Page 81 of The Humiliated Wife
It wasn’t the first time. She’d done this before. Curled into herself like she could create warmth with nothing but skin and breath and memory.
She squeezed tighter. Tried to imagine arms around her. Arms that knew exactly how to hold her. A shoulder to bury her face against. A heartbeat to count down the minutes until she could breathe again.
She told herself it was just a hug. Just comfort. Nothing more.
She told herself she wasn’t pretending those arms were Dean’s.
But she was. Of course she was.
And it wasn’t enough.
Her throat tightened. She blinked hard at the ceiling, willing the tears not to fall. She was tired of crying. Tired of wanting things she couldn’t have. Tired of the empty space beside her in bed and the colder one inside her chest.
She lay back, arms still locked around her torso, holding herself like she might come apart otherwise.
Eventually, the ache dulled to something tolerable.
But not gone.
Never quite gone.
The knock wasdifferent this time. Soft. Hesitant.
Fiona looked up from her laptop, where she'd been responding to comments on her latest post. The knock came again.
She knew it was him before she opened the door.
Dean stood on the porch, hands behind his back, looking smaller somehow. His hair was messed up like he'd been running his fingers through it. There was flour on his shirt.
"Hi," he said quietly.
"Hi."
They stood there for a moment, the space between them feeling both infinite and fragile.
"I brought you something," he said, and pulled a plate from behind his back. It was covered with aluminum foil, the edges tucked neatly underneath. "I know you probably don't want to see me, but I... I made these."
Fiona stared at the plate. "You made...?"
"Cookies." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Chocolate chip. I remembered you said... you always said baked goods solve everything."
Her throat tightened. She had said that. A hundred times, probably. To neighbors with sick kids, to students having bad days, to Dean himself when work stressed him out.
"Dean—"
"I know they don't," he said quickly. "Solve everything, I mean. I know that now. But I just... I wanted to try."
He held the plate out like an offering. Like prayer.
Fiona looked down at it, then back at his face. He looked wild.
"You don't have to eat them," he continued, words tumbling out faster now. "You don't have to do anything. I just... I needed to make them. For you. Because you always made things better, and I… I wanted to do that for you this time.”
The worst part was how much she wanted to take the plate. How much she wanted to lift the foil and see whatever imperfect cookies he'd managed, to taste something he'd made with his own hands because he was thinking of her.
The worst part was how her heart still stuttered when he looked at her like she was precious.
Fiona looked down at the plate, then back at Dean. His hands were still outstretched, as if he wasn’t sure what he’d do if she didn’t take it.
