At that, she hurried down the stairs, her steps quick and light, leaving me alone with the untouched bowl of soup.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at the warm steam that had already begun to fade. My thoughts drifted, heavy and slow. I had never been surrounded by much warmth growing up. What little I knew of care came from Grandma, the only person who had ever made me feel seen. Those short years with her shaped my idea of love, and I held onto them like something rare and fragile.
Everything else felt different.
John's rigid nature, his distance, the way he held control in silence… it all felt like pressure rather than care. Macy's steady presence and quiet protection felt closer to what I understood as friendship, something reliable but not deep enough to reach my heart in another way. And Ashton… in the two years we were bound in marriage, the moments where he showed anything close to gentleness were few and far between.
