Sharon's POV
He said goodnight.
Not I love you too. Not I'm glad you're alive. Not even welcome home.
Just — goodnight, Sharon.
I lay in the dark long after his breathing evened out, staring at the ceiling of a room I'd never slept in before, in a house that had been mine for years, and I turned those two words over and over in my mind like a stone with a sharp edge.
Goodnight, Sharon.
Fine.
I'd expected walls. I'd prepared for walls. Victor had always built them, and I had always known how to dismantle them, brick by patient brick. That was the thing about us — that had always been the thing about us. I knew him in ways no one else did. I knew what his silences mean, the exact language of his withdrawals.
I just needed time.
I just needed proximity.
Which meant I needed to start as I intended to go on.
I was up before six.
