Victor's fingers dug into the edge of the counter, the laminate biting into his palms. Willow's whispered words still hung between them, small and devastating.
I don't want him to go.
He had known, on some level, that this was possible. That somewhere under all the careful routines and prenatal appointments and quiet dinners on the couch, her heart was still tethered to a man who wasn't him. He had tried not to name the feeling, because naming it would have meant admitting how much he liked this life, how much he had let himself lean into the illusion of a family he had never dared pray for.
It hurt to say what he knew he had to say next.
"I'll give you space," Victor managed. His voice came out lower than he intended, hoarse around the edges. "You're a grown woman, Willow. I can't stop you from making your own decisions."
Her eyes lifted to his, wide and guilty and honest. It twisted something in his chest.
