ADRIAN

My phone vibrates across the desk, the screen flaring to life with an unknown number. The buzzing grates on my nerves, echoing in the dead silence of my office.

I stare at it, debating whether to let it ring out.

But it doesn't stop.

I answer.

"Adrian," a voice slithers through the speaker, slick and deliberate.

My entire body stiffens. I know that voice. The cadence of it, the way it stretches out my name like a predator savoring the taste of its prey.

"Long time no see," he drawls.

My fingers tighten around the phone. "Daniel."

Daniel Bishop. The human parasite. My ex-college roommate and the opportunistic bastard who spent the better half of our marriage circling Rylee like a buzzard. Always ready to swoop in when things got bad — lurking, waiting, hoping I'd crash and burn.

Looks like he finally got what he wanted.

"You sound tired," he hums, feigning concern. "Rough night?"

I drag a hand down my face, swallowing the sharp sting of exhaustion. "What do you want?"

"I heard about the divorce," he says, voice dripping with something close to satisfaction. "Must be tough. You know... letting her go."

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. "If you're hoping to pick at the scraps, don't waste your breath. Rylee doesn't want you. She never did."

His chuckle crawls through the phone like nails on glass.

"She used to call me," he reminds me, voice low and calculated. "When you two fought. She'd come over, sit on my couch, cry into my shoulder... I was always there for her, Adrian."

I smile bitterly. "I should've sent you a gift basket."

Daniel lets out an exasperated sigh, like he's talking to a child. "It's sad, really. How hard you worked to keep her, just to lose her anyway."

My jaw ticks. I should hang up. Shut this down and go to bed.

But I don't.

I let the silence linger, let him grasp at the empty air, let him know I'm not playing his game.

Eventually, he breaks.

"Six months, huh?" he mutters. "The court-ordered counseling. You really think that's gonna fix anything?"

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. "I don't need to fix anything with you, Daniel. You're a footnote."

I hang up, tossing the phone onto the desk like it burns.

The silence swells, heavy and suffocating. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to scrub away the ache in my skull.

Six months of mandatory counseling. Six months of pretending. Six months of sharing a house with a woman who can't stand to look at me anymore.

I shut my eyes and let the exhaustion drag me under.

I don't dream.

Saturday Morning

I wake to the sound of dishes clattering.

The sun spills through the blinds, harsh and unforgiving. My body aches from sleeping on the office couch, my neck screaming in protest when I sit up.

The faint smell of burnt toast lingers in the air.

I drag myself to the living room, my T-shirt wrinkled, hair a mess. The TV hums in the background, playing a mindless sitcom no one's watching.

And there she is.

Rylee.

She stands in the kitchen, jabbing at the smoke detector with a broom handle. Her hair is piled in a lazy bun, strands falling loose around her face. She wears one of my old hoodies — the same one she used to steal when we were happy.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Setting the kitchen on fire again?"

She startles, the broom clattering to the floor.

"For god's sake, Adrian," she snaps, pressing a hand to her chest. "You can't just lurk like that."

I step into the kitchen, glancing at the blackened toast in the sink. "You know you're allowed to use the toaster without committing arson, right?"

Her glare could cut glass. "I'm two seconds from stabbing you with a butter knife."

"Sounds about right."

I grab a glass, filling it with water. Rylee turns her back to me, rummaging through the cabinets with unnecessary force.

We haven't spoken much since the last counseling session. Just enough to function. Barely enough to breathe.

"Daniel called last night," I say, taking a sip of water.

She freezes. Just for a second.

Then she slams the cabinet shut. "What did he want?"

"To gloat." I watch her carefully, searching for any crack in her armor. "You should tell your lapdog to stay on his leash."

She turns to face me, arms crossed over her chest. "I haven't talked to Daniel in months."

"Good." I place the glass in the sink with a little too much force. "I'm not in the mood to bury a body today."

Her mouth twitches — almost like she wants to laugh. But the tension is too thick, the weight of everything we've left unsaid pressing down on us like a vice.

I lean against the counter, watching her. "Why didn't you tell me he used to call you?"

She looks away. "Because you didn't care."

The words punch me straight in the gut.

I open my mouth to argue, but she beats me to it.

"For years, I begged you to make time for us," she says, voice sharp and brittle. "I begged you to come home early, to take a break, to notice me. And you never did. So yeah, I talked to Daniel. Because at least he listened."

I feel the anger coil in my chest, hot and volatile. "Daniel listened because he wanted to sleep with you."

Her laugh is hollow. "Maybe I should've let him."

The room snaps like a live wire.

I step closer, closing the distance between us, my chest heaving with the force of everything I can't say.

"Say that again," I dare, voice low.

She lifts her chin, eyes blazing. "Maybe I should've —"

I grab her wrist, yanking her against me. She gasps, her breath hot against my throat.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Her pulse races beneath my fingers, and I hate how familiar it feels.

I let go, stepping back like I've been burned.

She stays frozen, staring at me with wide, wild eyes.

I rake a hand through my hair, chest heaving. "We're a goddamn train wreck."

Her shoulders drop, exhaustion lining her face. "Yeah," she whispers. "We are."

We stand there in the wreckage, surrounded by the ashes of everything we used to be.

Neither of us knows how to put out the fire.

Or if we even want to.