Maxwell's POV
Olivia's room was exactly as I'd glimpsed it last night - warm and softly lit, with that same golden glow from the lamp on the nightstand.
She sat on the edge of the bed, still holding her mug, looking small and fragile in that oversized sweater.
I looked around for somewhere to sit and found a small upholstered stool near the window. I pulled it closer to the bed and sat down, my legs still not quite steady enough for prolonged standing.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
The rain filled the silence.
"Olivia," I started, then stopped, not sure where to begin.
There was so much to say. So many apologies to make. So many truths to tell.
I took a breath and forced myself to start.
