Chapter Ninety-Three: The Quiet Ache
410 Words
-----Axton’s POV-----
The house was too damn quiet.
Not even the low hum of the dishwasher or the click of a light flickering in another room. Just silence.
Axton stepped inside and locked the door behind him. The weight of it echoed like a warning.
He stood in the dark foyer, keys still in hand, staring at the space that had been transformed—he had transformed it. Room by room. With the crew. For Helen. For the girls. For the life he wasn’t living.
He dropped the keys in the bowl on the entryway table and walked toward the back of the house. The open floor plan looked untouched. Too clean. Too empty.
The girls’ room still had the tents set up. Fairy lights twinkled along the wall, casting soft glows on the floor.
He didn’t go in.
Not yet.
He moved to the nursery. Slowly.
This room he opened.
And walked into like it had gravity.
The rocker sat in the corner, beside the dresser and the crib.
He lowered himself into it.
Leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped tight.
The silence in here was different.
It wasn’t empty.
It was waiting.
He thought of Price.
Of the ride home. The advice.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” Price had said. “Just be present.”
That had stuck with him. But presence without action felt like slow death.
He wanted Helen.
He wanted the girls.
He wanted their laughter echoing through the hall. Little shoes in a pile by the door. Helen’s scent on his sheets. Her breath on his neck. Her trust, rebuilding one shattered piece at a time.
He closed his eyes.
He could see her—walking through the house, hand grazing the wall like she was afraid to believe it was real.
He could hear Lily’s giggle. Emma asking if they could sleep in the tents again.
He needed them here.
And the distance? The distance was killing him.
It scraped at his worst instincts. Made his hands twitch to grab the phone. Made his mind spiral into surveillance mode.
But he didn’t.
He wanted her to come home because she wanted to.
He took a long, steady breath.
Then another.
This was the beginning of his plan.
It wouldn’t be fast.
Wouldn’t be aggressive.
Not with her.
He’d give her space.
He’d give her time.
But he’d never stop reminding her this was where she belonged.
With him.
Always.
- Writer
