Chapter 7 Sep 12, 2025 Alex slept beside me that night, his breathing deep and untroubled-the sleep of someone who believed in redemption, in second chances that arrived like morning. I lay awake watching shadows shift across the ceiling, the weight of his arm across my waist a welcome anchor I had missed. Morning brought its routine: our run, separate showers, Emma's cheerful exit for her constitutional law seminar. Over breakfast Alex circled back to what mattered to him. "I know I destroyed something," he said, not quite meeting my eyes. "But Ruby, these weeks without you-I couldn't breathe properly. I'll do anything. Therapy, counseling, whatever you need." The sincerity in his voice made something in me soften, a muscle memory of caring that hadn't quite atrophied. Love never canceled itself neatly; it lingered in corners like morning light, stubborn and persistent. "We can try," I heard myself say, watching hope transform his face. "But trust isn't something you can just reinstall, Alex. It has to grow back." He pulled me close then, his hugs familiar as a childhood blanket. "I'll earn it. Every day, I'll earn it." The promise hung between us, delicate as blown glass. He proposed Saturday-an escape from the city's watching eyes. "There's this orchard upstate my mother used to take me to. Pear trees, a lake with rowboats. We could pack a picnic, pretend we're different people for a day." "People who don't have history?" "People who get to start over." His thumb traced my knuckles, a gesture so practiced I wondered if he even noticed doing it. I agreed, and Friday passed in a haze of normalcy-classes, coffee with Emma, the comfortable fiction that everything might return to what it was. Saturday morning arrived with his text at seven. Alex : Family emergency. Dad needs me at the office. I'll be at your place by evening, I promise. I told my father to go to hell and still couldn't get away-I'm sorry. Rain check? Me: Thank you for fighting. That matters to me. I stared at the message, feeling something curdle in my chest. Not disappointment exactly-something sharper, more familiar. The ease with which I'd been rescheduled, moved down his calendar like a meeting that could wait. The apartment felt too quiet. Emma was at the library. I tried to study, spreading materials across my bed in careful disarray, but the words blurred. Corporate governance, fiduciary duty, stakeholder theory-all of it meaningless against the growing resentment that sat beside me like an uninvited guest. 'This is what fresh starts look like,' I thought, highlighting a passage I'd already forgotten. 'Penciled in, erasable, dependent on other priorities.' By late afternoon, the anger had evolved into something else-a restless energy that demanded direction. I thought of Aiden the way one thinks of fire when cold. Dangerous, necessary, warming. I didn't touch my phone for a long time, until anger finally outran tenderness. Among my scattered textbooks, I arranged myself with calculated carelessness-bare legs crossed, shorts riding high and cheeky enough to show off the curve of my butt, tank top slipping off one shoulder. The selfie looked effortless, almost accidental. So I attached it to a message: Me : Spending Saturday with hostile takeover theory. The excitement is overwhelming. Please tell me you're suffering through something equally thrilling. His response arrived before doubt could settle. Aiden : Grading midterms. A special circle of hell Dante forgot to mention. Then, a photo that made my breath catch. Aiden in an armchair, book propped against his chest, sweatpants low on his hips. No shirt. The afternoon light turned his skin golden, shadows defining muscles I'd only imagined. The book's title was deliberately visible-'Predatory Acquisition Tactics'-but the message was in everything else. Me : Interesting reading material. Research or autobiography? Aiden : Both. I'm nothing if not self-aware. Me : The sweatpants suggest otherwise. Very unprofessional, Professor. Aiden : It's Saturday. Even predators have casual wear. Me : Do they? I imagined you slept in three-piece suits. Aiden : I don't sleep in anything. The words hung there, loaded with suggestion neither of us acknowledged directly. Me : That must make grading papers awkward. Aiden : I manage. Though your last essay did require... special attention. Me : Special how? Aiden : Let's just say I had to read it twice. Once for content, once for subtext. Me : There was no subtext. Aiden : Ruby, everything you write has subtext. Even your grocery lists probably flirt. The heat gathering under my skin had nowhere to go, no outlet except the phone in my hand and the dangerous game we played in carefully crafted messages. Me : You've never seen my grocery lists. Aiden : I'd like to. I bet you buy interesting things. Me : Strawberries. Champagne. Rope. Aiden : Rope? Me : For my macramé hobby. What did you think? Aiden : I think you're trying to kill me. Me : Occupational hazard of teaching graduate students. Aiden : You're not like the others. Me : Better or worse? Aiden : Infinitely more deadly. The doorbell cut through the moment. Alex stood in my doorway-tie loosened, hair a little wrecked, hands empty. "I know I ruined today," he said, "and I haven't eaten. Let me make it up to you-come out to dinner with me-" "I don't want to go anywhere." The words came out flat, tired. "We don't have to. We can stay in, watch something, just be together." I looked at him-this man I'd loved for five years, who knew my coffee order and my mother's birthday and the exact spot on my neck that made me shiver. He was trying so hard to be enough. "I don't want to talk about your day or your father or the family business." I pulled him inside, my hands already working at his tie. "I don't want to pretend everything's normal." "Ruby-" "I want you to stop talking." I pushed him against the closed door, felt his surprise shift into something else. "Can you do that? Can you just be here without the explanations and promises?" His hands found my waist, familiar as breathing. "If that's what you need." I led him to the bedroom, past my phone still warm with unfinished messages on the screen. Alex's touch was reverent, careful, asking permission with every gesture. But careful wasn't what I wanted anymore. I wanted collision, combustion, the kind of heat that left marks. I wanted what waited in those messages, dangerous and untested. Instead, I closed my eyes and let muscle memory take over, wondering if this was what settling felt like-comfortable and hollow, like an echo of something that once made sound.