Page 76 of Never After Us
She beams, swinging her legs like she just placed her order at a Michelin-star restaurant.
I should be annoyed, but there’s something about her small confidence, the way she assumes I’ll figure it out, that hits somewhere deep.Like she expects me to manage it.Like she thinks I can.
I sigh.“You’re going to eat all that?”
“Absolutely not,” she says.“But you asked.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
She pats my arm.“Don’t worry, I’ll help.I can stir things.And give opinions.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter.“We’ll have pancakes then.”
But when she slips her hand into mine as we head out the door—small, certain, trusting—I don’t pull away, realizing she’s not as scary as I thought the first time I saw her.
ChapterTwenty-Four
Mara
I wake to a dull ache behind my eyes.The kind that warns me I cried longer and harder than I meant to—longer than I’ve allowed myself to in ...honestly, I can’t remember when.
I come back slowly, letting the quiet hold me as the memories shift into place.Alec’s arms around me.The hush of his breath by my ear.The low rumble of his voice threading through my meltdown like he had all the time in the world just to sit there and keep me from unraveling completely.
He didn’t retreat when I broke open.He didn’t shift or excuse himself or treat my grief like it was too much.
He just ...held me long enough that at some point, my body surrendered to sleep.
And now the memory of it settles under my ribs, warm and uninvited, loosening parts of me I swore would never move again.It stirs thoughts I’m not ready for—thoughts I don’t want anywhere near the light.
In his arms, there was a calm I didn’t know I needed, a sense of being gathered close for once instead of holding myself together alone.I felt seen, sheltered, almost treasured.And that fear curls deeper than last night’s tears, because if I let myself think about it too long, I’ll start longing for it.
Wanting.
And wanting it is a line I’m not supposed to cross.
I reach for the clock, blinking until the numbers stop swimming.It’s late.Late enough that Mila should’ve burst into my room because I’m not in the kitchen making pancakes or reminding her to brush her hair.She should be here asking for breakfast or delivering a very serious eight-year-old update about frogs on the balcony.
Then, I find a glass of water and two pills sitting on my nightstand with a note:
Takethis and hydrate all day.
—AH
My pulse stutters—asmall, involuntary skip that has no business being as swoony as it is.
I take the pills.Drink the water.
Then, I remember that it’s late, and my daughter is nowhere in sight.
A prickle of worry crawls up the back of my neck.
“Mila?”I call, pushing the blanket aside and swinging my legs out of bed.
No answer.
Her bed is made.Messy-made—the way she yanks the comforter up without smoothing the wrinkles—but empty.
My pulse spikes.
