Page 124 of Monochrome Without You
I stand at the back door, cradling a warm mug of coffee in my hands as I watch Corbin and Tate rake leaves in the backyard. The golden afternoon light bathes them both, turning the crisp autumn air into something softer, something almost dreamlike. Tate laughs as he tosses a handful of leaves into the air, and Corbin humors him, shaking his head with a half-smile before nudging a pile toward the growing mound in the center of the yard.
The sight of them together—the way they move in sync, the ease between them—makes my chest ache.
It’s been a hard five days. I feel like I’ve lost everything.
The fire spared the walls of my apartment, but it didn’t spare my things. The clothes I carefully picked out over the years, the little mementos from trips with Tate, the paintings I’ve poured myself into—ruined. Damaged beyond repair. The pieces of the life I built without Corbin, gone in an instant.
But Corbin.
He’s still here.
He’s holding onto me like I’m the only thing that matters. Like losing me would be a greater tragedy than all the burned and smoke-stained remnants of my past.
And that terrifies me.
It was easier when I had space. When I had my own apartment, my own escape, a place to step back and process things without his overwhelming presence pressing in on me. None of this is his fault. I know that. It’s me. It’s the way I can’t seem to think straight when I’m around him. The way my body betrays me, craving the warmth of his arms. The way my heart races when I catch him looking at me, like I’m something precious he never wants to lose again.
My fingers tighten around my coffee mug as I glance down at my right hand. At the diamond band I slipped on that day I walked through the smoke-damaged wreckage of my apartment. I don’t know why I put it on. I don’t even know why I kept it. But I do know that every time I see it there, my pulse stutters with the weight of what it means.
I love him.
I never stopped loving him.
The thought both steadies and unravels me.
Because love has never been the problem.
We loved each other before, and we still got it wrong. We still fell apart. What if we mess this up again? What if we love each other, but we can’tlivetogether? What if the weight of the past creeps back in? What if the version of Corbin I have now—gentle, patient, understanding—doesn’t last?
What if he realizes I’m not enough a second time?
My breath catches in my throat as Corbin glances up toward the house. His blue eyes meet mine through the open door, and something flickers there. Something sure, something steady.
And for a moment, the fear quiets.
For a moment, all I want to do is step outside, walk straight into his arms, and finally let myself believe that maybe this time we’ll get it right.
But Tate…
It always comes back to him. His well-being. His happiness.
I didn’t have that kind of security growing up. My home life was chaotic, filled with tension, with moments of uncertainty that settled into my bones. I don’t want that for Tate. I refuse to give him a life where love feels like something that can slip through his fingers at any moment.
Tate launches himself into the pile of leaves, his laughter ringing through the crisp air. Corbin chuckles, shaking his head as he watches our son revel in the simple joy of fall. Then, his gaze shifts, settling on me. The warmth in his eyes is quiet, steady. Something that makes my heart stutter against my ribs.
Does he still love me?
He hasn’t said it, not in words. But maybe he has in other ways. Maybe I hear it in the way he whispers my name in the dark, in the way he holds me when sleep won’t come. Maybe it’s there in the way his hands move over me, reverent and sure, as if he’s afraid to let go.
But if he does, why hasn’t he said it?
“Mom!” Tate hollers from the leaves, waving enthusiastically. “Did you see that?”
I blink out of my thoughts and force a smile. “I did! That was a huge jump.”
He grins before launching himself into the air again, completely lost in his own little world. Corbin, on the other hand, walks toward me, his expression softer than I expect. The second he’s close, my breath hitches.
His hand comes up, fingers gliding gently along my cheek before curling into my hair. I exhale, my body leaning into the warmth of his touch as if it belongs there.
