Through bleary, unfocused eyes, Calvin spotted her standing in the doorway. His lips twisted into a pained smile as he staggered toward her. "Amber... Iris is sick again. What should I do?" he slurred, his voice rough and pleading. He collapsed onto the couch and instinctively buried his head against her abdomen, his warmth seeping through the soft fabric of her nightgown.
It wasn't the first time Calvin had sought comfort in this peculiar way, as though her presence alone could ground him, soothe the chaos in his soul. Yet Amber's hands clenched tightly around the divorce agreement.
She stiffened, her expression cold as stone. Refusing to meet his bloodshot eyes, she stared past him, fixating on the mantel clock ticking steadily. She believed—hoped, even—that avoiding his gaze might numb the ache in her chest.
Iris. Always Iris.