He went quiet.

I pushed past him and walked into the bedroom to pack. He trailed behind me like a child who knew he'd done something wrong.

"I know I messed up. I really do. You can hit me, yell at me, anything. Just don't leave, okay?"

I ignored him.

"I cut things off with her. I mean it. She quit yesterday. We'll never talk again. Will you come back? Please?"

I zipped the last piece of clothing into my suitcase, pulled it upright, and turned to face him.

"Clay, do you know what I was thinking on that operating table?"

He stared at me.

"I was thinking that if I died right there, that would be fine. Nobody was waiting for me anyway."

His eyes went red.

"Don't cry." I grabbed the handle of my suitcase. "You don't deserve those tears."

What happened after that, I heard from other people.

After Juliana quit, she moved to another company. Clay went after her, waited outside her new office building, and got chased off by security.

He took an extended leave. Drank every day. Made a major mistake at work and got demoted.

A friend told me that when he was drunk, he'd mumble my name over and over, calling himself a bastard, saying he deserved it.

I listened. Felt nothing.

Not hatred. Just nothing.

That light on the operating table had been so bright, it burned something out of me.

It was June now.

I'd started a new job, far from that apartment. My new coworkers didn't know my past. All they knew was that I was single and didn't like talking about relationships.

Yesterday a guy from the department next door added me on social media, said he wanted to get to know me.

I accepted. Didn't really chat.

It wasn't that I didn't want to start over. I just wasn't in a rush.

I had to let the scar heal first.

Clay texted again yesterday. A long message. I deleted it before I finished reading.

He asked if we could meet one more time. Said he was sorry.

There was nothing to be sorry for.

I was the one who spent five years before I finally saw him for what he was.

Oh, right. I forgot to mention.

The blood on the operating table that day. There was a lot of it. The doctor said if I'd come in half an hour later, it could have been life-threatening.

Clay didn't know any of that.

He didn't need to.

The day I moved into the new apartment, I threw away that strand of hair.

It had been tucked inside my journal for almost six months. By the time I pulled it out, it had turned yellow.

I held it up to the light by the window, then opened my fingers and watched it drift into the trash can.

Like closing a chapter for good.

The new place was small, barely four hundred square feet, but the windows faced south.

In the afternoon, sunlight poured in and pooled on the floor. I stood there watching that patch of light for a long time.

My phone rang.

Mom.

"Lydia, honey, Chloe Chavez's daughter told me you moved?"

"Yeah."

"What's going on with Clay? Aren't you two engaged?"

I leaned against the windowsill. The sun warmed my back.

"We broke up."

"Broke up? Why? You've been together five years. You bought a place together—"

"Mom." I cut her off. "He was seeing someone else."

Silence on the other end. A few seconds.

"That son of a bitch." My mother's voice changed completely. "You sit tight. I'm coming to Graystone City tomorrow. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."

I almost laughed.

The first time Clay came to the house, my mom had held his hand and said, "What a good boy. I'm trusting you with my Lydia." Now he was a son of a bitch.

"You don't have to, Mom. I'm fine."

"Fine? You lost a baby and that's fine?"

I froze.

How did she know?

"Chloe Chavez's daughter is a nurse at that hospital. She told me. Lydia, something that serious and you didn't tell your family?"

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"That's enough. Don't worry about it. I'll be there tomorrow."

The call ended.

I stood by the window, staring at the sky outside. My eyes stung without warning.

It wasn't self-pity. It was the feeling of someone having my back. I'd gone so long without it.

When my mom arrived, she brought six homemade buns, a jar of hot sauce, and my dad's savings.

She slapped the savings down on the table. "Take this. Find a better apartment. This place is too small to breathe in."

"Mom, I have money."

"Your money is your business. This is my heart." She sat on the edge of my bed, glanced around the room, and sighed. "You've lost weight."

I didn't say anything.

"Has he come looking for you?"

"Yeah."

"What'd you say?"

"Didn't see him."

She nodded. "Good. A man like that isn't worth the air he breathes."

I looked at the gray streaks in her hair and suddenly remembered being a kid, coming home after getting bullied. She'd said the exact same thing then. Don't bother with them. They're not worth our time.

That night, she slept in my three-foot-wide bed. We were packed in so tight neither of us could roll over, but she slept like a rock. I lay there listening to her breathing and didn't sleep at all.

Somewhere around dawn, things became clear.

For my mom's sake, if nothing else, I had to keep going.

At the end of July, I switched jobs.

Clay knew the address of my old company. He'd show up downstairs every few days, just lingering. I didn't want to see him, so I quit.

The new company was on the east side of the city, a digital media startup. The pay was two thousand less a month, but the team was young and the energy was good.

On my first day, HR walked me around the office. When we passed the tech department, a guy looked up and glanced at me.

"This is Lydia Fox, new hire in content operations."

"Hey." He nodded, then dropped his gaze back to his screen.

I didn't think much of it and kept following HR down the hall.

I found out later his name was Valentine James. Tech department team lead. Two years older than me.

