Page 66 of The Breaking Point

My father was also discharged. He’s grumpy and stubborn, still refuses to use the cane even when his legs start to tremble. But with physical therapy and my mother, he’s managing.Sometimes I catch them whispering to each other in the kitchen when they visit, like teenagers. It's weird and sweet and a little unsettling. I’ve been slowly letting them in, which is not easy.

Oh, and Zack, my older brother, moved back home. That’s been... fun. Not. He’s trying to be the fun uncle, one that hasn’t been home in 20 years, and it’s like watching a sitcom that never got past the pilot. He pushes boundaries like it’s a sport, lets the boys watch horror movies, gave them espresso once “just to see what would happen.” I genuinely might strangle him before the year is over.

Also, I got the promotion. It means more out-of-town trips. More speeches. More pretending I’m not scared out of my mind when I walk into rooms full of men who try to interrupt me mid-sentence. But with Aiden no longer working, it’s easier now. He finally quit, gave his six weeks' notice, then used up his paid time off, just enough to carry him through.

That’s another thing. I’m going to ask him to move back in. This past month, I feel like I’ve come to know him better than ever. It’s not just the deep talks or the long drives or how he nowaskswhen I need space instead of guessing. It’s how I miss him. How every time I say goodbye after a date, it carves a little ache in my chest.

We still haven’t slept together. Not since before our anniversary. And I’m not gonna lie, it’s not easy. There are moments when his hand grazes my lower back and I feel my body coil like it remembers too much. There are nights he comes over and we lie side by side, not touching, not talking, just... breathing.

But weirdly? That’s what makes me think we might be okay. Because this time, we’re not rushing. We’re not hormonalsixteen-year-olds humping every time we’re close. This time, we’re choosing. And it’s a fun, deep and torturous process.

“Daydreaming about lover boy again?” Grant says, walking into my office like he owns the place.

I don’t even look up. “He’s notlover boy. He’s my husband.”

Grant snorts. “Right. And I’m the Easter Bunny. The way you’ve been giggling every time he texts? Lover boy.”

I roll my eyes but I can’t stop the smile from curling. Traitorous mouth.

Honestly, I thought it’d be weird, being Grant’s boss. Once upon a time we shared a cubicle, ate terrible microwave lunches, and bitched about everything from toner to bad leadership. Now I’m the one signing his time sheets.

But weirdly, it’s not weird.

Turns out Marx Media’s doing a full purge. Out with the redundant, the coasting, the ones who still think “Reply All” is a flex. In with the competent. Not necessarily young, but competent. I’ll take it.

I met the boss, Mr. Marx himself, when he crashed a board meeting. He looked around the room like he was bored before dropping a line I’ll never forget:“The days of interns doing the work of managers are over. From now on, we pay you for your work. Not your title.”

Cue nervous laughter. Cue sudden resignations.

When they found out the old marketing manager had been skimming off the side, using agency funds to pay for her yogastudio’s website, I was called in for input. Perks of being Administrative Head of Jacky’s, I guess. I recommended Grant.

He was stunned. I wasn’t. He’s smart, no-bullshit, and shockingly organized when he’s not trying to flirt with every human being in a five-mile radius.

It’s actually kind of nice. Working with someone who remembers where you started. Who knew you before you were...this. Still, the way he raises an eyebrow when my phone buzzes, makes me wanna transfer him.

“Seriously,” he says. “If he sends one more heart emoji, I’m blocking his number from your office line.”

I laugh, flick open the message. It’s a photo of Aiden, shirtless in his kitchen, holding a head of lettuce like it’s a damn trophy. With a message:“Perks of having a house husband.”

God help me. Lover boy.

I don’t respond, just lock my phone, and try to pretend the flutter in my stomach is just caffeine. It is not. It’s been one month. One. Month. Of talking, healing, therapy, no sex. None.

Tonight, that ends.

My parents are coming over to stay with the boys. I made up some excuse about a late dinner meeting which, to be fair, is only a lie if you don’t count Aiden’s tongue as an agenda item.

I even shaved. Likereallyshaved. Exfoliated. Lotioned. Spritzed. Mamma is getting some.

Grant’s already sitting in the chair across from mine texting on his phone. “Now that I’m management,” he says, kickingone leg over the other, “am I still allowed to… date the female employees?”

I blink. “Are you actually asking if it’s okay for you todatewomen who technically can’t say no to you?”

He cringes. “Oof. When you put it like that… yeah, that’s a bad idea.”

“Ya think?”

He grins. “Alright, point taken. No wooing subordinates. Got it.” Then he pauses, squints at me, and lets his eyes travel over me with exaggerated scrutiny. “Nowyou, however… you look like you’re ready to go to Booty Town.”

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