LOGINI stand in my kitchen. The pad thai containers from last night are still on the counter. The napkin with his handwriting. Extra lime. No peanuts. The way you like it.I pick up my phone.*Come upstairs. Bring the stories.*Three dots. Then:*Are you sure?**I’m sure. But just stories. Nothing else.**Okay.**And bring ice for your shoulder.**Okay.**And Nick?**Yeah?**If you try to kiss me I’m pushing you off my balcony.**Noted.*He knocks four minutes later. Two knocks. My hand is on the doorknob before the second knock finishes and I stopped pretending that bothers me somewhere between the punch and the pasta story.He’s holding an ice pack and two bottles of water and he’s changed into a t-shirt and his hair is messy and his left arm is still held against his body and he looks tired and hurt and careful and something else underneath all of it that I can see but won’t name. “Sit,” I say.He sits on the couch. I sit beside him. Not the opposite end. The middle. Close enough that
The punch is sweet and cold and I hate that it’s good. “Told you,” Nick says. “One drink doesn’t prove anything.” “Your face is proving everything right now.” “My face is NEUTRAL.” “You scrunched your nose when you tasted it. The same scrunch you make when Mia does something cute and you’re trying not to react. Your whole face contracts for half a second and then you flatten it out and pretend nothing happened.” “I don’t scrunch.” “You’re scrunching right now. Thinking about the scrunch is making you scrunch.” “I’m going to throw this punch at your head.” “That would be a waste of good punch.”I take another sip. He watches me take it with an expression I’m getting tired of seeing, the one where his grey eyes go soft and his mouth almost curves and he looks like a man watching a home video of something he lost. “Stop looking at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like I’m doing something remarkable. I’m drinking punch, Nick. It’s not a miracle.” “You called me Nick three times i
EMILY“I said no, Nick.”“It’s a school recital. Both kids are performing.”“Then we go separately. You take Mason. I take Mia. We sit on opposite sides of the auditorium.”“They’re performing TOGETHER, Emily. Mia and Mason are doing the duet. They’ve been practicing for two weeks.”“Then we sit on opposite sides and clap at the same time. Co-parents do that. That’s what we are.”“You keep saying that word like it’s a shield.”“It’s not a shield. It’s a FACT.”We’re standing in the lobby of the apartment building and his jaw is tight and my arms are crossed and Sage walked past us three minutes ago and turned around and walked the other way because the air between us could strip paint.“Fine,” he says. “Separate cars. Opposite sides.”“Fine.”“Fine.”I walk toward the front door. Mia is beside me, holding my hand, her costume bag over my shoulder. Mason is with Nick three steps behind us. I can feel him back there the way I always feel him when he’s close, a pressure in my chest that
EMILYI come back in pieces.The white fades to grey and the grey fades to fluorescent light and the fluorescent light is the hospital ceiling and I'm in a bed again. My hand is throbbing. I open my fist and the pendant is there, the broken wolf pressed into my palm so hard it left an imprint in my skin. Blood has dried around the edges where the metal cut in.My body feels like I lived something. Not remembered it. Lived it. My knees ache like I've been on a hard floor. My chest is tight like someone pressed me down with both hands. My throat is raw like I've been screaming.I was eighteen. I was in a green dress. I was on a marble floor.The memory isn't faded or distant the way old memories feel. It's sharp. Present tense. I can still feel the cold marble under my kneecaps. I can still hear the fabric of the dress tearing at the hem. I can still feel the pendant swinging from my neck and hitting the stone. I can still hear his voice filling the room with a word that flattened me.I
EMILYI don't know why I call him.I'm standing in my kitchen at 7 AM holding my phone and his name is on the screen and my thumb is hovering. Yesterday I told him he was possessive and controlling. Yesterday I sat on the opposite side of an elevator because three feet felt too close.But this morning Mia asked if we could all go to the park. All. She said it the way children say words that carry more weight than they know. "You and Daddy and Mason and me. Like before."I don't remember before. But the way her grey eyes looked when she said it made me pick up the phone.He answers on the first ring."Emily?""I think I overreacted yesterday."Silence."Mia wants to go to the park. All of us. Would you and Mason want to come?""What time?""Ten?""We'll be ready."They're in the lobby at 9:45. Mason is in the jacket, buttoned to his chin. Nick is holding a bag from the bakery and two coffees.He holds one out. "Oat milk. One sugar. Extra hot.""How do you know my coffee order?""Lucky
NICKThree weeks.I have been to Zurich and Singapore and a clinic in rural Finland where a woman who specializes in bond trauma looked at Emily's scans and shook her head. I have called every researcher, every neurologist, every shaman who ever published a paper on mate bonds. The answer is always the same. The severance is permanent. Alex built a wall, not a door. There is no known reversal.But I found one thing. One thread. A doctor in Oslo who specializes in memory reconsolidation told me that in rare cases, traumatic memory loss can be recovered through emotional triggering. Not the bond itself. The memories attached to it. If the patient is exposed to a powerful enough emotional stimulus connected to the lost memories, the brain can sometimes rebuild the pathways on its own.He said the odds were less than ten percent. He said the stimulus would need to be deeply personal, something the patient associated with the lost feelings at a visceral level. He said there was no guarante
Nick and I stare at each other across the hallway. “We’ll use Alexander’s bond,” I say before Nick can speak. Dr. Harrison’s expression shifts to concern. “Ms. Winters, I need to be very clear about the risks—” “I understand the risks. Alexander will bond with her.” “Emily—” Nick starts.
My whole body tenses. “Stay away from her.” “How old is she?” I don’t answer. “How old, Emily?” “Six.” I watch him do the math. Six years. Six years since that Christmas morning. Six years since he destroyed me, and I left with his child growing inside me. His face goes pale. His hand
The doctor's offices smells like antiseptic and false hope. I'm sitting in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, holding Mia's hand while Dr. Chen reviews her test results. Again. Like looking at them one more time will change what they say. Mia is six years old. She has my dark curls an
I wake up to sunlight burning through my eyelids. My head is pounding like someone’s taking a hammer to the inside of my skull, and my mouth tastes like something crawled inside and died. My body feels heavy and wrong, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. When I force my eyes open, everythin







