Fiona pushed open her apartment door at 7:42 p.m. and felt the tension in her shoulders loosen by half a notch.
The place was still empty—Elara's emergency at the flower shop had stretched into a second day—but the quiet didn't feel as suffocating tonight. She kicked off her sneakers, dropped her bag beside the couch, and let herself sink onto the cushions with a long, shaky exhale.
She had survived the day.
No more heartbreak in the hallway.
And Caleb.
Caleb, who had appeared out of nowhere in that little Italian restaurant like a ghost from high school who refused to stay buried.
She closed her eyes and let the memory replay in slow motion.
The way he'd looked at her across the table—steady, kind, not judging.
The way he'd taken her hand when she finally told him the truth about the pregnancy, about Martin, about the mess she was in.
The way his voice had cracked—just a little—when he said, "I'm so sorry, Fi."
