Page 83 of Shattered Dreams
We're inourbed. The bed he left months ago. The one I cried in for weeks until my pillow was permanently stained with mascara and tears. Now, it smells like him again. Like us. That mixture of his cologne and my lotion and something that was always just ours. And I don't know what that means, but my god, do I feel better.
His breath brushes the back of my neck, soft and regular. I could stay here forever, suspended in this moment where everything feels possible again—but that's the thing, isn't it? You can't live in a moment. You have to move forward. You have to choose what happens next. You have to decide if last night was goodbye or hello.
So I slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him. Grab his shirt from the floor where I threw it in our desperate hurry to get to each other. It's wrinkled and smells like him. I pull it on and pad downstairs, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.
I make coffee in the kitchen where we used to have our morning routine. Where he'd read sports headlines on his phone while I packed Poppy's lunch. Where we'd steal kisses between sips and talk about our days ahead. The muscle memory is still there—reaching for his favourite mug before remembering he might not stay for coffee.
I sit at the kitchen island with my coffee, black because I'm out of cream and forgot to add it to the grocery list. A manila folder is already waiting on the counter. I left it there last night, after dinner, after the restaurant, after sex that felt like both an ending and a beginning.
I sip my coffee, staring at it.
The divorce papers. Signed, witnessed, notarized. Ready to file. Ready to make our separation permanent and legal and final.
When Roman comes down—shirtless, sleep-rumpled, hair sticking up at wild angles—my heart slams in my chest.
God, he’s beautiful.
I nod toward the folder without saying anything.
He freezes mid-step. His gaze lands on the manila folder like it's a live grenade that might explode if he moves too quickly.
"The divorce papers," he says, his voice still rough with sleep.
I nod, taking another sip of coffee. I’m the picture of calm.
The way I've learned to be since he left.
"It's up to you now," I say.
His throat works as he swallows hard. "I didn’t sign it. I know you did."
"Yeah. Weeks ago. Before the storm hit. Before everything fell apart completely." I set my mug down carefully. "Before I knew you were actually trying to change."
He opens the folder slowly, like he's afraid of what he'll find inside. The papers are neat, organized. My signature is dark and final on every line that requires it. His name, his lines—still blank, still waiting.
I stand up and walk toward him, pressing my fingers to the page where his signature should go. "You decide what happens next, Roman. I'm not going to chase you, and I'm not going to punish you anymore. If this marriage isn't what you want, if rebuilding isn't worth the work, then sign it. But if it is..."
His jaw clenches. “Of course, it fucking is.”
Then—He rips the papers clean down the middle.
My soul fucking leaps.
"Good," I say softly, stepping closer until I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. "Then let's rebuild. Together."
His hands are on me. Pulling me against him, pressing me back against the kitchen counter, his mouth crashing down on mine like he's been drowning and I'm air. This isn't tender—it's hunger. Desperation. A man claiming what he nearly lost for good.
"You're mine," he growls against my throat, his teeth grazing my skin. "Always fucking were."
"Then show me."
He lifts me onto the counter in one smooth motion, his mouth trailing heat across my collarbone, his hands sliding under his shirt—myshirt now—pushing it up and over my head. The granite is cold against my bare skin, but his hands are warm and greedy.
He drops to his knees in front of me, spreading my thighs wide, his mouth finding me like he's a man starving for the tasteof me. Like he has to prove something. Like this is his last chance to show me what I mean to him.
His tongue creates promises as it laps at my needy core, and he stares up at me the whole fucking time.
“Mine,” he mutters before slamming his mouth back on me. His fingers dig into my ass cheeks as he devours me, making me feel like I’m his fucking queen once more.