Not bad-looking. Quiet. But when he looked at you, his eyes were bright.

Mid-August, the company organized a team dinner.

I didn't want to go, but my manager said new hires needed to show face at these things and practically dragged me there.

A whole table of people, loud and rowdy. I sat in the corner, head down, picking at my food.

"Let me guess. You got dragged here too?"

I looked up. Valentine sat down beside me, a bottle of Coke in his hand.

"You too?"

"I'm not big on crowds." He poured me a glass. "But they said if the team lead doesn't show, nobody relaxes."

I smiled a little.

That night, he talked to me for a long time. He told me he was from a small town in the Midwest, had been in Graystone City for five years, spent three of those years coding before getting promoted to team lead last year. He told me he had a cat named Deuce, because of the two stripes on its tail.

He told me he wasn't great with people, which was why he was still single.

When he said that last part, he was looking right at me.

I dropped my gaze and pretended I didn't catch his meaning.

In September, the company landed a big project. Overtime became the norm.

One night past ten, I was the last one out. The elevator doors opened, and Valentine was inside.

"This late?" he asked.

"You're here this late too."

He smiled. "I live upstairs. Whether I'm working overtime or not, I leave around this time anyway."

The elevator descended. Floor by floor, neither of us spoke.

When we reached the lobby, I stepped out. He followed.

"Hey," he called after me. "Where do you live?"

I gave him the general area.

"That's pretty far. The subway's done running by now. How are you getting home?"

"I'll grab a cab."

He checked his phone. "Cabs are hard to get this late. Want me to give you a ride?"

"I'm fine."

"I'm not a creep." He smiled. "It's on my way. I'm just two stops past your place."

I hesitated.

"Come on," he said, already walking toward the parking lot. "It's late. Safety first."

That night, he drove me to the entrance of my apartment complex. He didn't ask for my number, didn't send me a friend request on social media. He just said, "See you tomorrow," and drove off.

I watched his taillights disappear around the corner. I stood there for a moment, then turned and went upstairs.

In early October, he added me on social media.

He'd found me through the work group chat. His display name just read "Valentine James."

I accepted.

His first message: "That night I drove you home—I didn't freak you out, did I?"

"No."

"Good. If you're ever working late, just let me know. I'm usually around."

I replied with a simple "Okay" and left it at that.

After that, whenever I stayed late, he'd occasionally text: "You done yet? I'm downstairs."

At first I turned him down. Then it became routine.

His car always smelled faintly of lemon, and he played music from bands I'd never heard of. We barely talked on the drive. When we arrived, he'd say, "Get some sleep," and pull away.

One night, before I got out, I asked him, "Why do you keep driving me home?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "It's on my way."

I looked at him.

His ears went red.

"Okay," he said, ducking his head. "It's not entirely on my way."

I didn't say anything. I got out of the car.

A few steps later, he called after me. "Lydia!"

I turned around.

"Can I... take you out? Like, pursue you?"

Under the streetlight, he stood beside his car, watching me with a nervous look on his face.

I thought about it. "My last relationship messed me up pretty badly."

"I know."

"You know?"

"The whole office talks about it. They say your ex was a real piece of work."

I stared at him for a second, then laughed.

"And you still want to try?"

He looked at me, dead serious. "That just means you had bad taste. But you don't have to pick anymore. I'll do the picking for you."

That night, I lay in bed and thought for a long time.

Not about him. About myself.

Did I still have it in me to try again?

In early November, I said yes.

Not because of anything he said. It was because of something he did.

It was my birthday. I hadn't told a soul. After work, I walked home alone and stopped at the convenience store downstairs for a cup of instant noodles.

When I got to my floor, Valentine was standing outside my door, holding a cake.

"How do you know where I live?"

"You let it slip once."

I unlocked the door. He followed me inside, glanced around. "It's small, but you keep it nice."

He set the cake on the table and lit a candle.

"Make a wish?"

I stared at that single flame, and my mind drifted to my last birthday. I'd spent it with Clay. He bought me flowers that day and told me I was the only woman he'd ever love.

When those flowers wilted, I threw them out.

"Lydia?"

I snapped back and blew out the candle.

"What'd you wish for?"

"Can't tell you."

He smiled and pulled a small box from his pocket. "Here. Birthday present."

Inside was a bracelet with a tiny pendant engraved with the word Peace.

"I hope from here on out, everything is peaceful for you."

I looked up at him.

He didn't look away. He just held my gaze, his eyes bright and steady.

"Valentine."

"Yeah?"

"Did you know I had a miscarriage?"

He went still for a moment.

"Yeah."

"And you're still here?"

He was quiet for a beat. Then he said, "That's a debt he owes you. It's not something you owe me."

I lowered my eyes to the bracelet in my hands.

"Lydia, I don't care what your past looks like. What I care about is whether you'll let me be part of what comes next."

Wind rattled softly against the windowpane.

I fastened the bracelet around my wrist and looked up at him.

"Yes."