Scarred Love

By Nicole Ashton

A woman who believes love should be simple. A man who hides everything he is. One lie that brings them together — and one truth that might tear them apart.

Emily has never been the type to ask for fairytales. She grew up in a house where money filled every corner but affection never did, so she learned early that the best kind of love is the kind built on simple moments, honest words, and steady hearts. She wants a quiet life, a real chance, and a partner who chooses her not because of what she has, but because of who she is.

Gabriel has lived the opposite life. Wealthy. Wanted, but not loved. Exhausted. After forty-seven failed blind dates and one too many women who cared more about the size of his bank account than the shape of his heart, he does something he never expected — he becomes someone else. He hides his name, his money, his entire world, hoping to meet one person who sees him without the polished surface.

And somehow, on a rainy night and a blind date he almost skipped, he meets her.

Emily thinks he is just another man trying his best in a hard life. Gabriel thinks she is the first person who has ever spoken to him like he is human. Their connection is quiet but strong, sweet but uncertain, and it pulls them into a sudden marriage that neither of them planned for — and both of them need more than they will admit.

But secrets do not stay quiet forever.

As their small, shaky life grows into something warm and frighteningly real, the truth waits at the door: the lie that Gabriel used to protect his heart may be the very thing that breaks hers. And when the truth finally comes to light, they must decide whether love can survive being scarred… or whether some hearts stay broken when the wrong truth arrives at the wrong time.

Full of slow-burn tenderness, messy honesty, small comforts, big fears, and the kind of love that has to be fought for, this book asks one question: Can two people build something real on a truth that came too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Ashton
• Release date: Nov 14, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231372447

Nicole Ashton

Nicole Ashton writes love stories that feel like movies — full of emotion, slow tension, and the kind of moments that stay with you long after the last page. Her stories often begin with heartbreak and end with healing, exploring how people find love again after losing it, and how one unexpected moment can change everything. She believes love stories don't have to be perfect to be powerful — they just have to feel real. Whether it's two people pretending not to care, someone coming back from the past, or a lie that turns into something true, Nicole writes about the quiet, messy, beautiful parts of falling in love. Her books include They Said It Was Fake, Borrowed for Revenge, and The Ten Dollar Boyfriend — each one a cinematic journey of emotions, second chances, and the complicated ways people find their way back to each other. When she's not writing, Nicole loves getting lost in films, long walks that turn into daydreams, and quiet coffee shops where she builds the worlds her characters live in. She writes for anyone who still believes love can surprise them — even when they've stopped looking for it.

Book preview

1

The whiskey caught the light like amber trapped in ice. Gabriel Wilson held the glass but didn't drink. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his corner office, forty-three stories above London, watching the Thames curve through the city like a dark vein. Below, Canary Wharf glittered—steel and glass towers reaching for a sky they'd never touch, their reflections shimmering on black water. From up here, the people looked like ants. The cars, toys. The whole city, a game he'd already won but didn't know how to quit playing.

His reflection stared back at him from the glass: sharp jawline, tailored Tom Ford suit in charcoal gray, a face magazines called devastatingly handsome and boardrooms called untouchable. Thirty-one years old. CEO of Wilson Corporation. Net worth north of two billion pounds. And lonelier than he'd ever been in his life. He lifted the whiskey to his lips—stopped. Set it down on the window ledge, untouched. Drinking alone is pathetic, he thought. Drinking alone in a glass tower while the city worships you is something else entirely.

The office was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of the city below. Minimalist furniture. Scandinavian design. Everything clean, expensive, cold. A Damien Hirst on one wall—skull encrusted with diamonds, because of course it was. A desk made of reclaimed oak that cost more than most people's cars. And windows. So many windows. Everywhere he looked, glass. Transparent, he thought bitterly. Except no one ever sees through it.

His phone buzzed on the desk. He ignored it. Probably another investor, another deal, another person who wanted something from Gabriel Wilson but wouldn't give two damns about the man beneath the name. The door flew open. No knock. No warning. Just the sharp click of a cane on marble and the unmistakable presence of a woman who'd never asked permission for anything in her seventy-four years.

Gabriel, darling.

