Page 97 of Seven Minutes
That truth landed with the explosive force of a grenade. I exhaled shakily. “I know.”
“What does change look like to you?”
And for the first time, maybe ever, I didn’t answer with aplan, a schedule, or a heroic declaration. Just guesses of what sounded right.
“I need to slow down,” I said. “For real this time. Not in theory. I need to go to my own appointments. Take medications. Sleep before I collapse. Let people help me instead of trying to be a damn fortress all the time.”
“Why?” Jordan asked.
I didn’t hesitate. My voice broke, but I didn’t hesitate. “Because he deserves a partner, not a martyr.”
Jordan’s expression softened. Not pity. Approval, maybe. Relief. “And what doyoudeserve?” he asked.
I opened my mouth… and stopped. Because the thing that rose up in my chest was quiet, unfamiliar, almost fragile.
“A life,” I said finally. “With him. One I don’t destroy from the inside out.”
Jordan nodded once. “Then let’s start there.”
I felt something inside me… unlatch.
I wasnotmy father.
I was Eli’s husband, and it was time to start acting like it again.
Chapter 36
Almost Normal
ELI
Iwoke to Adrian’s hand on my hip again, my body slowly turning into the place his always drifted to without thinking.
Some mornings I pretended I didn’t notice—kept my breathing even, my eyes closed, afraid that acknowledging it might make it disappear.
Other mornings, like today, I let myself take it in. Really take it in. The warmth of his palm. The solid weight of his breathing behind me. The heavy, sleepy exhale that brushed the back of my neck.
And the unbelievable fact that he wasstill here.
Not rushing out the door. Not checking his watch. Not disappearing into the place that had swallowed him whole.
Just here.
And somehow, that was almost harder to process thanwhen he’d been gone—this quiet, constant presence I’d wanted for so long I’d convinced myself I didn’t need it.
Trust didn’t rebuild all at once. It stitched itself together slowly, touch by touch, confession by confession.
It was Adrian’s fingers smoothing circles over my body when he thought I was asleep. His lips brushing my shoulder before he even realized he’d leaned in. His hand finding mine while he made coffee, thumb tracing the ridge of my knuckles as if retraining a muscle memory.
And every time, something in me tightened first—an instinctive clench, a warning, the old fear whispering,Don’t fall for this, don’t trust it, don’t want too much.
But then he’d look at me, just look, and the fear would loosen its grip.
Because Adrian wasn’t loving me the way he used to—lazily, absent-mindedly, in the leftover corners of his life. He was showing up now. Choosing me deliberately. And he did it in small, ridiculous, wonderful ways.
During stretches, his hands guided my hips with more care than some surgeons reserved for organs. During walks, he’d brush his fingers against mine until I finally took his hand and held it back. At night, he’d pull me closer with this little tug—soft, a question—and let out a breath of relief when I came willingly.
Every moment was a thread. Every touch was another knot tied back into place.
