Page 82 of The Widower
“It does matter,” I said softly. “And deep down, I care more about what you say than you think.”
I stepped closer, meeting his eyes. There was no anger there now—just something raw, human. I wanted to see him, really see him. And for once, he seemed to let me.
“I know you’ve been through hell, Colin. But it’s never too late to start over. I know I talk too much, but when you’re ready to open up, I’ll be here.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe not. But I want to. What I can’t take anymore is being your emotional punching bag.”
He knew I hated the way he treated me, yet something deep inside kept whispering that I could change him—that there was something worth saving there. And despite everything, I kept listening to that voice.
I was trying my hardest not to let him break me every time we were close, but it was getting harder and harder.
“I’m a terrible man,” he said quietly.“And because of that, a terrible father. I know it, Isabelle.”
“No, you’re not.” I took one of his hands, and I could see how surprised he was. “The way you treat Hanna might not mean much to you, but to me, it says more than you realize.Your problem is that you’ve shut yourself off from the world, convinced it’s easier to push people away. But we all have a vulnerable side, and yours is showing more every day. You’re not a bad person, Colin Adams.”
His eyes shimmered when I finished speaking, and I couldn’t tell what he was trying to find in mine—he wasn’t even blinking.
“That’s wrong.” He gave a faint, disbelieving smile, shaking his head slightly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Hearing that.” He stepped closer, placing both hands gently around my neck. “No one sees anything good in me. Why do you have so much faith in a lost cause like me?”
“You’re wrong,” I said softly. “There are people who know there’s still something good left in you. Me, Henry, Helen—we all see it. And I’d bet Hanna does too, even if she’s still little. You just have to let it happen. If you do, I’m sure your life will change. I’ll help you—if you let me.”
Colin hesitated when I finished. For a moment, I thought he was going to pull away. His gaze faltered, his head tilted slightly, like he was trying to escape—from me, from us.
But then he took a deep breath, met my eyes again, and said, his voice rough and steady, each word slicing through the air between us:
“I want your help. I want you, Isabelle. I need you.”
My heart skipped a beat, and before I could think, the words just slipped out:
“Then start by kissing me like you did a few minutes ago.”
A slow, dangerous half smile tugged at his lips.
“You don’t even have to ask for that.”
Before I could react, he was already closer.
His breath mingled with mine, and the silence that wrapped around us was so thick it felt like any movement would shatter it. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and in that instant, the world stopped spinning. The touch came suddenly—soft, deliberate, but intense enough to steal my breath.
There’s no way to explain what happens when our mouths meet.
It’s like time bends, the air thins, and nothing else exists. Colin’s kiss carries the weight of everything we’ve tried to deny—and the heat of everything we’ve been too afraid to admit.
His hands framed my face, the grip firm and certain, making me tremble. I felt his fingers slide down to the base of my neck, pulling me closer, carefully, as if he was afraid I might pull away. But I didn’t. I leaned in.
The kiss deepened. His breath tangled with mine in an uneven rhythm, and the touch of his lips grew more urgent. The world around us vanished—no sound, no reason, just the feel of his body against mine and the undeniable certainty that this shouldn’t be happening… yet there was no stopping it.
Colin kissed me like someone remembering. Like he wanted to carve it into memory all over again.
The touch was intense but full of tenderness. The taste—familiar. The heat—devastating.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to look at me, his thumb lingered against my lower lip, as if to make sure this was real.
