The call came just after sunset.
I knew it before his phone rang, felt it in the subtle way Alexander's posture changed, the way his shoulders tensed as if bracing for impact. We were sitting in the living room, the quiet stretched thin between us, a low fire crackling in the hearth neither of us had bothered to light properly.
His phone vibrated on the table.
Elena.
He didn't reach for it immediately.
That hesitation mattered more than anything else.
"You don't have to ignore it," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "That's not part of the agreement."
His jaw tightened. "I know."
The phone buzzed again.
I stood and walked toward the window, giving him space, pretending I was interested in the city lights beyond the glass. In truth, I was counting my breaths; slow, measured, deliberate. I refused to let myself become the woman waiting for a man's decision again.
Behind me, the buzzing stopped.
I didn't turn around.
"She wants to see me," he said quietly.
I nodded. "Of course she does."
"She says it's important."
"It always is," I replied.
Silence stretched. I could feel him watching me, weighing something invisible and heavy.
"I told her I'd call later," he said.
I turned then, meeting his eyes. "You don't need my permission, Alexander."
"That's not what I'm looking for."
I studied him for a moment. "Then what are you looking for?"
His lips parted, then closed again. Whatever answer he'd found wasn't one he was ready to give.
"I'll be back tonight," he said instead. "I won't stay long."
The words landed harder than he probably intended.
"I didn't ask for a schedule," I said softly.
He nodded once, grabbed his coat, and left without another word.
The door closed behind him.
I sat back down slowly, my chest tight, my thoughts unraveling in directions I didn't want to follow. This…this…was the moment I had feared since asking for thirty days.
Not anger.
Not betrayal.
But the familiar ache of being second.
Alexander returned just after midnight.
I was still awake, curled on the couch with a book I hadn't read a single word of. I looked up when I heard his footsteps, taking in the loosened tie, the faint crease between his brows.
"You waited up," he said.
"I couldn't sleep," I replied.
He hesitated, then sat across from me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "She's… not well."
Something inside me went still.
"She misses you," he continued. "She says she made a mistake leaving."
I closed the book and set it aside carefully, giving the moment the attention it deserved. "And what did you say?"
"That I needed time."
My fingers curled against the fabric of the couch. "You didn't say no."
"No," he admitted. "I didn't."
I nodded, the motion small. "Thank you for being honest."
He looked up sharply. "That's it?"
"What else would you like me to say?"
"I don't know," he said. "Something. Anything."
I held his gaze, feeling the weight of everything unsaid pressing between us. "This is exactly what I asked for," I said gently. "Truth. Not reassurance."
He stood abruptly and crossed the room, stopping a careful distance away from me. "You act like you're already gone."
"Maybe I am," I said. "Maybe I have to be."
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his composure. "You're making this impossible."
I met his eyes. "No. I'm making it real."
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then he spoke, quieter now. "I don't know how to undo the damage I caused."
"I'm not asking you to," I said. "I'm asking you not to pretend it didn't happen."
The fire crackled softly, filling the space he didn't.
Eventually, Alexander nodded. "I'll sleep in the guest room tonight."
The words surprised me.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "I need… clarity."
I watched him walk away, the distance between us stretching again, not empty, but fragile.
When I finally lay down alone that night, the house felt too big, too quiet.
I pressed my hand to my chest, breathing through the familiar ache.
This was the danger of thirty days.
Not that he would leave again.
But that he might stay, just long enough to make me wish I could believe him.