Chapter 3: Cracks in the Armor
The next few days blur together—same routine, same insults, same careful distance I keep from everyone. Especially her.
But something's shifted since that quiet dinner. Bella's glances linger a second longer. She finds excuses to brush past me in the narrow hallway, or asks if I want coffee when she makes a fresh pot—even if Claudia's watching with that pinched look on her face.
I catch myself watching her more too. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's tired. How she hums under her breath while loading the dishwasher. Little things I've noticed for years, but now they hit harder. Like the countdown in my head is making everything sharper.
Six days left.
I'm out in the garage late one afternoon, pretending to organize tools while I check the phone again. Marcus sent coordinates this time—a drop point, final instructions. Everything's lined up. Clean. No loose ends.
I'm sliding the board back when I hear the side door creak open.
"Damian?"
Bella's voice. Soft, uncertain.
I shove the phone deeper under the cloth and stand up quick, brushing dust off my hands. "Yeah. In here."
She steps into the garage, still in her scrubs from work, a grocery bag in one arm. The overhead light catches the faint shadows under her eyes.
"I picked up a few things," she says, holding up the bag like evidence. "Figured we were out of milk again."
I take it from her without thinking, our fingers brushing. She doesn't let go right away.
"You've been out here a while," she says.
"Just cleaning up."
She nods, but her eyes flick to the corner where I was kneeling. She's too smart not to notice things. Always has been.
"You don't have to hide stuff from me, you know," she says quietly.
My chest tightens. "I'm not hiding anything."
She gives me that look—the one that says she knows I'm full of shit, but she's not going to push. Not yet.
"Come inside," she says instead. "It's getting cold out here."
I follow her back into the house. Claudia's voice is already drifting from the living room—some phone call, complaining about the neighbors. Sophia's heels click somewhere upstairs. Normal chaos.
Bella sets the groceries on the counter and starts putting things away. I help without being asked. We move around each other easy, like we've been doing this forever.
Halfway through, she stops and leans against the fridge, watching me.
"Can I ask you something?"
I pause, milk carton in hand. "Yeah."
"Why'd you stay?"
The question lands heavy. I've asked myself the same thing a thousand times, but hearing it from her—it's different.
I could give her the easy answer. Nowhere else to go. No money. Too proud to start over from nothing.
But that's not the truth. Not all of it.
I set the milk down and turn to face her.
"Because of you."
The words come out before I can stop them. Simple. Raw.
Her breath catches—just a little, but I hear it.
She looks down at the floor, then back up at me. "Damian…"
"I know," I say quick. "I know what this looks like. The deadbeat living in your mom's house, married on paper only, taking up space. But it wasn't ever about that. Not for me."
She's quiet for a long beat. Then: "It wasn't for me either."
The air between us changes. Thickens.
I take a step closer. Not much. Just enough.
"I never stopped—" I start.
She shakes her head, cutting me off gently. "Don't. Not yet."
Not yet.
That's not a no.
My heart's hammering. Six days. I've waited five years. I can wait six more.
But then she reaches out—slow, deliberate—and touches my arm. Just her fingertips, light on my skin.
"I see you," she says. "Even when you think no one does."
I cover her hand with mine. Hold it there.
Upstairs, Sophia yells something about missing shoes. Claudia's voice rises in response. The usual storm.
But down here, in this cramped kitchen, it's just us.
I lean in—just a fraction—and rest my forehead against hers.
"I'm gonna fix this," I whisper. "All of it. I promise."
She doesn't ask what I mean. Just closes her eyes and nods, like she believes me.
Maybe she does.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket—work, probably. She pulls back, gives me a small, sad smile.
"I have to take this."
I let her go.
She steps out onto the back porch to talk, voice low.
I stand there a long time, staring at the spot where her hand was on my arm.
Six days.
I'm not just getting my life back.
I'm getting her back too.
And this time, I'm not letting anything burn it down.