Judy Wilson swept into the office like a force of nature in Chanel. Her silver hair was styled into an elegant chignon, her pearls gleamed against navy silk, and her eyes—sharp, shrewd, relentless—locked onto her grandson with the precision of a hawk spotting prey. Gabriel turned from the window, his CEO mask sliding into place. Polite smile. Calm posture. The man the world expected.

Grandma. He checked his watch—Patek Philippe, vintage, a gift from a Saudi prince. I wasn't expecting you.

Clearly. Judy's gaze swept the office, landing on the untouched whiskey. Her mouth thinned. Drinking alone now, are we?

Contemplating it.

Don't. She crossed the room, heels clicking, cane tapping a rhythm that sounded like a countdown. When she reached his desk, she dropped a leather-bound folder onto it with a definitive thud. You have better things to do.

Gabriel glanced at the folder. Didn't touch it. He already knew what it was.

Blind date number forty-eight, Judy announced, as if presenting a trophy. Her name is Charlotte. Thirty years old. Degree from Oxford. Works in art curation. Loves classical music and French cinema. No scandals, no debt, excellent family.

Gabriel said nothing.

Judy opened the folder, revealing a glossy photograph clipped to a dossier that looked like it belonged to MI6. The woman in the photo was beautiful—blonde, poised, smiling at the camera like she knew exactly how good she looked. Dinner reservations are at six, Judy continued, tapping the page with one manicured finger. Claridge's. I've arranged a private table. Wear the navy suit—it makes your eyes look less... murderous.

Gabriel picked up the folder. Studied the photograph. Charlotte had the kind of beauty that belonged in magazines—symmetrical, aspirational, safe. She looked like every other woman his grandmother had paraded in front of him over the past two years. Forty-seven, he thought. Forty-seven blind dates. Forty-seven smiles that dropped the second I told them the truth.

He closed the folder. Set it back on the desk.

No.

Judy blinked. Excuse me?

I said no. Gabriel's voice was calm, but something underneath it cracked. I'm not going.

Gabriel—

I'm not going to another dinner where someone pretends to care about my thoughts on architecture or wine pairings when all they really want to know is whether I'll take them to the Maldives for Christmas.

Judy's expression softened—just slightly, just enough for Gabriel to see the grandmother beneath the general. Darling, you're being dramatic.

Am I? He laughed, but it came out hollow. Forty-seven, Grandma. Forty-seven women who smiled and flirted and told me I was fascinating. And the second I mentioned I can't have children, they remembered urgent appointments. Sudden career opportunities. Family emergencies that required immediate attention.

Silence.

Judy's fingers tightened on her cane.

Some of them were more creative, Gabriel continued, his voice quieter now, edged with something that might have been pain if he'd let it surface. One said she needed to 'focus on herself.' Another said we 'wanted different things.' One actually told me I deserved someone who could give me a 'real family,' as if adoption or surrogacy aren't real.

Gabriel—

And the worst part? He met her eyes. I knew. Every time, I knew the second I told them. I could see it—the shift. The calculation. The exit strategy forming behind their eyes.

The city hummed below them. A plane blinked across the darkening sky. Judy lowered herself into the chair across from his desk, suddenly looking every one of her seventy-four years. I just want you to be happy.

I know. Gabriel's voice softened. But this isn't how.

Then how? Judy's question hung in the air like smoke. You won't date anyone unless I arrange it. You work sixteen-hour days. You live alone in that ridiculous penthouse with views you never look at and furniture no one ever sits on. You're thirty-one years old, Gabriel, and you're living like you're already dead.

The words landed like stones. Gabriel turned back to the window. Watched his reflection overlap with the city lights.

Dead.

Maybe she was right.

What if I told you, Judy said slowly, carefully, that Charlotte is different? That she's specifically interested in adoption. That she's—

Lying.

Gabriel—

She's lying, Grandma. He didn't turn around. Maybe not consciously. Maybe she thinks she means it. But when it's real, when it's not theoretical anymore, when she actually has to look at me and see a man who can't give her biological children—she'll leave. Just like Sophie did. Just like all of them did.

He heard Judy stand. Heard the soft rustle of silk and the click of her cane. Your grandfather, she said quietly, was not the man I thought I was marrying.

Gabriel turned.

