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She listens without interrupting, but I can see her trying to follow where I’m going. I keep talking because stopping would mean admitting that I don’t want to say any of this.

“I don’t know what the next six months will look like. Or the next year or two after that,” I say.

“I barely know what next week looks like. What I do know is that I’m going to be here. Constantly. And I don’t have the bandwidth to pretend I can sustain anything outside of that properly.”

Blaire’s face goes still.

“Meaning?” she asks.

I hold her gaze. “Us.”

The word lands between us with enough force that I feel it in my chest. Blaire folds her arms, not defensively so much as if she needs something to hold onto.

“So…that’s what this house visit is?”

“I’m trying to be honest with you,” I say.

“No,” she replies.

“You’re telling me what you’ve already decided.”

I feel my jaw tighten. “I’m telling you what the reality is.”

“For you,” she says.

“For both of us.”

Blaire gives a small shake of her head.

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“You deciding what’s best for both of us before I even get a say.”

“This isn’t the same thing.”

“It is exactly the same thing,” she says.

“You’ve already made the decision, Ross. Now you’re explaining it to me like I’m supposed to be grateful that you’ve thought it through.”

“I’m not asking you to be grateful.”

“Then what are you asking me to be?”

I exhale and drag a hand through my hair. “Realistic.”

Her eyes flash, but her voice stays controlled. “About what?”

“About what this would look like if we tried to keep going,” I say.

“You’re leaving in three days. I’m not leaving London. I don’t know when I’ll be back in New York. I’m going to be buried in this transition, and I can’t promise you time I don’t have.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t need it.”

Blaire stares at me for a second.