Chapter 37

My Cheating Mate

Emma pov

I shouldn't be doing this.

That's what I told myself as I let myself into Jeremy's house with the key I'd kept, armed with cleaning supplies and groceries. He was meeting with his father about the rogue situation, and I'd decided—impulsively, maybe foolishly—to take advantage of his absence.

The house was a mess. Not dirty exactly, but neglected. Dishes in the sink from weeks ago. Dust on every surface. Mail piled on the counter. Evidence of someone who'd been living here but not really inhabiting the space.

I started with the kitchen, washing dishes and wiping down counters. Found expired food in the fridge and threw it out. Restocked with the groceries I'd brought—actual food, not just the protein bars and energy drinks that seemed to be Jeremy's current diet.

The living room was easier—just dust and vacuum. The bathroom needed a deep clean that I tried not to think too hard about.

Then I made my way to the bedroom.

Our bedroom. The room we'd shared for six months before everything fell apart.

I stripped the bed—sheets that definitely needed washing—and started making it with fresh linens I'd found in the closet. The familiar domestic task was soothing, meditative.

Until I tucked in the fitted sheet and my hand brushed against the mattress.

And suddenly I wasn't in the present anymore.

---

*"Jeremy, we can't—" I was laughing, breathless, as he pulled me toward the bedroom. "I have to finish making dinner."*

*"Dinner can wait." His hands were on my waist, his mouth on my neck, his voice low and wanting. "I've been thinking about this all day."*

*"You're insatiable."*

*"Only for you."*

*The mattress against my back. His weight above me. The way he'd looked at me then—like I was everything he wanted, everything he needed.*

*"Emma, you're so beautiful. So perfect."*

*His hands. His mouth. The way he'd moved inside me, the way he'd whispered my name like a prayer.*

*"I love you." His voice, rough with emotion and pleasure. "God, Emma, I love you so much."*

*And I'd believed him. Had believed every word, every touch, every promise.*

---

"Emma?"

I jerked back to the present, gasping. Jeremy stood in the doorway, concern written all over his face.

"How long have you been standing there?" My voice came out shaky.

"A few minutes. You were—" He paused. "You looked far away. I called your name but you didn't respond."

I looked down at my hands, still gripping the half-made bed. "Sorry. I was just—" How did I explain what I'd been remembering? "I was finishing the bed."

He moved into the room slowly, cautiously. "You didn't have to do all this. Clean the house, buy groceries—"

"I know I didn't have to. I wanted to." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "You needed help, even if you won't ask for it."

"Thank you." His voice was soft. "Really. Coming home to a clean house with actual food in it—" He smiled slightly. "It's more than I deserve."

"Stop measuring everything by what you deserve," I said, echoing my earlier words. "I did this because I care about you. Not because you've earned it."

We stood there in awkward silence, the half-made bed between us. A bed where we'd laughed and loved and promised forever. A bed that held so many memories—good ones, before everything went wrong.

"What were you thinking about?" Jeremy asked quietly. "When I came in. You looked—" He paused. "Sad. And something else."

I could lie. Could brush it off, make some excuse.

But we'd promised honesty. Promised to actually communicate instead of hiding behind walls.

"I was remembering," I admitted. "Us. Before. We used to—" I gestured vaguely at the bed. "This room has a lot of memories."

Understanding dawned on his face, followed quickly by pain. "Emma—"

"I miss it." The words came out before I could stop them. "The intimacy. The closeness. The way you used to look at me like I was—" I stopped, not sure how to finish that sentence.

"Like you were everything," Jeremy finished, his voice rough. "Because you were. You are."

"But you didn't act like it. You acted like I was an obligation while Vanessa was—"

"I know." He moved closer, stopping a few feet away. "Emma, those memories you were having—I have them too. All the time. Especially in this room. This bed. Where we—" He swallowed hard. "Where I should have cherished you instead of thinking about someone else."

The admission hurt, but it was honest. And I'd asked for honesty.

"Did you?" I asked, the question I'd been too afraid to voice. "When we were together. Intimate. Were you thinking about her?"

He flinched like I'd struck him. "Sometimes. At first. And I hate myself for it. Emma, you deserved someone who was fully present. Who wasn't comparing you to someone else in his head."

"That's a yes, then."

"Yes." His voice cracked. "And I'm so sorry. You were giving me everything—your trust, your body, your heart. And I was—" He stopped, unable to finish.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, the weight of it hitting me. All those times I'd thought we were connecting, building intimacy, growing closer—he'd been thinking about Vanessa.

"Was it ever real?" I asked quietly. "Any of it? Or was I just—"

"It was real." Jeremy dropped to his knees in front of me, his eyes desperate. "Emma, yes, at first I was confused. Conflicted. But there were times—so many times—when it was just you and me. When I wasn't thinking about anything except how incredible you felt, how beautiful you were, how lucky I was."

"How do I believe that? How do I trust that you're not just saying what I want to hear?"

"I don't know." He looked down at his hands. "I can tell you it's true. Can tell you that those memories are precious to me now, that I'd give anything to go back and be fully present for every single one. But I can't prove it. Can't make you believe me."

I was crying now, tears streaming down my face. "I miss you. I miss us. I miss feeling close to someone, feeling wanted. But I don't know if I can—if we can—"

"Hey." His hand hovered near my face, not quite touching. "You don't have to know right now. Don't have to decide anything about—" he gestured between us, "—about physical intimacy or where we're going. We're just taking it one day at a time, remember?"

