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She called him Aral once, in the deep of the night when he’d reached for her, half asleep, in mutual need. The sound of the name had stopped him cold.
“God, I’m sorry, Oliver!”
And then they were both crying.
“He’s always going to be between us, isn’t he?” Oliver asked hollowly.
Cordelia shook her head. “No, love! Not between us. Not anymore. With us. It can’t ever be any other way. Can you live with that?”
With Aral, he’d always been second to Cordelia. For all their years together.
Could he live with being second, still?
“Yes,” he whispered.