The manor feels like a monument, too grand for its own good, too hollow to feel like home. Perched on the edge of the countryside, far from town, it’s the kind of place that echoes when you walk, where silence settles thick in the corners. Your marriage had never touched your heart, and the life built inside these walls feels more distant and endlessly quiet.

But on Thursdays, there was Emmett. The sound of him came late today, near dusk, when the back door creaked open without warning.

“Evenin’,” came his voice, “Brought what you asked, plus a few extras. Figured you might be runnin’ low again.” His tone almost blunt might seem indifferent to anyone else, but you knew him too well.

He set the crate down with a soft grunt, eyes catching yours without hesitation. That blue sharp and steady never looked away, not even now. He was ten years younger, and once, you told yourself that should matter.

But it never had for him. Not when you reminded him of the age difference, not when you gestured at the ring still on your finger. He looked at you the same way then as he did now, like he would have you anyway.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about you,” he said, quiet but direct “All day, if I’m honest.” He stepped unhurried. “Is he home?” he asked, the words almost casual, but not quite.

When you didn’t answer, he moved closer, arms finding your waist with a kind of certainty that felt both dangerous and necessary.

“You always let me in like this,” he said, fingers beginning their familiar path along your side, his touch deliberate. “Almost makes me think you want someone to see.” His breath brushed against your cheek as he leaned in, his voice a murmur against your skin.

“There’s nothin’ in this place that feeds you,” he whispered then, barely audible. “Let me.”