Judy stood by the door now, silhouetted against the hallway light. Her expression was unreadable. When I married him, I thought I was getting a poet. A dreamer. Someone who'd whisk me away to Paris and write me sonnets. She smiled, but it was sad. Instead, I got a workaholic who spent more time in boardrooms than in our bed. Who missed our anniversary three years running. Who forgot my birthday so many times I stopped celebrating it.

Gabriel had never heard this story.

But, Judy continued, he also built this company from nothing. He gave us security, legacy, a future. And when your father left—when we needed him most—he stayed. Not because it was romantic. Because it was real.

She met Gabriel's eyes. Real love isn't the fairy tale, darling. It's the person who stays when the fairy tale ends. She left before Gabriel could respond. The door clicked shut. The office fell silent again. Gabriel stood alone in the fading light, surrounded by glass and wealth and the ghost of his grandmother's words.

Real love is the person who stays. But what if no one ever did? He waited exactly three minutes after Judy left. Then he pressed the intercom on his desk.

Mr. Grant.

Static, then: Yes, sir?

Cancel tonight's reservation.

A pause. The dinner at Claridge's?

Yes.

Should I reschedule, or—

Cancel it, Gabriel repeated. And every other date my grandmother has scheduled for the next six months.

Another pause—longer this time. Sir, are you certain?

Gabriel looked at his reflection in the darkening window. Expensive suit. Hollow eyes. A man the world wanted but no one knew.

I'm done, Grant.

Done with... blind dates?

Done being Gabriel Wilson.

The silence on the other end was so complete Gabriel could hear his assistant breathing.

I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand.

Gabriel picked up the untouched whiskey. Studied the amber light. Set it down again.

From tomorrow, he said slowly, each word deliberate, the world will see me as a broke construction worker named Gabe. No money. No power. No Wilson Corporation.

Sir, with all respect, that's—

I want to meet someone who sees me, Gabriel interrupted. His voice was quiet now, stripped of its CEO authority. Just a man talking. Not my bank account. Not my last name. Not the penthouse or the cars or the company. Just... me.

He could practically hear Mr. Grant recalibrating.

How long are we talking? Grant asked finally. A week? A month?

Until someone stays.

And if no one does?

Gabriel looked out at the city—at the lights, the people, the endless game of wanting and having and losing.

Then I'll have my answer.

...

That night, Gabriel stood in his walk-in closet—a room the size of most people's flats, lined with suits that cost more than monthly rent and shoes from Italian cobblers whose names most people couldn't pronounce.

He stripped off the Tom Ford. Hung it carefully on its designated wooden hanger. Then he walked to the back corner, where a single cardboard box sat gathering dust. He'd shoved it there years ago—back when he'd briefly considered slumming it at a construction site for a charity photo op, before his PR team convinced him a check would be better optics.

Gabriel opened the box. Inside: faded jeans with a rip in one knee. A plain gray t-shirt that had seen better days. Scuffed work boots that looked like they'd actually worked. A canvas jacket, olive green, fraying at the cuffs. He pulled out the jeans. Held them up. When was the last time I wore something that didn't have a designer label?

He couldn't remember. He changed slowly, methodically. Jeans—rough denim, tight in places, loose in others, smelling faintly of dust and storage. T-shirt—soft from washing, no logo, no statement. Boots—heavy, practical, the opposite of his usual Italian leather.

When he was done, he walked to the full-length mirror. The man staring back at him looked... ordinary. No sharp suit. No power tie. No watch that cost more than a car. Just a guy in work clothes, hair slightly messy, jaw shadowed with stubble he hadn't bothered to shave. Gabriel barely recognized himself. Good, he thought. That's the point.

He reached into his pocket—found his phone, wallet, keys. Pulled out his credit cards one by one. Black Amex. Platinum Visa. Cards that opened doors and closed deals and made people say yes before he even asked the question. He left them all on the marble counter.

In their place, he took a single debit card—attached to an account he'd opened years ago under a shell name for emergencies. Balance: exactly £2,000. Enough to survive. Not enough to impress. He stared at himself one last time.

Let's see who can love you when you have nothing, he whispered to his reflection. The man in the mirror didn't answer.

...

Later—much later, when the city had gone dark and only the streetlights remained—Gabriel sat on the edge of his bed, still dressed in his construction worker disguise. His phone buzzed. A text from Judy: Where were you tonight? Charlotte waited an hour.

Gabriel typed back: I'm sorry. Tell her I'm not who she thinks I am.

