Page 82 of The Humiliated Wife

She reached forward and curled her fingers around the edge of the plate. Their hands didn’t touch. But for a second, they were close enough to.

“Thank you,” she said, voice barely audible.

He turned to go, then stopped.

"Fiona?" His voice was thick. "I'm proud of you. I know you don’t need anyone, least of all me. I just... I wanted you to know that if you ever do need me,” his voice broke. “If you ever need me, call me. Anytime. And I’ll be there.”

He started walking away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the evening air.

Fiona watched him go,the plate warm in her hands, something cracking open in her chest.

She'd been so strong. She'd been handling everything—the divorce lawyer, the apartment hunting, the inappropriate parents, the long commutes. She'd been rebuilding herself piece by piece, proving to everyone, to herself, that she could do this alone.

But standing there with his imperfect cookies, watching him walk away without asking for anything, she felt the weight of all that strength pressing down on her like water.

"Dean."

He stopped, turned back.

"Can you..." she started, then stopped. Swallowed. "Can you hug me? I just really need someone to?—"

He was there, his arms around her, before she finished speaking.

She was still holding the damn plate in one hand even her arms wrapped around him. She pressed her face into his shoulder, and let herself dissolve.

All the careful composure, all the determined independence, all the walls she'd built to protect herself from exactly this—it all crumbled at once.

She just wanted to be held in his arms this one last time, the place that used to be her safest place.

He smelled like flour and vanilla and something essentially Dean. His hands were warm on her back, one palm flat between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head like she was something precious.

"I've got you," he whispered into her hair, voice rough. "I've got you."

She wasn't supposed to want this. Wasn't supposed to melt into the familiar safety of his arms, wasn't supposed to feel her breathing steady for the first time in weeks. But God, she was so tired of being strong all the time.

She didn’t even realize she’d let go of the cookies until she heard the dull thunk of the plate as it hit the wooden porch. She was clinging to him now. Her hands fisted in his shirt, as if she could draw him even tighter against her.

"I'm shouldn’t,” she whispered against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't?—"

"Don't," he said firmly, his arms tight around her. "Don't apologize. You don't have to be strong every second. Not with me."

They stood there on Emma's porch, holding each other like they were both drowning, the cookies at their feet and the world spinning on without them.

Eventually, Fiona pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Dean cupped her face gently, thumb brushing away a tear she'd missed. “Anytime,” he said. "For as long as you'll let me."

Fiona stoodin Emma's kitchen staring at the plate of cookies on the counter.

She should go back to bed.

The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Milo's snoring through the walls. Everyone else was asleep. Everyone else was safe in their uncomplicated relationships, their normal lives where husbands didn't turn wives into entertainment.

She could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around her from an hour ago. The way her body had betrayed her, melting into him like muscle memory, like her heart hadn't gotten the memo that he wasn't safe anymore.

She picked up a cookie. It was lopsided, the chocolate chips distributed unevenly, one edge slightly burnt. Amateur work from someone who'd never baked anything more complicated than toast.