He stepped toward her, hands outstretched, the same hands that had held her face and promised her the world on a sleepy Sunday morning. “Baby, come on. We can fix this. We always fix it.”
“Emma.” His voice cracked. Real this time. “Please.”
She killed the engine and walked up the familiar cracked pavement. The door wasn’t locked. It never was. That was Sam—open, inviting, full of promise, but hollow inside.
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