Judy's response came immediately: None of us are.

He set the phone down. Lay back on sheets that cost £1,200 and felt exactly like every other expensive thing in his life—beautiful, luxurious, and utterly empty. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, London spread out beneath him like a carpet of stars. Somewhere down there, people were living real lives. Fighting, laughing, loving, struggling. Building something out of nothing.

Gabriel had everything. And he'd never felt more like nothing in his life. Tomorrow, he decided, that would change. Tomorrow, Gabriel Wilson would disappear. And Gabe—just Gabe, the nobody, the construction worker, the man with dust on his boots and no money in his pockets—would step into the light. Let's see who stays, he thought, closing his eyes. Let's see who stays when there's nothing left to want but me.

Outside, the city whispered. Inside, the man in the glass tower finally let himself hope. Even if hope felt dangerous. Even if hope felt like the last thing he had left to lose.

2

The diner smelled like coffee that had been sitting too long and grease that had seen better days. Emily Williams sat in a corner booth, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug of tea she hadn't yet tasted, and watched rain streak down the window in slow, hypnotic lines. Outside, Shoreditch moved through its evening rhythm—cyclists dodging puddles, couples sharing umbrellas, the occasional taxi sending spray across the pavement. The neon sign above the diner flickered: Rosie's. On. Off. On again. The R had been broken for months.

She was early. Twenty minutes early, to be exact. Because you're always early when you're nervous, she thought, taking a breath that didn't quite fill her lungs.

The booth's vinyl was cracked in places, patched with duct tape that had gone gray with age. The table was Formica, probably from the seventies, with cigarette burns along one edge that no amount of scrubbing could erase. A laminated menu sat propped between the salt and pepper shakers—both of which looked like they'd survived decades of diners just like her, sitting in booths just like this, waiting for people who may or may not show up.

Emily liked it here. It was honest. Unpretentious. The kind of place that didn't try to be anything other than what it was. She glanced at her phone. 6:43 PM. Seventeen minutes until he was supposed to arrive. Blind date number... what? Three? Four?

She'd lost count. Not because there had been so many, but because she'd stopped caring enough to remember. After the banker who spent the entire dinner talking about his portfolio. After the lawyer who corrected her grammar mid-sentence. After the tech entrepreneur who'd ordered for her without asking and then split the bill down to the penny.

Emily had learned to keep her expectations low. She smoothed down the front of her dress—plain blue cotton, the kind you could find at any high street shop, washed so many times the fabric had gone soft. No designer label. No statement jewelry. Just a simple silver necklace her mother had given her before—

She stopped the thought before it could finish. Not tonight, she told herself. Tonight, you're just Emily. Not Emily-with-the-dead-parents. Not Emily-the-orphan. Just Emily.

She picked up the notebook beside her mug—spiral-bound, pages dog-eared from constant use. Inside: sketches, notes, ideas for the graphic design work she did freelance when she could get it. Logos for small businesses that couldn't afford agencies. Flyers for community events. Websites for startups that paid in promises and PayPal deposits that occasionally came through. It wasn't much. But it was hers.

The door chimed.

Emily looked up.

A man stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his hair, work boots leaving wet prints on the linoleum. He wore faded jeans with a rip in one knee, a gray t-shirt beneath an olive canvas jacket that had seen better years, and an expression that looked equal parts nervous and exhausted.

He scanned the diner—paused when his eyes found hers. Emily's stomach did something complicated. He didn't look like the others. No tailored suit. No expensive watch. No posture that screamed I'm successful and I know it. He just looked... real. Like someone who'd worked all day and was genuinely hoping this wouldn't be a waste of his evening. She lifted her hand in a small wave.

He nodded. Started walking toward her.

Emily watched him approach—watched the way he moved, steady but unhurried, like someone who didn't need to announce himself. He had nice eyes, she noticed. Dark, careful, guarded. The kind of eyes that had seen enough to know better than to hope too hard. I know those eyes, she thought. I see them in the mirror every morning.

He reached the booth. Stopped. Offered a half-smile that didn't quite reach those careful eyes.

Emily?

His voice was deeper than she'd expected. Rough around the edges, like gravel worn smooth by water.

That's me. She gestured to the seat across from her. You must be Gabe.

