Two weeks.
Fourteen days of living in the same house with a man who moved around her like she was a ghost.
Isla cataloged every painful detail.
The way Killian left for work before she woke up. The way he came home after she'd gone to bed. The way he'd rearranged his entire schedule to avoid being in the same room with her for more than sixty seconds.
The few times they did cross paths—passing in hallways, briefly overlapping in the kitchen—he'd nod politely. Ask if she needed anything. Treat her with the distant courtesy you'd show a houseguest you barely knew.
Never touch her. Never look at her long enough to actually see her. Never acknowledge that two weeks ago they'd been tangled together in a cabin, completely in love and finally honest.
It was torture.
For both of them.
Because Isla could see the cost of his careful distance. Could see the exhaustion in his face, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands would clench whenever she entered a room.
