Page 72 of The Breaking Point

His eyes flicker.

“You’re chasing ghosts, Markus. And if you keep chasing them, you’ll lose everything that’s still alive and waiting for you right here.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I keep going gently, but firmly. “You don’t have to respond now. Just… promise me you’ll think about it. Really think. Not in that soldier way where thinking means deciding to run into fire anyway. I mean think like a husband. Like a man who’s already been through hell and is finally standing on the other side.”

Still silent.

I let the moment hang, then stand. “Okay,” I say, brushing invisible lint off my shirt. “Just… don’t be stupid, Markus.” And I walk out.

Outside, Quinn’s sitting next to Aiden on the stoop, knees tucked up, their shoulders barely touching. She stands when she sees me, eyes searching. I nod once. Not a solution, but maybe a seed.

I take her hand. “If you need anything,” I say seriously, “and I meananything, even if it’s locking that jackass up in the basement until he stops being an idiot, call me.”

Aiden says, with a smirk, “The three of us could take him.”

Quinn chuckles, tired and cracked around the edges, but it’s a sound. A real one. She pulls me into a hug. “Thank you,” she murmurs against my shoulder, then heads inside without another word.

We watch the door close behind her. Aiden slips his fingers between mine and guides me silently to the car.

We drive quietly, both of us lost in our thoughts, when suddenly Aiden pulls over on a quiet, deserted road just a few turns away from his apartment. He leaves the engine running but shifts in his seat to face me.

His voice is low, hoarse. “I’m sorry,” he says.

I glance at him, surprised, but he keeps going. “You’ll never know just how sorry I am. For almost destroying our family. For making you question everything. For betraying your trust. For taking you for granted.”

I open my mouth, but he holds up a hand, eyes shining now.

“There are a hundred more things I regret, Kate,” he says, voice thick. “But I’m scared if I start listing them, they’ll drown out what I’m about to say.” He turns fully to me, hands trembling slightly where they rest on his knees. “I want to come home.”

I inhale sharply, heart stalling in my chest.

“I want to come home toyou. To our kids. Tous,” he says, barely above a whisper. “If you’ll let me.”

“Yes,” I say, barely getting the word out through the lump in my throat. “I want you home.”

Relief flashes across his face, raw and unfiltered. Then he reaches across the console, cups the side of my face with one hand, and pulls me in. The kiss is deep, reverent. Not rushed or hungry, but full of something heavier. Like he’s pouring every apology, every longing, every broken piece into this one moment. His lips taste like tears and hope. My hands find his shirt, twisting in the fabric as I kiss him back, because yes this is it. This is us choosing each other again. When we finally break apart, our foreheads press together, breath mingling.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back. “I missed you too.”

And just like that, a little piece of the world rights itself again.

I lean in again, kiss him, hungrier this time. It deepens fast, breaths mingling, hands restless. Without breaking away, I reach over and turn the engine off.

He pulls back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

I grin. “Our first time was in your car, remember?”

He laughs, low and warm. “God, I loved that Corolla.”

I shoot him a look and tilt my head toward the backseat. “Well?”

He lets out a breathy chuckle. “We’re insane. The apartment’s two minutes away.”

I brush my lips against his jaw, whispering, “Live a little.”

That does it. He threads his fingers into my hair and kisses me hard, urgency rising between us. “Move back.”

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