Yeah. He slid into the booth, jacket crinkling, boots scraping against the floor. Sorry I'm a bit wet. The Tube station's farther than I thought.

You took the Tube?

The question came out before she could stop it. Most of her dates arrived in Ubers, occasionally taxis. One had shown up in a Tesla and spent ten minutes explaining its features.

Gabe nodded, running a hand through his damp hair. Yeah. Cheaper than a cab.

Cheaper.

Emily felt something in her chest unclench.

I don't mind wet, she said, surprising herself with a smile. It's just rain.

He looked at her then—really looked—and for a moment, neither of them said anything. The diner hummed around them: the hiss of the griddle, the murmur of other conversations, the clink of cutlery against plates. Outside, the rain picked up, drumming against the window like fingers on glass. A waitress appeared—older woman, kind eyes, apron stained with the evidence of a long shift. What can I get you, love?

Gabe glanced at the menu. Just water, please.

Water? The waitress raised an eyebrow. That's it?

For now. He offered an apologetic smile. I'm good, thanks.

The waitress shrugged and walked away. Emily studied him. Not hungry?

Ate before I came. He didn't quite meet her eyes. Didn't want to... you know. Assume.

Assume the date would go well enough to order food, Emily translated. Or assume I'd want to sit through a meal with a stranger. Most of her dates ordered wine, appetizers, entrees, dessert—treating dinner like a performance, a test of how well she could keep up conversation between courses. Gabe had ordered water. I like your honesty, Emily said quietly.

He looked up at that, something flickering across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or suspicion. Do you? His tone was careful, like he was testing the weight of her words. Most people don't.

Most people are liars.

The words came out sharper than she'd intended. Emily winced, wrapped her hands tighter around her mug. Sorry. That was—

Accurate, Gabe finished. His mouth curved into something that might have been a smile if it had been allowed to fully form. Most people are liars. Especially on dates.

Emily met his eyes. Held them.

So let's not lie, she said.

Silence—but not the awkward kind. The kind that felt like a dare. Gabe leaned back in the booth, arms crossed, and Emily noticed his hands for the first time. Rough. Calloused. Nails short and clean but with dirt still caught in the creases—the kind of dirt that didn't come out with one washing.

Hands that work, she thought. Hands that build things.

Alright, Gabe said slowly. No lies. You want to go first, or should I?

You.

He laughed—short, surprised. Direct. I like it.

You said you like honesty.

I do. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and looked at her with those guarded eyes that were starting to soften just slightly. Okay. Here's the truth: I'm broke. Like, properly broke. I work construction when I can get work—which isn't always. I've tried a bunch of side hustles that all failed spectacularly. I've got debt I'm still paying off. No savings. No car. I sleep on a couch in a flat I share with two other guys.

He paused. Studied her face.

I can't cook to save my life. My laundry skills are questionable at best. I own exactly three pairs of jeans and they all have holes in them. He gestured to his knee. As you can see.

Emily didn't look away.

And, Gabe continued, his voice dropping lower, more careful, if any of that bothers you, we can end this right now. No hard feelings. I'll pay for your tea and we'll call it a night.

The rain drummed. The diner hummed. Someone laughed at the counter. Emily set down her mug.

I don't mind, she said.

Gabe blinked. You... don't?

No.

At all?

Not even a little bit.

He stared at her like she'd just spoken a language he'd forgotten existed. Why not?

Emily traced the rim of her mug with one finger, choosing her words carefully. Most of the men I've dated had money. Nice jobs, nice flats, nice cars. They took me to fancy restaurants and ordered wine I couldn't pronounce. She looked up. And every single one of them lied to me about something important.

What did they lie about?

Everything. Who they were. What they wanted. Whether they were seeing someone else. She paused. Whether they actually wanted me, or just wanted someone on their arm who looked good in photographs.

Gabe's expression shifted. Something like recognition.

You've been there too, Emily said softly. Haven't you?

He didn't answer right away. Just sat there, jaw tight, eyes on the rain-streaked window.

Yeah, he admitted finally. I've been there.

So you get it.

I get it.

The waitress returned with Gabe's water. Set it down with a soft clink. You two need anything else?

We're good, Emily said, not taking her eyes off Gabe. Thanks.

When they were alone again, Gabe picked up his water glass but didn't drink. Just held it, watching condensation form on the outside.