"One day at a time," I repeated, wiping my eyes. "But Jeremy, I need you to understand something. I do miss the physical closeness. Miss being held. Miss—" I stopped, heat rising to my face. "Miss other things. But I can't go there again until I really trust you. Until I'm sure you won't be thinking about someone else."

"I won't be." His voice was fierce now. "Emma, I swear to you—Vanessa is dead. What I felt for her is dead. When I think about intimacy, about being close to someone, it's only you. It's always been you, really. I was just too stupid to see it."

"Pretty words."

"True words." He finally let his hand touch my face, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "But I understand. I'm not asking for physical intimacy. Not asking for us to rush back into anything. I'm just—I'm grateful you're here. That you cared enough to clean my house and make sure I have food."

"Someone has to take care of you," I said, managing a small smile. "Since you're clearly incapable of it."

"Very true." He smiled back, but his eyes were still sad. "Emma, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Those memories you were having—the ones before everything went wrong. Are they—" He paused, searching for words. "Do they make you angry? Hurt? Or do they make you—"

"Nostalgic?" I finished. "All of it. Angry that you weren't fully present. Hurt that I didn't know. But also—" I took a shaky breath. "Also nostalgic for when things felt simple. When I believed you loved me and I felt safe and wanted."

"You were safe," he said immediately. "Are safe. I would never hurt you physically, Emma. Never."

"I know that. But safety isn't just physical. It's emotional too. And I didn't feel emotionally safe when you were gaslighting me about Vanessa. When you were making me doubt my own instincts."

"I know. And I'm sorry. I'll spend the rest of my life being sorry for that."

We sat in silence for a moment, his hand still on my face, my tears finally slowing.

"I should finish making the bed," I said eventually. "And put the casserole I brought in the oven. You need to actually eat it tonight."

"I will. I promise." He pulled his hand back, standing. "Do you want help? With the bed?"

It was such a simple question. But helping me make the bed we'd once shared—it felt significant. Intimate in a different way.

"Okay," I agreed.

We worked together in silence, tucking in sheets, arranging pillows. The domesticity of it was both comforting and painful. A reminder of what we'd had, what we'd lost, what we might be slowly rebuilding.

"There," Jeremy said when we finished. "Looks good. Feels weird sleeping in a properly made bed."

"Get used to it. I'm going to keep checking on you, and if I find out you've been sleeping on your office couch again, there will be consequences."

"Yes ma'am." A slight smile. "What kind of consequences?"

"The kind where I tell Dr. Chen, and she extends our therapy sessions by an hour each."

"That is genuinely terrifying."

I laughed despite everything. "Good. Now come on. Let's get that casserole in the oven. And Jeremy? You're going to eat an actual portion, not pick at it."

"You're very bossy today."

"Someone has to be."

In the kitchen, I busied myself with the casserole while Jeremy put away the groceries I'd brought. It felt normal, domestic, like we were just a couple preparing dinner together.

Except we weren't a couple. Not anymore. Not yet. Maybe not ever again.

"Emma?" Jeremy's voice was quiet. "Thank you. For today. For caring. For—" He gestured at the clean house. "For all of this."

"You're welcome." I slid the casserole into the oven. "And Jeremy? Those memories I was having. The good ones from before. I want you to know—I do treasure them. Even knowing what I know now. Because at the time, they were real to me. And that matters."

His eyes were bright with unshed tears. "They were real to me too. Maybe not at first, but they became real. You became real. More real than any fantasy I'd built up about Vanessa."

"When?" I asked. "When did I become real to you?"

He thought for a moment. "There was this day, maybe three months into our mating. You'd made dinner and we were just sitting on the couch, your head on my shoulder, watching some terrible reality show you loved. And you laughed at something ridiculous on the screen, and I—" He paused. "I looked at you and realized I was happy. Really, genuinely happy. Not thinking about Vanessa, not wishing I was somewhere else. Just happy to be there with you."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I was an idiot. Because I thought admitting that would mean admitting I'd been wrong about everything. Wrong about Vanessa, wrong about the mate bond, wrong about trying to force something that wasn't meant to be." He shook his head. "So I buried it. Kept seeing Vanessa. Kept lying to myself and you."

"And now?"

"Now I'd give anything to go back to that moment. To tell you how I felt. To choose you fully instead of splitting myself between a fantasy and reality." He moved closer. "But I can't go back. Can only move forward. Try to become someone worthy of another chance."

The timer for the casserole beeped, breaking the moment.

"Thirty minutes," I said, needing to ground myself in practicality. "I should probably go. Let you eat in peace."

"Stay." The word came out urgent. "Please? We can just—eat dinner. Talk. Nothing more than that. I just—I don't want to be alone tonight."

I should say no. Should maintain boundaries, keep that careful distance we'd been building.

But looking at him—exhausted, hopeful, vulnerable—I couldn't.

"Okay," I agreed. "I'll stay for dinner."

The relief on his face was almost painful to see.

"Thank you. Again. For everything."

"Stop thanking me and set the table. Make yourself useful."

As we moved around the kitchen together, preparing for a shared meal in a house that used to be ours, I thought about those memories. The good ones. The times when it felt real and right and like we could last forever.

Maybe we could get back there. Maybe through honesty and therapy and time, we could build something even better than what we'd lost.

Or maybe this was as close as we'd ever get—shared meals and cleaned houses and careful boundaries.

Either way, I was here. Still trying. Still hoping.

One day at a time.

One memory at a time.

One step toward healing at a time.

And for now, that was enough.