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I want to shake my head. Tell him this is too much. But when I catch a glimpse of something sharp, vulnerable, and furious in the smoky-gray depths of his gaze—-

Oh Keiran.

It's been three years, but for both of us, it still feels like yesterday that I had chosen my parents over him, and he had walked out on our marriage.

And that's why he wants to hurt me.

Because he's hurting.

And he will never stop hurting me...even if it means hurting himself in the process.



















Keiran

THREE YEARS AGO

She was wearing his hoodie.Again.

The sleeves were too long, the hood too big, and she looked like something he should've locked away from the world.

Keiran watched her tiptoe barefoot across the marble floor, muttering to herself while holding a giant mixing bowl like it could explode at any moment. Her hair was piled messily on top of her head, a few caramel strands escaping to frame her face. She had a smudge of flour on her cheek, and he found himself staring at it, wondering when this – her – had become so fucking important to him.

"You're going to make a mess," he warned, stepping into the kitchen.

Cadence turned. "I measured this time."

"Last time, the flour exploded."

"That was your fault," she said piously. "You startled me."

Her eyes lit up despite her accusation, and that thing in his chest twisted again – that uncomfortable, unwelcome feeling that made him want to simultaneously shield her from the world and show her every dark corner of it.

He crossed the room slowly, until her back was pressed against the counter.

"And if I do it again?"

His wife gasped when he reached past her to take the bowl."Keiran!"