Joseph whispered, "Don't leave me again."
The words lingered in the quiet room, soft but heavy, as if they had fallen between them and refused to disappear.
Christine kept her eyes closed for a moment. His thumb was still against her cheek, warm and careful, wiping away a tear she had not meant to shed. Claire slept peacefully on the sofa, unaware that the two adults beside her were standing at the edge of something too fragile to touch.
Christine wanted to believe him.
That was what frightened her most.
She wanted to believe that the man standing before her was sincere. She wanted to believe that the coldness in his eyes had finally melted, that the cruelty in his words had been regret, that the years of pain could somehow be given meaning if he truly loved her.
But bitterness rose in her chest before hope could take root.
She slowly opened her eyes and stepped back.
Joseph's hand fell to his side.
"Say something," he said quietly.
Christine let out a shaky breath. "What do you want me to say?"
"Anything."
"Fine." Her eyes hardened. "Do not look at me like that."
Joseph frowned. "Like what?"
"Like I am someone you suddenly feel sorry for."
His expression changed.
Christine turned away, hugging herself. "I do not need your pity, Joseph. I survived without it. I buried my grandfather without it. I worked until my body almost collapsed without it. I cried alone without it. So please, do not stand here on the night of your mother's wake and act like affection can erase everything."
"It is not pity."
"Then what is it?" She faced him again, her voice trembling with anger. "Guilt? Regret? Is this because your mother is dead and now you can finally admit that maybe she lied? Is that why you can touch me gently now?"
Joseph's jaw tightened, but he did not speak.
Christine laughed bitterly. "You believed her so easily. You looked at me like I was dirty. Like I was something passed from one man to another. You judged me without asking, punished me without proof, and now you say you love me?"
"Christine—"
"No." Her voice broke, but she forced herself to continue. "Do you know how many times I wished you had asked me the truth? Just once. One question. One chance. But you never did."
Joseph looked away, his face pale with restraint.
"I know," he said hoarsely.
Christine hated that answer. She hated how small it sounded. She hated that he was not defending himself, because if he fought back, it would be easier to stay angry.
"You do not know," she whispered. "You were here. You had family, wealth, power. Even your anger had a place to live. I had nothing. I had to build myself from scraps while carrying the shame your family gave me."
Joseph took a step toward her. "Then let me make it right. I am asking for a chance to make things right and to..."
Christine's eyes flashed. "You cannot."
The words hit him hard.
For a moment, something dark passed over his face. The old Joseph. Proud. Possessive. Unused to being denied.
"So what do you want me to do?" he asked, his voice suddenly sharper. "Stand here and watch you leave again? For all I know you cannot wait to return to M City and enjoy the attention you get from men who lust over you?"
Christine stiffened.
"Where is that coming from?" she angrily asked him. She felt agrieved. Hours ago, he confessed to her and now, this is what she gets?
Joseph realized what he had said, but anger had already slipped through the cracks.
"Yes," she said coldly. "There it is."
His brows furrowed.
"That is the Joseph I know. The one who makes everything about what he feels. You are hurt, so I must stay. You are jealous, so I must explain. You are guilty, so I must forgive."
Joseph closed his eyes and exhaled sharply.
When he opened them again, the anger had dimmed, replaced by something heavier.
"You are right," he said.
Christine's breath caught.
He lowered his voice. "I am jealous. I am angry. I am afraid. And I do not know how to deal with you without wanting to hold on too tightly. But I am trying, Christine."
She looked at him, shaken despite herself.
Joseph stepped back this time, giving her space.
"I will not touch you unless you allow me. I will not ask you to forgive me tonight. I will not use Claire to chain you here." He swallowed hard. "But do not call this pity. I have pitied many people in my life. I have never been ruined by them."
Christine's lips parted slightly.
Joseph looked at her with raw honesty.
"You ruin me," he said. "That is not pity."
The room became silent.
Claire stirred on the sofa and whimpered in her sleep. Christine immediately turned and sat beside her, smoothing the child's hair.
"I'm here," Christine whispered. "Go back to sleep."
Claire settled again, her hand searching blindly until Christine let her hold her fingers.
Joseph watched them with quiet pain. He wanted to stay. He wanted to beg. He wanted to tell Christine that he had loved her long before he understood what love was. But every word seemed to bruise her further.
He turned toward the door.
"You should sleep," Christine said before she could stop herself.
Joseph paused.
She looked away quickly. "You look terrible."
A faint, tired smile touched his mouth. "Is that concern?"
"It is an observation."
"Of course."
"Do not look happy about it."
"I will try not to."
Christine looked down, but a small smile escaped before she could hide it. It vanished almost immediately, yet Joseph saw it.
He held on to it silently.
"I will be outside," he said.
"You do not have to guard the door."
"I know."
"But you will."
"Yes."
Christine sighed, tired and conflicted. "You are impossible."
Joseph opened the door. Before stepping out, he looked at her one last time.
"And you are still planning to run."
Christine did not answer.
That was answer enough.