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“But he was so…”

“Desperate? Men like Garrett are only desperate until consequences show up. Then they’re pragmatic.”

I stared at the ceiling, waiting for some kind of emotion to hit. Joy? Relief? Victory? Instead, once the anxiety was somewhat gone, I just felt empty. Seven years of my life signed away because he finally faced something scarier than losing me.

“Sam? You still there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“This is good news. You’re free. The papers will be processed within the week. Legally? He can’t touch you anymore.”

Can’t touch me. The redness from his grip had already faded, but I still felt his fingers on my wrist. Still heard that possessive ‘wife’ dripping from his mouth.

“Thanks, Rachel. For everything.”

“Celebrate tonight. You deserve it.”

I hung up and stayed on the floor. The tile was cold against my legs. Real. Solid. Everything else felt like it might float away if I moved too fast.

My thumb found Tyson’s number without conscious thought. He picked up on the second ring.

“Sam?” He sounded worried. “Everything okay?”

“He signed,” I blurted out.

Silence. Then: “Good.”

That was it. No questions, no platitudes, no ‘how do you feel about that?’ Just acknowledgment that this thing that needed to happen had happened.

“We’ll be there at eleven,” he continued. “But tell me and I’ll come earlier. You want me to go early? You want pancakes? Noa’s already asking if you’re coming to dinner.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yes to pancakes.”

“Great. See you in twenty.”

He hung up before I could tell him twenty minutes was impossibly fast for someone working across town, and that there was no need for him to come early. But exactly nineteen minutes later, his truck pulled into my driveway.

“It’s literally nine-forty,” I said when I opened the door. “Weren’t you on a job?”

He shrugged, holding up a grocery bag. “Perks of being the boss. And you said yes to pancakes, so…”

“You bought pancake mix just to come make me breakfast?”

“Noa’s secret recipe. She’ll kill me if she finds out I made them without her, but desperate times…”

He moved through my kitchen with the same easy confidence he showed on construction sites. No hesitation about where to find pans or bowls. We’d crossed into that comfortable space where he knew my house well enough to cook in it.

“So,” he said, whipping batter with unnecessary focus. “How are you doing with all this?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“Took me months to believe Andrea was actually gone. Kept expecting her to walk through the door like nothing happened.”

I hated the sound of her name, but I was equally intrigued by her. “Tell me about her.”

He paused mid-whisk. “What do you want to know?”

“Whatever you want to tell me.”