Chapter 2

Haven Holden POV:

Ewing didn' t come home that night. I wasn' t surprised. What did surprise me was that for the first time in seven years, I slept soundly, uninterrupted by the anxiety of waiting for his key in the lock. It was a deep, dreamless sleep, and when I woke, the morning light filtering through the blinds felt like a promise.

The sound of clattering from the kitchen stirred me from my newfound peace. My heart gave a familiar, reflexive lurch before I remembered. It didn' t matter anymore.

I found him standing over the stove, reheating the Thanksgiving leftovers I had packed away in the fridge. The scent of turkey and gravy filled the air, a mockery of the holiday we' d missed.

"Morning," he said, not looking at me. He scooped a pile of mashed potatoes onto a plate. "I figured we could have our Thanksgiving today. Make up for yesterday."

He took a bite of the turkey, his eyes closing in exaggerated appreciation. "Wow, Haven. You really outdid yourself. This is amazing."

I watched him, a strange sense of detachment settling over me. He was trying. In his own clumsy, self-centered way, this was his attempt at an apology. In the past, this small gesture would have been enough to make me melt, to forgive him for whatever slight he' d committed. I would have seen the effort, not the inadequacy.

But now, all I saw was the performance.

"We don' t need to make up for anything, Ewing," I said, my voice even. "It' s over."

His fork clattered against the plate. He finally turned to look at me, a deep frown creasing his brow. "Haven, stop it. This isn' t funny."

He wiped his hands on a napkin and walked over to the counter, picking up a small white box tied with a red ribbon. He pushed it towards me. "Here. I got you something."

I didn' t move.

"It' s that cheesecake you like," he said, his voice taking on a strained, impatient edge. "From the bakery downtown."

A sharp, painful pulse went through me. He thought I liked cheesecake. Bree liked cheesecake. I was allergic to dairy. After seven years, he still didn' t know that. Seven years of me politely declining dessert, of me picking cheese off my pizza, of me carefully reading labels at the grocery store. Seven years, and he hadn' t noticed.

The weight of those seven years suddenly felt unbearable. It was a waste. A long, drawn-out mistake built on a foundation of his fantasy and my delusion.

Ewing' s jaw tightened. The charming, easy-going mask was slipping, revealing the raw arrogance beneath. "Look, Haven, I' m trying here. I said I was sorry. Bree even told me I should come home and make it up to you. I' m giving you a chance to get over this. Don' t push it."

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure frustration. "Are we done with this little drama? I expect you to stop bringing up breaking up in the future."

My silence seemed to unnerve him more than any screaming match ever could. I just looked at him, really looked at him, and saw a stranger.

"I' m serious, Ewing," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "We. Are. Over."

Just then, his phone rang. A cheerful, upbeat pop song I' d never heard before. Bree' s ringtone. Of course.

His entire demeanor shifted. The irritation vanished, replaced by a gentle concern that made my stomach churn. "Hey," he said into the phone, his voice soft. "What' s wrong?"

A pause.

"Your car won' t start? Okay, don' t worry. I' ll be right there."

He hung up and grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, his face once again a cold, dismissive mask. He didn' t even look at me. "We' ll finish this conversation later," he said, his voice clipped and final.

And then he was gone.

I didn' t watch him go. I didn' t feel the familiar pang of being left behind. I just felt... nothing. The emotional tether that had bound me to him for so long had finally snapped.

I spent the rest of the holiday weekend at my office, methodically sorting through my project files and packing up my personal belongings. On Monday, I would submit my resignation. I would leave Denver and never look back.

That evening, feeling a strange mix of liberation and emptiness, I decided to do something for myself. There was a new, trendy restaurant downtown that I had been wanting to try for months. I' d asked Ewing to take me there for my birthday, but he' d said it was too expensive, too pretentious. We' d ended up at our usual burger joint instead.

Tonight, I was going alone.

The restaurant was buzzing with life, the air filled with the sounds of clinking glasses and happy chatter. I found a small table in the corner and ordered everything on the menu that had appealed to me, things Ewing would have scoffed at.

And then I saw them.

They were sitting at a cozy booth by the window, so close their shoulders were touching. The table was laden with food-all of Bree' s favorites, I noted with a detached bitterness. I had spent years catering to Ewing' s bland palate, and here he was, happily eating spicy Thai food because it was what she wanted.

Bree picked up a spring roll, took a small bite, and then, with a playful smile, held it up to Ewing' s lips. He leaned in and took a bite, his cheeks flushing a faint pink.

It was a small, intimate gesture, but it hit me with the force of a physical blow. Ewing was never shy. He was confident, sometimes to the point of arrogance. But in that moment, with Bree, he looked... bashful. It was a side of him I had never seen, reserved only for the person he was genuinely, deeply infatuated with.

He said something to her, his expression a mixture of nervousness and hope. I couldn' t hear the words, but I knew what he was asking. He wanted to take a picture. A picture he could keep, a tangible memory of this perfect moment with his dream girl.

Bree laughed and playfully pushed his shoulder. Then, her eyes flickered across the room and landed directly on me.