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There is no suggestion beneath the answer. He is simply giving me the information.

“I’ll let you get settled,” he says. “If you’re still interested, we can head into the village afterward.”

“I’d like that,” I reply.

Ross nods and leaves me alone.

I close the door behind him and look out toward the countryside through the bedroom windows.

I expected the weekend to feel like another decision I would have to defend to myself.

Instead, standing in the quiet room with Ross across the hall and the Cotswolds stretching beyond the glass, I feel more at ease than I have since arriving in London.

We leave the house less than an hour later and drive into one of the nearby villages, where the roads narrow between pale stone buildings and old shopfronts with painted signs hanging above the doors. The pace is slower here, and I feel myself settling into it almost immediately. Ross notices, but he doesn't comment.

We spend the afternoon without any real agenda. We walk through a small antiques shop, stop inside a gallery tucked between a bookshop and a café, and eventually find a table near the window at a quiet restaurant for a late lunch. Nothing about the day feels arranged for effect, which may be why I enjoy it as much as I do. For once, Ross isn't surrounded by people waiting for decisions from him. He looks different without that constant tension around him. Not softer exactly. Just less guarded.

We're halfway through lunch when I ask, "Do you ever get tired of it?"

Ross looks up from his glass.

"Of what?"

"Being responsible for everything."

He considers the question before answering.

"Yes," he says. "I just got very good at pretending I didn't."

There's no humor in the response, so I don't try to lighten it.

"What changed?" I ask.

Ross leans back slightly.

"I did, eventually," he says. "It took longer than it should have."

I wait. He looks toward the window for a moment before continuing.

"For a long time, I thought control was the same thing as stability. If I could manage the company, the family, the people around me, then nothing could fall apart."

I know immediately where the thought leads.

"Except it did," I say.

Ross looks back at me.

"Yes."

He doesn't defend himself. He doesn't explain it away. That alone still catches me off guard.

"I spent years believing being useful was enough," he continues. "Providing. Fixing things. Making decisions. It took me a long time to understand that none of that means much if the people you care about don't feel like they have any place in the decision."

The words sit between us. Seven years ago, he would never have said that. I don't think he would even have understood why it mattered.

"You really have changed," I say.

Ross gives me a steady look.