A tear leaks out of the corner of my eye as the full weight of the loss of her hits me again, as it has so many times over the years. It mingles with the wetness on her hair.

“You sound like my therapist,” she grumbles, tearing me away from the memory.

“I sound like you.”

Her body stiffens ever so slightly under me. “Ryan—”

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, then shake my head as I backtrack. “No. I’m not, actually. I won’t pretend that I haven’t missed you, Scarlett. I can keep this professional, but I won’t lie. I loved you, and I won’t wish that time of my life away. Not for anything.”

She’s quiet for a moment, which is about as long as it takes me to replay everything that happened in the last ten minutes and decide that the best course of action is to curl up in a hole and never come back out.

“This is…keeping it professional?”

I can’t see her face, but I can hear the smile in her voice. The relief that washes over me is intense. This is the Scarlett I know: teasing, irreverent, sarcastic. I can work with this.

“I go above and beyond for my writers, Scarlett. I am often their editor, confidant, and meal-delivery service.”

“Do you bathe them, too?”

Chuckling deeply, I plant another kiss on her head, hoping it’s an innocent enough gesture. “That one’s special for you.”

She pushes off of me and scoots about an inch away. Immediately, my body leans toward her until my brain rudely reminds it who we are now and what we’re doing here. As she rolls her shoulders, her robe slips down to expose the smooth expanse of her skin, and I have to ball my hands into fists at my sides as a reminder that her skin is not mine to touch anymore.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from taking meals to your other writers.” The way she ends the sentence, it seems like she’s going to continue, but she doesn’t.

“I can stay,” I whisper, afraid that if I speak any louder, it’ll startle her into remembering she didn’t want me around to begin with.

Her blue eyes are rimmed with red, and her nose looks like she could guide Santa’s sleigh through the darkness, but her expression is something akin to hope.

“It’s okay.” She clears her throat. “I wouldn’t want your other writers thinking you’re giving me preferential treatment.”

“My other writers haven’t been around as long as you. It’s a seniority thing.”

Snorting, she turns her eyes to the ceiling and presses her left thumb into the palm of her right hand, making soothing circles as she thinks.