Can I ask you something? he said.

Go ahead.

Why are you here? He gestured vaguely at the diner, at the space between them. Blind date with a broke guy who sleeps on a couch. Doesn't exactly sound like a fairytale.

Emily smiled—small, sad, true. I don't want a fairytale.

No?

No. She wrapped both hands around her mug again, feeling its warmth seep into her palms. I want something real. Something built from the ground up. Not handed to me on a silver platter.

Gabe set down his glass. Leaned forward slightly.

What do you mean?

Emily took a breath. Let it out slowly.

When I was younger, she began, voice quiet but steady, before my parents died, I watched them tear each other apart over money. My dad wanted more—always more. Bigger house, newer car, better holidays. My mum just wanted peace. But peace doesn't pay the bills, he'd say. So he worked longer hours. Took bigger risks. Made more and more money.

She paused, throat tight.

And the more he made, the less they had. The money was there, but they weren't. Not really. They'd sit at dinner in silence. Sleep in separate rooms. Fight about investments and portfolios and things that should have brought them security but only brought them misery.

Gabe didn't interrupt. Just listened, his eyes never leaving her face.

The night they died, Emily continued, her voice barely above a whisper now, they were driving back from some investor dinner. Arguing, probably. About money. About the house they couldn't afford. About the life they'd built that was crushing them.

She looked down at her tea. Watched her reflection distort in the dark liquid.

A lorry ran a red light. They never saw it coming.

Emily—

I'm not telling you this for sympathy, she said quickly, meeting his eyes. I'm telling you because I learned something that night. Real love—the kind that lasts—isn't built on what you have. It's built on who you are when you have nothing.

The diner felt smaller suddenly. Quieter. Gabe stared at her, and Emily could see the exact moment her words landed. Could see the way his shoulders loosened, the way his jaw unclenched, the way his eyes stopped guarding and started seeing. I don't want a man who already has it all, Emily said, her voice steady now, certain. I want to build something with someone from the ground up. The hard way. The real way. Starting with nothing but each other.

Silence.

Gabe opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. That's... He stopped. Laughed—short, disbelieving. That's the most honest thing anyone's ever said to me on a date.

Good. Emily smiled. Because I'm tired of lying. And I'm tired of men who lie to me.

I won't, Gabe said, and the certainty in his voice surprised them both. Lie to you, I mean. I won't. Liar, a voice whispered in Gabriel's head—his own voice, cruel and knowing. You're lying right now. You're lying about everything.

But he pushed the voice away. Because in this moment, sitting across from Emily Williams in a shabby Shoreditch diner with rain on the windows and honesty between them, he wanted to be Gabe. Just Gabe. The broke construction worker who slept on a couch and didn't have anything to offer except the truth. Even if the truth was wrapped in the biggest lie he'd ever told.

So, Emily said, breaking the silence with a small smile. Tell me something real. Something no one else knows.

Gabe hesitated. Then: I'm terrified of failing.

At what?

Everything. He laughed, but it came out rough. Work. Life. This. I'm terrified that no matter how hard I try, it won't be enough. That I won't be enough.

Emily reached across the table. Placed her hand over his. Her fingers were small, warm, slightly rough around the edges. Working hands, like his. You're enough, she said quietly. Just like this. Right now. You're enough.

Gabriel—Gabe—stared at their hands. At the way hers fit against his, easy and natural, like they'd been designed to meet exactly this way. And for the first time in two years—maybe longer—he felt something crack open in his chest.

Not breaking.

Opening.

3

The rain had stopped , but the streets hadn't forgotten. Gabriel and Emily stood outside the diner beneath a sky that couldn't decide between dusk and darkness, the pavement slick and black, reflecting neon signs and distant headlights in fractured, watercolor smears. The air tasted like wet concrete and exhaust and something electric—the kind of charge that comes before lightning, or confessions, or moments that change everything.

Emily tucked her notebook under her arm, hugging it against her chest like armor she wasn't sure she needed anymore. Gabriel stood a few feet away, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold that wasn't really cold but felt that way anyway. Neither of them had said goodbye yet. Neither of them wanted to.

So, Emily said softly, breaking the silence that had settled between them like fog. This is where we part ways?

