Page 85 of Unrequited

To Rafail:

I didn’t make it up. I do love him. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.

To Rodion:

I love you so much. I’ll tell you if anything happens, but trust me, he takes care of me.

To Semyon:

I’m here of my own will. Please believe that.

To Ruthie:

I’m so sorry. I feel like I betrayed all of you. But it’s true. I do love him.

I put the phone down and step back like it’s burned me. More texts start to come in, pings and buzzes vibrating on the counter, but I can’t bring myself to look. Not now. I need space from the guilt, the love, the war between loyalty to my family and my vows to him.

Seamus is my husband now. That has to mean something. Doesn’t it?

I need to cool down. I need to stop thinking about the window and the way my body reacted to seeing him shirtless, the way my chest still burns from the heat of it. I step into the hallway. It’s oddly narrow for a house this size. The floor creaks beneath my bare feet as I pass by closed doors.

And then I pause.

One door is different. Not just shut, but locked. Solid. Old. The kind of old that knows things.

My curiosity flares. Why this door? Why locked? Why does it feel… sacred? Or secret?

I try the handle—no give. Firm and locked tight.

What’s in there?

A private office? Something personal? Secure documents?

Or something darker?

Maybe I’ve watched too many true crime documentaries, but a chill crawls up my spine. Could be bodies. Could be secrets. Could be a red room of pain.

God.

I shake it off and head toward the kitchen. I need to ground myself. I need to do something.

Feed him. That’s what I do. I take care of the people I love.

In the kitchen, I find more eggs. Oatmeal. Bread but nothing else to bake with. No matter, I can make something.

There are two wide windows above the sink. The view is breathtaking, the Irish coastline bathed in morning light. It looks like something from a dream. Nothing Seamus ever described to me did it justice.

And then, movement.

My eyes catch on him outside. Running shirtless, sweat gleaming on his skin. He’s just finished lifting, probably, and now he’s sprinting toward the house like he’s chasing something.

Like he’s chasing me.

God, he’s beautiful. He always is, but when he runs, when he’s wild and free and open like this, it’s almost unbearable to watch. My heart thunders. My pulse flutters.

For a moment, I let myself believe.

Maybe this is real. Maybe this is my husband.