I walked Milo to school myself the next morning.

He kept glancing up at me the whole way, like I might vanish between one crosswalk and the next.

"You don't have to come in," he said at the gate. "Other moms just drop off."

"Then I'll just drop off."

He hesitated. Then he squeezed my hand once, fast, and ran inside.

...

Julian knocked at ten.

I opened the door, and for a second my brain refused him.

The Julian I remembered was twenty-four. Paint on his jeans. Hair too long. A grin that looked like trouble.

This man was broad through the shoulders, clean-shaven, in a navy coat that fit like it had been built on him. There was gray at his temples. Lines near his eyes.

"Hey, Ellery."

Nobody had called me that in fifteen years. I knew it the way you know a song from childhood.

"You got old," I said.

He laughed. Same laugh. Low, then breaking upward at the end. "You didn't. That's rude, by the way."

He stepped inside, set a paper bag on the table, and tucked a pen behind his ear without thinking. My throat tightened.

"You still do that."

"Do what?"

I tapped my own ear.

He reached up, found the pen, and smiled at it like it had betrayed him. "Some things stick."

We sat. He didn't crowd me. He just watched, patient, the way he used to watch a sketch before he touched it.

"Tell me the worst part first," I said.

He blinked. "That's my line."

"I know. I stole it."

His jaw worked. "The worst part is you stopped calling. Year two. I sent letters. You sent one back. It said you were happy and I should stop."

"Was I happy?"

"You tell me."

I opened my mouth. The room tilted.

Black spots bloomed across my vision. My knees went soft as wet paper.

"Maren—"

I pitched forward. His arms caught me before the floor did, solid and warm, and my face pressed into his chest. He smelled like cedar and cold air.

"Did you eat?" His voice was sharp now. "Maren. Did you eat today?"

"Coffee."

"Coffee isn't food." He half-carried me toward the sofa. "You have a concussion and you skipped—"

His heel caught the rug.

We went down together. He hit the cushions on his back. I landed on top of him, my hands flat on his chest, and his lips grazed my forehead.

Neither of us moved.

His heart was hammering under my palm. Fast. Faster than mine.

Then I scrambled sideways, and he sat up so quickly he nearly knocked the lamp over.

"Sorry," I said.

"Don't." He dragged a hand down his face. He grabbed the paper bag, pulled out a croissant, and shoved it at me. "Eat. Please."

I took a bite. He watched me chew like his life depended on it.

"Julian."

"Yeah."

"What was that?"

He stared at the carpet for a long moment.

"When you get close to me," he said quietly, "it's hard to act like just a friend."

I didn't answer. I just kept eating, because my hands needed something to do.

...

That afternoon, he drove me to pick up Milo.

My son came out the gate and stopped dead at the sight of a stranger.

"Milo, this is Julian. An old friend."

Julian crouched to his level. "Your mom says you like space."

Milo's eyes narrowed. "Maybe."

"Did you know there's a planet where it rains glass? Sideways. At five thousand miles an hour."

Milo's mouth fell open. "No way."

"HD 189733b. Look it up."

"That's not even a real name."

"It's a terrible name. Scientists are bad at naming things."

Milo laughed. A real, loud, little-boy laugh. I hadn't heard it once since I'd woken up.

Then a black sedan pulled to the curb.

Grant got out. He looked at me. At Milo, leaning against Julian's knee. At Julian.

His face went white, then dark red.

"Who the hell is this?"

"A friend," I said.

"A friend." He walked toward us, slow. "You walk out of the hospital, you ignore my texts, and the next day you're playing house outside my son's school?"

"Our son."

"Who is he, Maren?"

Julian rose to his feet. "Julian Hawthorne. We went to school together."

"I didn't ask you." Grant planted a hand on Julian's chest and shoved.

I moved before I decided to. I stepped between them, my back to Julian.

"Don't touch him."

Grant stared at me like I'd slapped him. "You're protecting him? From me?"

"Yes."

His fist came over my shoulder.

It cracked against Julian's cheekbone. Julian's head snapped to the side. A mother nearby screamed. Milo grabbed my coat with both hands.

Julian didn't swing back. He touched his face, looked at the blood on his fingers, and then looked at me.

His voice came out soft. Almost kind.

"Don't blame him, Maren. My face can take a hit. It's fine."

Grant's chest was heaving. "Get away from my family."

I turned to face him fully. Parents had stopped on the sidewalk. Phones were out.

"Touch him again," I said, loud enough for all of them, "and I'm calling the police."

Grant froze.

I could see it hit him. The way his hand dropped. The way his eyes searched my face for the woman who used to apologize for his temper. Who used to smooth his collar and say it's okay, you're stressed.

He couldn't find her.

"Maren," he said, and his voice cracked on it.

I took Milo's hand and walked to Julian's car without looking back.

...

At the hotel, Milo bounced on the bed. He talked nonstop. Glass rain. Black holes. Whether Julian knew how many moons Jupiter had.

I pressed ice into a towel and watched him.

"You're really happy today."

"Yeah."

"Why, baby?"

He stopped bouncing. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and picked at the blanket.

"Because it's the first time," he said, "I felt like I was more important to you than Dad."

The towel slipped from my hand.

I crossed the room and pulled him into my lap, too big for it now, all elbows and knees. He went stiff, then melted.

"Listen to me," I whispered into his hair. "You will never have to compete for me again. Not with him. Not with anyone. Do you hear me?"

His voice was muffled against my shoulder. "Promise?"

"I promise."

...

He fell asleep at nine.

At ten, my phone lit up. Unknown number.