Gabriel looked at her—really looked. The way the streetlight caught her profile, turning her ordinary into something quietly extraordinary. The way she stood with her weight on one foot, tired but steady, like someone who'd learned how to carry things too heavy but refused to put them down. The way her eyes held his without flinching, without calculation, without asking for anything except honesty. She's real, he thought. God help me, she's real.

Emily, he said, and her name felt strange in his mouth—too simple for what she was, too small to contain the way she'd cracked something open in him in the span of two hours.

Yeah?

He took a breath. Let it out. Took another.

There's something else I need to tell you.

Emily's expression didn't change, but something in her posture shifted—a slight straightening of her spine, a subtle bracing for impact. She'd heard those words before. There's something I need to tell you. Usually followed by I'm married, or I'm not actually divorced, or I lied about everything. Okay, she said carefully. Tell me.

Gabriel stepped closer. The streetlight above them flickered—on, off, on again—casting their shadows long and strange across the wet pavement. A car passed, tires hissing through puddles. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. He pulled his hands from his pockets. They were shaking.

Say it, he told himself. Just say it.

I can't have children.

The words came out flat, factual, stripped of emotion because if he let himself feel them, he'd drown. Emily didn't move. I found out a couple years ago, Gabriel continued, his voice low, steady, the way you speak when you're holding something fragile and trying not to drop it. Medical thing. Nothing I could control. Nothing that can be fixed. I just... I can't.

He watched her face for the shift. The subtle withdrawal. The polite sympathy that always preceded the exit. But it didn't come. Emily stood there, notebook against her chest, eyes on his, and didn't look away. Most people, Gabriel said, his throat tight now, when I tell them—they leave. Not right away. They're polite about it. But they leave.

I'm not most people.

The words were quiet but certain, like a fact she'd already decided. Gabriel's hands were still shaking. He clenched them into fists, trying to steady himself. You say that now. But you don't know what it means. No biological kids. No family photos with a baby that has your eyes or my—

Gabe.

His name stopped him mid-sentence. Emily stepped forward—close enough now that he could see the faint freckles across her nose, the way her eyelashes were still damp from earlier rain, the pulse fluttering at her throat. She reached out. Placed her hand on his arm. Her touch was warm, solid, real.

That doesn't make you less of a man, she said.

Gabriel stared at her, something cracking in his chest—not breaking, opening. You don't— he started.

I mean it. Emily's voice was soft but unwavering. There are all kinds of ways to build a family. Adoption. Fostering. Hell, maybe just the two of us and a dog. Family isn't measured in biology, Gabe. It's measured in showing up. In presence. In choosing someone every single day, even when it's hard.

Her hand was still on his arm, grounding him. You think you're broken because you can't give someone a baby? Emily continued, her eyes searching his. You're not broken. You're human. And being human means accepting the things we can't change and building something beautiful anyway.

Gabriel felt something hot behind his eyes. He blinked hard, refusing to let it fall. Why? he whispered. Why aren't you running?

Emily's mouth curved into a sad, knowing smile. Because I've spent my whole life around people who had everything and were still miserable. My parents had money, status, a big house, and they were the loneliest people I ever knew. They fought over things that didn't matter and ignored the things that did. And when they died, all they left behind was stuff. Just... stuff.

She looked down at her hand on his arm, then back up at him. I don't want stuff, Gabe. I don't want a perfect life or a perfect man. I just want someone who's honest. Someone who shows up. Someone who sees me and lets me see them. And you—standing here, shaking, telling me the thing that scares you most—you're doing that. You're letting me see you.

Gabriel's vision blurred. Don't cry, he told himself. Don't you dare cry. But his hands were still shaking, and Emily was still standing there, and something inside him was unraveling in a way that felt less like breaking and more like breathing for the first time in years.

I don't deserve you, he said, voice rough.

Maybe not. Emily's smile widened just slightly. But you're stuck with me anyway.

And then she did something that Gabriel would remember for the rest of his life: She stepped closer and pulled him into a hug. Not a polite hug. Not a sympathetic pat on the back. A real hug—the kind that says I've got you, and You're not alone, and Whatever comes next, we'll figure it out together.

Gabriel stood frozen for half a second, arms at his sides, completely unprepared for this kind of tenderness. Then he wrapped his arms around her and held on. She was small against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, her breath warm through his t-shirt. She smelled like