Evening creeps in with the dread I've been fighting all day. The guest room upstairs waits like a trap, one bed, one bathroom, one impossible night of pretending we're still married in more than just legal terms.
I catch myself feeling a flutter of anticipation alongside the anxiety and immediately crush it. No. I won't let myself want this, won't let my body remember what it was like to share a bed with Adrian when we were happy.
After settling the twins in the nursery down the hall, making sure both monitors are working, I head to our assigned room. The word "our" feels wrong in my mouth, even in my thoughts.
I'm standing by the dresser, my back to the door, already down to the black lace underwear I'd worn for Henri when Adrian enters without knocking. We both freeze.
In the mirror, I watch his eyes travel my body with unmistakable hunger.
That same look from our early days when he couldn't keep his hands off me, when we'd make love every morning before work and again when he got home. The intensity of his gaze makes my skin burn.
"Don't stare," I manage, my voice barely steady, crossing my arms over my chest even though it's far too late for modesty.
"What haven't I seen?" he responds, his voice rougher than intended, and then he disappears into the bathroom before I can respond. The door clicks shut, and I hear the shower turn on immediately.
I scramble for my nightgown, pulling the soft cotton over my head with shaking hands. It's one of my old ones, it smells faintly of the lavender sachets Margaret keeps in all the drawers.
I slide into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin like armor.
Adrian takes an unusually long shower, so long the mirror's probably completely fogged, and when he finally emerges in pajama pants and no t-shirt, his hair still damp.
He settles on his side of the bed, and even though we're not touching, not even close, the bed feels too small. His presence fills the space like smoke, making it hard to breathe normally.
Feigning indifference, Adrian picks up a book from his nightstand, turning the pages a little too loudly. I look at him meaningfully, waiting for him to say something, but Adrian remains silent.
"Are you planning on sleeping here?" I ask, skeptical, watching him open the book to a random page. Upside down.
"I'll go to another room once my parents are asleep," he assures me, but his voice lacks conviction. "They never check the guest rooms after ten. I'll slip out then."
My phone sits face-down on the nightstand, and I know Henri's response is waiting.
In my mind, I can imagine it, probably explicit, probably describing in that poetic French way exactly what my photo did to him, what he wants to do to me when we're together again.
The thought makes my chest tight with guilt.
The silence stretches, broken only by the sound of Adrian turning pages he's definitely not reading.
"Why didn't you tell your parents about the divorce?" I finally ask, needing to fill the quiet with something other than the sound of our breathing.
Adrian's book lowers slowly. "Why didn't you?"
I consider the question, really consider it, searching for an answer that makes sense.
"I don't know," I admit honestly. "When your mother hugged me, when she was so happy... I just couldn't. I couldn't break her heart like that."
"Neither do I," Adrian says, and it's perhaps the most honest thing he's said to me in months.
"I meant to tell them. I've meant to tell them for weeks. But every time I try, I see my mother's face, how happy she'd be about grandchildren, and the words just... won't come."
Adrian sets the book aside on his nightstand, and when he turns back to me, his expression is intense, searching.
"Were you serious about Henri becoming twins' father?" The question cuts deeper than any accusation could. "What you said earlier, about him being the husband I couldn't be?"
The garden memory flashes through my mind unbidden—Adrian laughing with our kids, lifting them like airplanes, looking like the father I'd always imagined he'd be. Guilt twists in my chest like a knife.
"You're their father," I say softly, meaning it. "You'll always be their father. I won't keep them from you, Adrian. I would never do that, no matter what's happened between us."
"But Henri," Adrian persists, and there's something raw in his voice now. "Is he just entertainment, or are you serious about him? Do you love him?"
Before I can answer, before I can even process what's happening, Adrian turns toward me fully, his hand finding my thigh through the nightgown, his palm warm and familiar.
He pushes the fabric up slowly, his eyes locked on mine.
"I'm sorry, Elena," he breathes, leaning closer, his lips almost touching mine. "I'm sorry I stopped touching you. I'm sorry I pulled away when you needed me most."
His mouth brushes against mine, soft at first, then more insistent. "I missed this. God, I missed you."
His kiss is desperate, familiar, tasting like mint toothpaste and memories. For a moment, I'm frozen, my body remembering his touch, remembering how good we were together physically even when everything else was falling apart.
His hand slides higher on my thigh, heading toward the black lace I shouldn't be wearing, and reality crashes in like cold water.
I push him away, my hands on his chest, creating distance.
"Adrian, I can't. You left me. You accused me of cheating. You told me to abort our children." My voice shakes with anger and something else, something I don't want to name. "I'm with Henri now."
"Elena…"
"Leave," I say, louder now, not caring if his parents might hear. "Don't wait for your parents to sleep. Just go. Find another room. I don't care where, just... not here. Not with me."
Adrian doesn't argue. He stands slowly, gathering his book, his phone, not looking at me. At the door, he pauses for just a moment, like he wants to say something more, but then he's gone, closing the door quietly behind him.
I'm left alone with my thundering heart and the weight of almost, of what could have been if he'd fought for us eight months ago instead of now when it's too late.
My phone buzzes with another message from Henri, but I can't bring myself to look at it.
Not when I can still taste Adrian on my lips, not when my body still remembers his touch, not when I'm lying in this bed that smells like him, wanting things I shouldn't want anymore.