Rose's POV
I still do not understand why Maxwell suddenly wants to do things with me. For months our marriage has felt dry, hollow, like a desert where no matter how much water you pour, nothing grows. We talk, but only on the surface. We touch, but without warmth. We live together, yet I feel alone.
And now, out of nowhere, he wants to spend time with me… to show up, to plan things, to care.
A part of me wants to believe it, to hope that maybe the old Maxwell is returning. But another part of me is tired. Expecting hurts. Hoping hurts more.
I love him, yes. I always have. But lately, the light in my life has been coming from somewhere else from someone else. From Mickey. Not in a reckless, destructive way, or at least that is what I keep trying to tell myself. It feels harmless,a quiet crush on a younger man who makes me feel seen when I have been invisible for so long.
He is the reason pottery has become more than just a hobby. He is the reason charity Saturdays feel alive. Everything around him feels warm and easy. And even though I know nothing can ever happen, I cannot ignore how much I look forward to seeing him.
Right now we are in a small-town market in Vermont. Mickey insisted we make this trip because he said we couldn't get this things at the prices anywhere else.
And now, watching him move from stall to stall, I understand why. He is playful and confident, but focused, sharp.
He picks up a set of carving tools from a sunlit table.
"$40 for this?" Mickey says, holding one up. "Really? I think the wood is worth about… half that."
The vendor, a woman in her fifties with a wide sunhat, laughs. "Half? Are you trying to rob me, kid?"
"Not rob," he says with a grin. "Just trying to be a smart shopper. $25, and I throw in my charm for free."
"Ha! That's not how it works," she says, tapping the table. "You're lucky I like your face."
"Alright, $30," Mickey counters. "And I'll make sure everyone I know comes here next week. Free promotion."
She shakes her head, still smiling. "Fine. $30, and only because I think you might actually enjoy coming back to negotiate."
Mickey turns to me with a triumphant smile. "See? Easy."
"You're ridiculous," I say, shaking my head.
"And you love it," he replies.
At the next stall, he haggles for a pack of clay blocks. "Come on, twenty-five for three pounds? That's highway robbery," he says.
The vendor laughs. "Highway robbery, huh? You want me to throw in a free bag too?"
"Now you're talking my language," he says, grinning. "I'll take it."
I can't help but smile. Watching him, I feel lighter, as though some of my worries have lifted into the crisp Vermont air.
After another twenty minutes, we loaded everything into the car and began the drive back to the studio. The sun is low, painting the rolling hills gold. The wind slips through the open windows, cool and clean.
Then somehow, maybe because the day has been too honest, we begin talking about childhood.
"My father was a deadbeat," I said quietly. "But my stepdad was worse. He was… violent. Only to me. Never to my mom or my stepsisters. I do not know why. Maybe I looked too much like my father. Maybe he just needed someone to break."
Mickey turns to look at me, the softness in his eyes almost painful.
"And your mom?"
"She let it happen," I whisper. "She said I should behave more, be quieter, be less… me."
"That is… horrible," he murmurs.
I swallow. "My grandma saved me. She was my escape, my protector, my reminder that I deserved gentleness. I do not know who I would be without her."
He nods slowly. "I get that. I had my grandfather. My dad was abusive to my mom and me. One day she ran away. Never came back. After that, all his anger was for me."
I feel a sting in my chest.
"He died suddenly," Mickey continues. "Heart attack. One moment he was yelling, the next moment he was gone. I was twelve."
He pauses, jaw tightening.
"I went to live with my grandpa. I thought he would be like my father. But he was… everything my father wasn't. Patient. Kind. My safe space. He never raised his hand to me. Even when I misbehaved, he taught, he guided. He loved me without losing his temper."
His voice softens, heavy with memory.
"He got sick. Stage four lung cancer. Fast. Brutal. After he died, I was sent to a home. I was fifteen, angry, lost. But I found a way out. And I promised myself that no child under my watch would ever feel that alone again."
I stare at him. The road is quiet, but I feel the shaking inside his voice.
"That is why I love the kids at the orphanage," he says. "I know exactly what it feels like to be them."
Without thinking, I reach out and hug him. He holds me back, slow and careful, like he is afraid to break something fragile.
The moment stretches, warm and strangely comforting.
When we arrive at the studio, neither of us moves. The air in the car is thick, charged. He turns to me, his eyes dark with something I do not want to name.
Slowly, he leans in.
His hand slides behind my neck, thumb brushing my skin. My breath catches. His lips meet mine softly at first, then deeper, warmer, hungrier. Tongues meet, exploring, urgent yet slow. My hands grip his arms as his fingers curl into my hair. His other hand slides to my waist, pulling me close, pressing our bodies together.
The car feels too small, too hot, too intimate. His breath mingles with mine. My pulse races. I feel him shiver slightly, and a moan escapes my throat against his lips. Every nerve in my body is alive, burning.
For one terrifying, blissful moment, I let myself want it.
Then reality crashes back.
My body jerks away. Breath ragged, lips tingling, pulse wild.
"I...I can't," I whisper.
"Rose..." he begins, voice low and rough.
But I am already reaching for my bag with trembling hands. I push the door open. My legs feel weak.
"Rose," Mickey calls softly, but I shake my head.
I cannot look at him. I cannot let myself.
I stumble into my own car, shut the door, and speed away.
My hands shake on the wheel. My heart races. My lips still burn. My whole body feels like it is fighting itself.
What have I done?
And why, Gosh, did it feel so impossible to stop.