow and lazy.
The fire cracks.
Some old Christmas special plays on mute.
The room feels… warm.
Too warm.
Like a memory instead of real life.
She finally says it.
“So… what are we doing?”
Not accusing.
Not sharp.
Just tired.
My stomach drops.
There it is.
Impact.
I’ve known this conversation was coming for weeks.
I just kept pretending if I moved slow enough, we’d never reach it.
I rub my hands together, buying time.
“I’m heading out after Christmas,” I say.
She goes still.
“Out where?”
“West for a bit. Maybe Colorado. Maybe farther. Just… go. Clear my head.”
The words sound colder out loud than they did in my head.
She nods slowly.
Processing.
“And… your mom?” she asks quietly. “You said she wanted you home for Christmas.”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“You’re not bringing me.”
Not a question.
A statement.
I brace.
Because this is where old Sage would explode.
Accuse. Cry. Rage. Bargain.
Instead she just… deflates.
Like someone let the air out of her.
“I figured,” she whispers.
I stare at the fire.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say carefully. “Not right now.”
Not like this.
Not unfinished.
Not fragile.
Silence stretches.
Then I hear it.
A soft, broken sound.
I look over.
She’s crying.
Not dramatic.
Not shaking.
Just quiet tears slipping down her face like she doesn’t even have the energy to stop them.
“I broke us,” she says.
My chest tightens.
“I ruined everything, didn’t I?”
Jesus.
I swallow.
She wipes her cheeks with the heel of her hand, embarrassed. Laughs once, small and ugly.
“I keep trying to fix it,” she says. “And it just… feels like every time I get close, you’re already halfway out the door.”
She looks at me like a kid who already knows the answer.
“I did this,” she whispers. “Didn’t I?”
I don’t know what to say.
Because the answer is yes.
And no.
And more complicated than either.
So I don’t say anything.
Which somehow feels worse.
She moves closer.
Slow.
Like approaching a wild animal.
Sits beside me on the couch.
Our shoulders touch.
The fire pops.
Outside, the wind pushes snow against the windows.
For a second we just sit there breathing the same air.
And it hits me — hard — how tired I am of fighting.
How tired I am of bracing.
How much I miss just… us.
Before everything got sharp.
Before everything got complicated.
Before love turned into strategy.
She leans her head against my shoulder.
Small.
Careful.
Like she’s asking permission without words.
My hand moves before my brain can stop it.
Slides into her hair.
Warm.
Familiar.
God.
It’s muscle memory.
It’s home.
What happens next isn’t frantic.
Isn’t desperate.
Isn’t the wildfire we used to be.
It’s slow.
Soft.
Like we’re trying not to break anything.
Like we’re both afraid if we move too fast the moment will shatter.
We kiss like we used to, years ago — gentle, learning each other again.
Hands warm. Quiet. Intentional.
No grabbing. No hunger.
Just closeness.
Just breathing.
Just skin and heartbeat and winter light flickering through the blinds.
For a little while, it feels simple.
Like two people who love each other and nothing else exists.