Page 112 of The Humiliated Wife
He set the plate on the counter just as the shower turned off.
She'd eat, she'd thank him politely, and then she'd leave. Go back to Emma's, back to her new life, back to building something beautiful without him.
And he'd let her go. Because that's what you did when you loved someone—you gave them what they needed, even when what they needed was space from you.
Even when it killed you.
Dean leaned against the counter, staring at the plate he'd made with such care, and wondered how many more times he'd have to say goodbye to the same woman.
Or maybe—maybe June had been right. Maybe the person who got to decide what was forgivable was Fiona.
Dean leaned against the counter, staring at the plate he'd made with such care, and felt something take hold.
Determination.
Dean walkedher to the car like it was a first date, not the complicated, aching middle of something.
The night was quiet. Cool. The streetlamp above cast a soft amber glow, turning the edges of Fiona’s hair gold. She looked radiant. Exhausted, wary, beautiful. He wanted to memorize her exactly like this.
Dean stepped closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of her, to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Flowers and something else beneath it. Familiar and devastating.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
A blush crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks pink even in the dim streetlight.
"For dinner, I mean," she clarified quickly, her voice flustered. "Thank you for dinner."
The blush, the way she stumbled over her words—it was so perfectly Fiona that his chest ached. She was trying to be polite, to pretend the afternoon hadn't happened, but her body was betraying her. She was thinking about it too. About what they'd shared.
He didn’t think he’d ever stop thinking about it. “It was my pleasure.” His voice sounded rough.
She hesitated, her fingers curled around the doorframe of the car, and something in his chest twisted at the way she was already halfway gone, even standing right in front of him.
He reached out and pulled her gently toward him.
She came easily, like her body remembered what it meant to be held by him. Like some part of her still trusted him, even if her mind knew what he’d done.
He wrapped his arms around her, breathing her in. She was tense at first, but then he felt it—her shoulders relaxing, her face turning into his chest like it always had.
Dean closed his eyes. This—this—was all he needed.
“I’m going to make you trust me again.”
Fiona shifted slightly, enough to look up at him. Her eyes were wary, soft around the edges, uncertain. It killed him.
He cupped her face. “I’m going to show you. Over and over. Every day. For as long as it takes.”
Her breath hitched.
“If it takes years, fine. If it takes decades, I’ll still be here.” His thumb traced the curve of her cheek. “Until the day you love me again. And even if you never say the words, I’ll still try. Because you’re it for me, Fiona.”
The silence that followed was thick. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest.
She whispered, “You can’t just say things like that.”
“I’m not just saying them. I mean every word.”
And then—God help him—he kissed her.
