The hour hand of the antique clock in the massive living room strikes right at 7 when the front door swings open, followed by the familiar rustling of keys and the soft thud of expensive shoes on the carpeted floor.

Your toddler wriggles out of your lap, abandoning her unfinished meal—carrots and rice smeared across her bib and cheeks—just as you lift another spoonful mid-air. Her tiny legs stumble excitedly across the room.

“There you are, lovebug,” Rafe murmurs, his voice low and smooth. His arms scoop her up with ease, those same arms that once punched holes through drywall. He presses kisses along her cheeks, his grin widening when her giggles fill the quiet house.

You sit there, silent.

He places her down gently, as if made of glass, then shrugs off his blue suit jacket. His eyes rise to meet yours, those cerulean blues still bright, still striking—and still so goddamn cold. His smile doesn’t reach them. It never does anymore.

You look away, like you always do.

“How are my girls, hm?” he murmurs, walking toward you, his tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. He bends slightly, his tone still soft, sweet even, the way it used to be when he’d sneak into your bedroom window at midnight with salty hair and bloody knuckles.

Your daughter babbles something in response, a nonsense sentence that makes Rafe’s smile twitch wider.

But his eyes—his eyes are on you.

“Hm?” he says again, lower now. You feel the heat of his body before you see his hand move—his fingers tapping your cheek gently, a show of softness, like maybe if he touches you lightly enough, you won’t recoil.

You don’t flinch this time. That’s something.

But you still can’t meet his gaze.

You can’t remember the exact moment when touching him started to feel like pressing your hand against a hot stove—painful, instinctive, dangerous. Maybe it was the second time he raised his voice. Maybe it was the night you cried alone in the walk-in closet, trying to muffle the sound because your baby was asleep. Or maybe it was the look in his eyes when you told him you wanted space—and how quickly that look twisted.

You don’t touch him anymore because your body remembers what your heart keeps trying to forget: that loving Rafe Cameron comes at a cost. And you’ve paid too much already.

You don’t look him in the eye because when you do, you see a version of him that still thinks you belong to him—mind, body, soul. That version doesn’t like hearing no. That version made you cry in your own kitchen, back when your daughter was just a lump in your belly and you still believed things would get better.

They never did.

Now, your bedroom is across the hall. A guest room, technically. You made up some excuse about the baby’s sleep schedule, about how co-sleeping helped her. Rafe didn’t argue. Not really. But you knew better than to take that as peace. It was just… silence. The heavy kind. The kind that comes right before a storm.

You sleep with the door locked. He never tries to open it.

But sometimes you hear his footsteps stop just outside. A pause. Then nothing.

You’re both ghosts in a house made of glass, pretending not to see the cracks.

“Did you miss me?” he asks, smiling as he watches your daughter grab at your sleeve with sticky hands.

You nod once. Just enough to keep the balance, to keep the peace.

You think of the ocean, the old pier, the freedom of being seventeen and in love. And then you look at the ring on your finger—sleek, cold, impossibly heavy.

This is the life you chose.

Or maybe the life you were convinced you couldn’t live without.

Either way, you can’t escape it now.

And so, when he brushes a hand against your waist, you don’t push him away.

You don’t lean in either.

You just sit there, perfectly still, and wait for 8 o’clock.