Exile. Such a cruel term for it, made worse, like everything that had come out of her mouth tonight, by the fact that he knew she believed it. I hate breathing. He didn't know how to handle this. He never really knew how to handle her, but this seemed an escalation for which he was utterly unprepared. He shifted, loosening his grip on her. He didn't entirely let go of her, but he wanted to be able to see her better. His brow creased.

"I don't know how to help," he admitted. She could have anything she wanted, anything she needed. An income to pursue some distracting hobby, or to travel. A house abroad for a fresh start. A divorce.

Well, she couldn't have anything. There were two exceptions, two things he couldn't give her, and they were the only things she said she wanted: him, his being in its entirety, with no holds barred and no secrets kept and no reservations — the version of him she had in her head, the one at least thirty percent larger than he was — and a baby.

---