His Wife, His Mistake
Chapter Fourteen: The Space Between Us
POV: Damon
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I didn't go to her doorstep today.
For the first time in weeks, I stayed away.
No flowers.
No books.
No notes.
Just silence.
Because sometimes the only thing left to give someone… is space.
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Arya had looked at me that day like I was a stranger again.
Not the man who once held her at 2 a.m.
Not the man she whispered "I love you" to in a trembling voice the night she wore blue silk and nothing else.
Not the father of her child.
Just… a mistake.
Her mistake.
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I had become exactly what I feared.
And the truth is, she was right to hate me again.
I'd let my past claw its way back in.
I should've shut Sophia out a long time ago. Should've slammed the door so hard she'd never think to return.
But I didn't.
And that hesitation cost me everything I was trying to rebuild.
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I walked instead today. Through Westbrook. Through streets that smelled of fresh bread and cut grass. The places she made into her world.
I passed her gallery but didn't look inside.
I knew she was there — I could feel her presence like gravity.
But I didn't stop.
Didn't pause.
Didn't linger.
Because this time, I meant it.
I would give her space.
Real space.
Not the kind that still begged in silence.
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It hurt more than I expected.
Pulling back, letting go — it felt like losing her all over again.
But I reminded myself: This isn't about me anymore.
It's about Arya.
Her peace.
Her safety.
Her healing.
If she needed the space to breathe, I wouldn't be the one to suffocate her anymore.
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I sat by the lake instead.
The one near the bookstore Lucas liked.
I watched a little boy run after ducks and wondered if Liam would ever call me Dad.
Probably not.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
And for once, I didn't let myself dream otherwise.
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I thought about her eyes — those two mismatched shades of blue that haunted me more than any nightmare ever could.
I thought about the way they lit up when she used to laugh.
She doesn't laugh anymore.
Not with me.
I wonder if she laughs when Lucas tells his silly jokes. If she sings in the kitchen. If she still dances barefoot when she thinks no one's watching.
I hope she does.
Even if I never see it again.
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Love, real love, isn't selfish.
It doesn't insist.
It doesn't knock forever when the door has already closed.
Love waits.
Love understands.
And if needed… love walks away.
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So I made a promise to myself.
No more letters.
No more waiting on the bench.
No more surprise visits to the gallery.
If Arya wanted to talk — she'd find me.
If she wanted me gone — I'd go.
Not because I stopped loving her.
But because I finally loved her enough to stop forcing a version of myself she couldn't trust.
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It's funny how quiet guilt can be.
People think it's loud. Crashing. Obvious.
But real guilt is patient.
It watches you brush your teeth.
It sits with you in meetings.
It crawls into bed with you and wraps around your ribs like vines.
You learn to live with it.
You learn to breathe with it pressing against your lungs.
And every day, it reminds you:
You did this.
You hurt her.
You lost her.
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I still remember the first time Arya showed me her gallery.
She had paint on her cheek, and her hands wouldn't stop moving — waving, pointing, describing her dreams like they were already real.
She was magic.
The kind of magic that didn't need a spotlight.
I didn't deserve her then.
I don't deserve her now.
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But I did love her.
God, I loved her more than I knew how to say.
Still do.
Always will.
Even if she never believes it again.
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Sophia's gone. For real this time.
I blocked her number. Told her I never wanted to see her again. Told her she was never part of my future, even if she once snuck into my past.
She didn't take it well.
But I didn't care.
Because Arya matters more.
Lucas matters more.
But just because I finally did the right thing, doesn't mean I deserve a reward.
Especially not her forgiveness.
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By the time the sun started to set, I was still at the lake.
I saw Miriam walk past, probably heading to Arya's with a pie or a story or one of those protective stares that says "Don't you dare break her again."
I respected her for that.
Arya deserved people who stood in front of her like shields.
For too long, I had been the sword that cut her down.
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When I got home, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the box.
The one that held all the letters I wrote but never sent.
Confessions. Apologies. Memories.
I didn't burn them.
But I sealed the box shut.
Because this was the last chapter I was going to write without her voice in it.
If she ever wanted to speak to me again, I'd listen.
But I wouldn't push.
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And until that day comes — or doesn't — I will stay quiet.
I will love her from the distance she asked for.
I will be patient.
Because sometimes love doesn't scream.
Sometimes it just… waits.
And if that's all I'm allowed to do now?
Then I will wait.
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