A photo. Grant in a dim apartment, sleeves rolled, holding a bowl of soup to a woman's lips. Dark hair. A delicate wrist.

Another photo. Grant asleep in a chair beside her bed.

Then a message.

He came straight to me after the school thing. He said you've gone crazy. Don't worry, Maren. I'll take good care of him. I always have.

—Dahlia

My stomach rolled. I tasted the croissant again, sour at the back of my throat.

I didn't type a word back. I blocked the number and set the phone down like it was dirty.

Then I picked it up again and called Tessa.

She answered on the first ring. "Are you okay? I saw a video. Someone posted it. Grant punched a guy?"

"Tessa."

"Maren, talk to me."

I looked at my son, curled on the bed, one hand still reaching toward my empty pillow.

"I've decided," I said. "I'm getting a divorce."

I needed my passport. My birth certificate. Anything with my real name on it.

So the next morning, I went back to the house I didn't remember.

Julian parked in the driveway and stared up at it. White stone. Black shutters. Not a single toy on the lawn.

"You okay?"

"It looks like a bank," I said.

"It looks like Grant." He killed the engine. "Want me to wait here?"

"No. Come in with me."

...

Tessa was already on the porch with Milo, holding two coffees and a bag of donuts.

"Reinforcements," she said, shoving a cup at me. Then she saw Julian.

Her eyebrows shot up. Her eyes slid from him to me, then back to him.

"Well," she said. "Hello, Julian Hawthorne."

"Hey, Tess."

"You look like someone punched you."

"Someone did."

She hummed. She watched me unlock the door, watched Julian's hand hover at the small of my back without touching. Her mouth curled.

Inside, Milo stuck close to my hip while I dug through the study. The safe code was my wedding date. Of course it was.

Tessa leaned in the doorway. "Hey, buddy. Want to hit the trampoline park? Unlimited jumping. I'll buy you a slushie the size of your head."

Milo looked up at me. "Can I?"

"Go. Have fun."

He grinned and ran for his shoes.

Tessa pulled a small pink gift bag out of her purse and pressed it into my hands.

"What's this?"

"Stress relief." She winked. "You've earned it. Open it when you're alone. Or not alone." She tipped her head toward the hall, where Julian was pretending to study a painting. "Two hours, Maren. Use them."

The door shut behind them.

...

Julian wandered back in. "What'd she give you?"

"No idea." I pulled out the tissue paper. A sleek white box. I flipped the lid.

A small pink egg sat in velvet. Beside it, a remote.

My face caught fire. I slammed the lid down and shoved the box behind my back.

"Nothing. It's lotion."

"Lotion." His mouth twitched. "With a remote."

"Julian."

He reached around me, slipped the box out of my fingers, and lifted the remote. He turned it over like he was checking blueprints.

Then he met my eyes.

"Do you need me to help you with this?"

I stopped breathing. "That's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

The room shrank. He set the box on the desk and didn't step closer. He just looked at me, serious now, the grin gone.

"I left New York because I thought you'd chosen him. I told myself I was over it." His voice dropped. "When your wedding invitation came, I didn't open it. It sat in a drawer for six years. I never read it."

"Six years?"

"I threw it out when I moved. Still didn't open it." He laughed, rough. "I never got over you, Ellery. Not once."

My hands were shaking. I pressed them against the desk.

"For me," I whispered, "it's still that year. I'm still waiting on that roof for you to say it."

His throat moved.

"I still like you," I said. "That part didn't go anywhere."

He closed the distance in two steps and kissed me.

It wasn't gentle. It was fifteen years of waiting crashing into my mouth. His hand slid into my hair. I grabbed his coat and pulled him down harder.

"Tell me to stop," he said against my lips.

"Don't you dare."

He lifted me onto the edge of the desk. Papers slid to the floor. He tugged my jeans open, worked them down my hips, and left my underwear on.

Then I heard the click.

A low buzz filled the room. He pressed the little egg against me through the cotton, right over my clit.

My whole body jerked. "Oh, fuck. Julian."

"Too much?"

"No. God, no."

He rolled it in slow circles. My thighs clamped around his waist. The buzz climbed up my spine, hot and sharp, and I dug my nails into his shoulders.

"Look at you," he murmured into my ear. "You're soaked, Maren. I can feel it through your panties."

"Shut up."

"No." He hooked a finger under the cotton and pulled it aside. Now the egg pressed straight against my bare clit, slick and buzzing. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.

"Fuck, Julian, right there—"

"Right there?" He thumbed the remote. The buzz doubled. "You used to sit next to me in studio and I'd think about this. Touching you until you forgot your own name."

"I already forgot it."

He laughed, hot against my neck. "Then I'll teach you a new one. Say mine."

"Julian."

"Again."

"Julian—"

My hips were moving against his hand now. I was dripping onto the desk. My stomach drew tight, tighter, every nerve wound up at the spot where that egg kept circling.

Then the front door slammed.

"Maren?"

Grant.

I froze. Ice poured through me.

"Maren! I know you're here. Your car's in the drive."

Footsteps. Heavy. Coming down the hall.

"Julian," I hissed, shoving at his chest. "Stop. He's—"

He didn't stop.

He looked toward the door. Something hard flashed through his eyes. Then he looked back at me, and he smiled.

He slid the slick egg down, lower, and pushed it inside me.

It filled me in one smooth, buzzing push. My pussy clenched around it on instinct, and the vibration hit somewhere deep, somewhere I'd never been touched.

A moan tore out of me. Loud. Raw. Impossible to swallow back.

The footsteps in the hall stopped dead.

"Maren?" Grant's voice was right outside the study door. "Who's in there with you?"

The doorknob began to turn.