After The Divorce: Ex-husband's Regret

The apartment was quiet in that early, fragile way—morning light slipping through the curtains, dust floating lazily, the city still deciding whether to wake up.

Ava stood in the living room, barefoot on the cool tile, heart hammering so loudly she was sure it could be heard down the hall.

She’d been up since dawn. Too excited to sleep. Too full of feeling. Three years. Somehow it still felt new. And heavy and sacred.

She glanced toward the bedroom. Matthew was still asleep. She could hear it—the faint rhythm of his breathing, the soft sound of sheets shifting when he turned.

Ava smiled to herself.

She checked the small banner she’d taped crookedly to the wall—Happy Anniversary—then stepped back, tilting her head. Crooked suited them. Nothing in their life had ever been perfect. Just… real.

She took a breath. Then another.

And shouted.

“Babe! Babe—Babe!”

Her voice sliced through the apartment, sharp and panicked.

“Babe!” she cried again, louder this time. “Matthew!”

There was a crash from the bedroom.

“Ava?” His voice came out rough, thick with sleep. “What—what’s wrong?”

She bit her lip to keep from laughing.

The bedroom door flew open.

Matthew burst out, hair mussed, eyes wide, chest rising and falling too fast. He was half-dressed, bare feet slapping against the floor as he rushed toward her.

“What happened?” he demanded, scanning her face, the room. “Are you hurt? Did something—”

She jumped.

“Happy anniversary!”

For half a second, he just froze.

Then he flinched back so hard he nearly tripped, a curse tearing out of him as his heart clearly tried to escape his chest. “Jesus—!”

Ava lost it.

She doubled over, laughter spilling out of her, loud and uncontrollable. “Oh my God,” she gasped. “Your face—Matthew , your face—”

He stared at her, stunned. At the banner, the balloons. The small table set nearby with breakfast waiting—his favorite pancakes, golden and steaming, the smell of butter warm in the air.

“You—” He dragged a hand down his face. “You thought I was dying.”

“I wanted you to come running,” she said between laughs. “And you did.”

His shoulders dropped as the adrenaline drained out of him. He exhaled slowly, then shook his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“But you love me,” she teased, stepping closer.

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then, despite himself, a smile tugged at his mouth.

“You scared the life out of me,” he muttered.

She slipped her arms around his waist, pressed her cheek to his chest. His heartbeat was still fast. She could feel it under her ear.

“Revenge,” she murmured. “For every spider you’ve ever screamed at.”

He snorted, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head automatically. Muscle memory. Love written into habit.

“Happy anniversary,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him. His eyes were soft now. Sleepy, still only half in the day.

“Three years,” she said.

“Three,” he echoed.

He kissed her then. Not rushed, not dramatic. Just lips fitting against hers like they’d always belonged there. A kiss with history in it. With mornings and nights and shared silence.

When he pulled his back, he rested his forehead against hers. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to.”

“You always want to,” he said, fondly.

“That’s kind of the point of loving someone,” she teased.

He smiled. A real one, crooked on one side.

They ate breakfast together, knees brushing under the table, the television murmuring in the background though neither of them watched it.

Ava poured his coffee the way he liked—one sugar, a splash of milk. He noticed. He always noticed things like that.

“Remember our first anniversary she asked, stabbing at her pancake.

He groaned. “The power outage.”

“You lit candles like we were in some tragic movie.”

“And you cried because you thought the candles meant we were ‘romantic now.’”

She laughed. “I was emotional.”

“You’re always emotional.”

She reached across the table and flicked his wrist. “Rude.”

But there was affection in the way she looked at him. In the way she leaned in when she laughed, like she was constantly pulled toward him without realizing it.

When breakfast was over, Matthew stood, already glancing toward the bedroom.

She felt it then. That familiar tug. The quiet disappointment she’d trained herself not to make loud.

“You’re leaving early again,” she said lightly.

He paused mid-step. “I have to. Meetings all morning.”

She rose slowly, walking toward him. “You said you’d be home tonight.”

“I will be.”

“You promise?” She tried to make it playful. Tried not to let the question sound like what it really was.

He turned fully toward her then. Buttoning his shirt as he did. “I promise.”

“You barely make time for me lately,” she said softly.

There it was. The truth, finally slipping out.

He stilled and looked at her properly.

“Ava…”

She shrugged, folding her arms, suddenly aware of how small she felt standing there in her oversized sweater. “I know you’re busy. I know the company needs you. I just—” She stopped. Took a breath. “I miss you. Even when you’re in the same room.”

Something crossed his face. Guilt, maybe, or annoyance. She couldn’t tell.

He stepped closer, took her hands.

“Hey.” His voice softened. “This is temporary. Things will calm down.”

“You always say that.”

“And one day I’ll be right,” he said, smiling faintly.

She wanted to believe him. She always did.

“I’ll come home early,” he said. “We’ll have dinner. Just us. No phones. I’ll even let you pick the movie.”

Her eyes brightened. “Really?”

“Really.”

She laughed, leaning into him. “That’s how I know you’re serious.”

He kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then her lips again, deeper this time. The kind of kiss that lingered. That made her forget the doubts curling quietly in her chest.

She watched him get his jacket. His watch. The familiar ritual of a man who belonged to her life.

At the door, he turned back.

“Happy anniversary,” he said again.

She walked over and kissed him first this time. Slow. Intentional.

“Drive safe,” she murmured.

“Always.”

He stepped out.

She stood there a moment longer after the door closed, palm pressed against the wood, smiling.

The road was busy. Matthew drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, mind already half on work, half on the lingering warmth of the morning.

His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then frowned.

Another buzz.

He reached for it, eyes flicking down for just a second—

The sound came out of nowhere.

Metal and glass.

The world lurched.

And then—

Nothing but the scream of brakes as Matthew Taylor’s car collided head-on with another.