Page 82 of Broken Hearts
Heading downstairs, I start to prepare breakfast despite the discomfort in my hand. Each movement causes a small wince, but I’m determined not to let it show. Cole can’t see it; he can’t know.
As he comes downstairs, freshly showered and ready for his day, I barely manage to hide my grimace. He’s sharp, observant, and I know I can’t let my guard down.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Nothing,” I reply a bit too quickly. I can feel his eyes on me, analyzing, searching for the truth.
He doesn’t push further; instead, he sits down at the table. There’s a brief silence before he speaks up again.
“Say it again,” he asks, an expectant look in his eyes.
I play along, feigning ignorance. “Say what?”
He leans forward, his gaze intense. “What you called me. Please, say it again.”
A small, tender smile forms on my lips as I look at him, my heart swelling with affection and a newfound sense of belonging. “Husband,” I say softly.
He lets out a contented sigh, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “I love hearing you say that.” His voice is sincere, filled with an emotion that resonates deep inside me.
At that moment, I realize the weight and the beauty of the word. Husband. It’s not just a title; it’s a promise, a commitment, a bond that we’re still navigating and shaping into our own. And as I watch him enjoying the breakfast I’ve prepared, despite the pain in my hand, I know that this journey, however unconventional, is ours. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Wow, Angel, this is really good,” Cole says, taking another bite. His eyes meet mine across the table, filled with admiration and affection. “I could really get used to this.”
His praise sends a wave of warmth through me, and I can’t help but smile back at him. Despite the pain, his enjoyment of the meal makes it all feel worthwhile.
As we continue eating, a comfortable silence envelops us, rich with unspoken understandings and exchanged glances. I realize it's these small, shared moments that truly build the fabric of our relationship, each one adding another layer to our deepening connection.
As we finish, Cole checks his watch and lets out a regretful sigh. He stands up and walks over to me, his gaze soft and tender. He leans down, planting a gentle kiss on my forehead. “I wish I could stay,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm.
I reach up, touching his cheek briefly. “I know, but you have classes. I’ll be here. Don’t worry about me. I’ve still got my poetry project to work on.”
The house feels empty as soon as he leaves. With Ethan at Poppy's and Liam in England, the space is quiet, yet it still radiates a warmth from the love and memories we're sharing. I take my time in the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me, washing away the remnants of our passionate morning.
As I dress, my mind drifts to my poetry project, the words and emotions I want to capture. This project is important to me; it's an outlet for the whirlwind of feelings inside.
Finally, I apply some cream to my hand, massaging the tender skin. The pain is a constant reminder of the journey I’m on, both physically and emotionally. It’s a battle scar, in a way—a symbol of resilience, of fighting for something more, something better.
As I sit down with my laptop and notes, I try to channel my focus into my work. Poetry has always been a refuge for me, a way to navigate the complexities of my emotions. Today, it feels even more significant, a way to process everything that’s happened, everything I’m feeling.
The words start to flow, some lines capturing the tumultuous journey Cole and I have been on, others reflecting the quieter, more tender moments. Each word, each line, is a piece of my heart, a fragment of my soul laid bare.
As the afternoon light begins to fade, I realize how engrossed I’ve become in my work. There’s a sense of accomplishment, a feeling of creating something meaningful, something true. And through it all, Cole’s presence stays in my mind—a muse, a partner, a constant in my ever-changing world.
When the doorbell rings, I half expect Cole, perhaps having forgotten his key. When I open the door, I’m taken aback to find Max standing there. Without missing a beat, he steps forward and wraps me in a warm, reassuring hug. It’s a familiar gesture, one that I never get tired of. As he pulls back, he plants a gentle kiss on my forehead, a brotherly gesture that eases some of the tension I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Your husband thinks he’s jealous of me,” Max says with a low drawl, stepping back but maintaining that playful glint in his eyes.
“He thinks?” I arch an eyebrow, leaning back against the cool counter.
He grins, a flash of white in the soft lighting. “Well, obviously, he should be because I’m hot, strong, and I have an amazing personality,” he quips.
“Obviously,” I interject, rolling my eyes. My tone is deadpan, but a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
But then his smile fades, and the atmosphere shifts. “No, he hates that I was there on the worst day of your life, and he wasn’t. He hates how helpless he feels when thinking about you on that bridge.” His voice is softer now, and the humor has vanished from his eyes. “He hates the idea that you and I share a special bond because of that.”
Cocking my head to the side, my fingers trace the rim of my coffee mug, the ceramic cool and smooth. “We do, though,” I trail off, thinking of the bond that tragedy can forge, as strange and unwelcome as it is.
He nods, the motion sharp, decisive. He snatches an apple from the fruit bowl and tosses it into the air, catching it without a glance, the act so fluid and precise it could only come from the military discipline etched into his bones.