Page 137 of The Humiliated Wife

He saw her mouth twitch, just slightly.

“You never asked me to be perfect,” Dean said. “You just wanted me to be present.”

She didn’t respond. He didn’t expect her to.

“I think,” he added, voice lower now, “that you coming here today is the most hopeful thing that’s happened to me in months.”

“I didn’t come to say anything big,” Fiona said. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Dean. I just... needed to see you.”

“You can see me,” he said. “Whenever you want. No conditions.”

That made her laugh—a small, soft, exhausted sound.

Her fingers curled around the mug. “Is it too late to go back to what we had?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. What they had wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t enough for her and he was never going to let life give Fiona less than the best ever again.

“I don’t want to go back,” he said and she looked up, wounded.

“What we had was shit, Fiona. What we had was me being too fucking stupid to see that I was married to the most amazingperson in the world. I don’t want that again. I want something better. I want to build something new. Properly. The hard way. Even if it takes years.”

Fiona looked at him like she was trying to see through him. Trying to make sure he was solid this time. Real.

“I don’t know what I want yet,” she whispered.

“That’s okay,” he said. He could wait. He would wait. For the rest of his life if necessary. “You don’t owe me anything.”

She stood slowly and crossed the kitchen, mug still in hand. She stopped just a foot from him.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you,” she said. “But I think I’m ready to remember why I loved you.”

Dean swallowed. His hands twitched at his sides. “That’s more than I hoped for.”

Fiona smiled—small, crooked, tired. “Can I stay a little while?”

He nodded, heart in his throat. Yes, his heart shouted. Yes, stay forever. “Stay as long as you want,” he managed.

She sat back at the table. Dean turned to the counter. The dough was still a disaster. But for once, he didn’t care about getting it right.

She was here. That was enough.

For now.

Dean stoodat the kitchen sink, scrubbing flour from under his fingernails, trying not to stare at Fiona in the window's reflection. She was sitting at June's kitchen table, hands wrapped around her third cup of tea, laughing at something Russell was saying.

Her laugh. Christ, he'd missed that sound.

"You're going to wear a hole in that pan," June said quietly, appearing beside him with a dish towel.

Dean realized he'd been washing the same mixing bowl for the past five minutes. "Sorry."

"She looks happy," June observed, glancing toward the table where Fiona was now asking Russell about his photo of June from their college days.

"She does," Dean agreed, setting the bowl in the drying rack. He wanted to memorize this. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was really listening. The way she leaned forward when Russell talked about his early advertising days, genuinely interested in stories that had nothing to do with her.

"Dinner's almost ready," June said. "Think you can manage not to drop anything?"

The weight of having Fiona in this house, at this table, felt enormous. Like he was being given a chance he didn't deserve and couldn't afford to mess up.