Joel Pascal

MASTER LIST

Part 8

Disclaimer: I don't beta my work, and English is not my first language, so please excuse any errors.

“Daddy, you look so ham some,” Sarah said, running her fingers through her Daddy’s hair. “Your hair is nice.”

“Thank you Baby Girl,” Joel smiled, giving his daughter a kiss on the nose. He sat down on his bed, placing her on his knees.

“Are you okay with this, Sarah? With me going on a date?”

“Silly Daddy. Yes is okay, I like Auntie Annie, I like Ellie. I want you to go on a date with Auntie Annie.”

“So, tonight, you are going to stay with Uncle Tommy and Auntie Maria, okay?”

“With Ellie!”

“Yes,” he laughed, “With Ellie too.”

“You’ll behave yourself? You’ll call me if you need anything?”

“No, Uncle Tommy said I cannot call you. You need alone time with Auntie Annie,” she said, giving him a failed wink.

“What?”

“Uncle Tommy said Daddy is thirsty and you need to have alone time with Auntie Annie to feel better.”

Joel clenched his jaws. “He said that?”

Sarah nodded, giving him another failed wink.

He placed her back on the floor and told her to go get her bag. “Tommy!”

“What?” Tommy asked, peeking at him from the kitchen, a sandwich in his hands.

“What the fuck did you say to Sarah?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tommy said, a cheeky smirk on his face, taking another bite from his sandwich.

Joel got closer to his brother, lowering his voice, “You told her I was ‘thirsty’ and need alone time with Annie to feel better?”

Tommy raised his eyebrows, still munching on the sandwich.

“What the hell Tommy! She’s five!”

“And she doesn’t understand what that means. Why are you so uptight? You’re proving my point, Joel,” Tommy said, slapping his brother on the back, picking up the can of Coke he had opened and taking a few gulps.

Joel rolled his eyes. Damn it Tommy. As if he needed more things to be nervous about.

Sarah came out, wheeling her bag behind her.

“So uh, you got what you need?” Tommy asked, one of his brows up, looking at Joel as if he was talking in code.

“What do you mean?” Joel asked, checking his pockets for his phone and wallet, his eyes going to the bouquet of flowers he had picked up for you.

“You know,” Tommy said, pointing to him with his head.

Joel frowned.

“You know,” Tommy reiterated, this time pointing with his eyes.

“What?”

Tommy looked stressed out, pointing with both his head and eyes, gesturing at his crotch.

Oh. Oh…

What? No!

“Tommy it’s a first date,” he shout-whispered.

Tommy looked bewildered. “So?”

Joel went closer to him, whispering, “Listen here, you man whore, just because you used to sleep with every woman who would even look your way without bothering to know their names, doesn’t mean I should too! It’s a first date! You don’t sleep with someone on the first date!”

Tommy looked confused. “You don’t?”

Oh God.

“Stop fidgeting! You’re gonna make me smear the lipstick!” Maria chastised, taking a hold of your jaws and continued to apply lipstick on you.

“You look really pretty, Mama,” Ellie cooed, her hands framing her face as she laid on her stomach, propped up on her elbows on her bed, her legs swinging up behind her.

“Thank you sweetie,” you cooed right back, giving her a kiss.

You were wearing the dress she had suggested you put on for brunch last time. It was the only nice dress you owned, and both Ellie and Maria had managed to convince you that this was the right occasion to wear the dress.

Maria spritzed some perfume on you, her face all smiley.

There was a knock on the door.

Ellie jumped off the bed and ran out, opening the door. You could hear Joel’s voice greeting her, “Hey Ells.”

“Hey old man,” she replied, and you and Maria snickered.

You came out just in time to see them fist bump each other.

“Hi Joel,” Maria greeted.

“Hi Mar…” his voice faltered.

Joel Miller was staring at you, all words lost from his list of vocabulary. He was struggling to find the words to greet you. All he could think of was how beautiful you looked.

“Joel?” Maria called him out, smiling at him. “Hello? Mr Miller?”

Joel snapped out of his reveries.

“Mama looks pretty,” Ellie said.

“Yeah,” he finally found his voice. “She does,” he blubbered.

“A far cry from her work uniform, huh?” Maria chuckled. “Are those flowers for her?”

“Uh, yeah,” Joel stuttered, looking at the flowers as if he had just realized he was holding them. He thrusted his hand straight out towards Maria, offering her the flowers for whatever reason, looking like a boy who was returning something he stole, his eyes back on you.

“Joel?”

“Huh?”

“I’m not Annie,” Maria whispered.

He looked at his hands again, confused.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Give her the damn flowers!”

“Right! Uh, sorry!” he blurted out, laughing at himself. He walked towards you, “Sorry,” he muttered, looking so embarrassed. “This is for you,” he said, offering you the flowers.

“Thank you,” you said, feeling a bit shy from his gaze. “They’re beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” he heard himself say.

You didn’t even have the time process what he said. He was already blushing, laughing at himself. “Sorry, that was cheesy,” he said, his ears red.

“It’s okay,” you laughed.

“Here, let me take that,” Maria took the flowers from you, “You two better go, you don’t want to be late!”

Joel offered you his arm, and you took it. As he began to lead you you out, your nerves got the better of you and you found yourself giving Ellie last minute instructions about spending the night at Aunt Maria’s, reminding her to brush her teeth, to behave, to listen to Aunt Maria, to…

“Yes Mama, I will be nice, go!” she pushed you out.

“But…”

“Go Mama! Have fun!” Maria interrupted, picking your child up. “Yeah Mama, have fun!” Ellie parroted, waving.

Joel led you to his truck and went in himself. For a moment, the two of you just sat there in the truck, not speaking, both ridiculously shy and nervous.

“Okay, this is ridiculous. I’m just gonna say it. I’m nervous as fuck. I haven’t been on a date since forever. But I am really excited about this date. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he said.

“Oh good,” you said, breathing easier. “I’m not alone then.”

“No, definitely not.”

The two of you laughed, the nerves dissipating a little.

“You ready?” he asked, starting the truck.

You nodded.

“Okay, let’s go.”

After that awkward start, the date actually went well. He took you to an Italian restaurant, where you had the best mushroom risotto you had ever tasted. The two of you got to know each other a little, talking about everything except your late partners. Not the best time to talk about that, both of you agreed.

Every few minutes, your talks wandered into the subject of the girls, to which you both would catch yourselves and mutually decided to change the subject.

Other than that particular stumble, the date went swimmingly. In fact, it went so well that the two of you only stopped talking when the server placed the bill on the table. It was only then you realized that the entire restaurant was now empty, so empty that there were sections already closed off, the tables cleared and the chairs turned upside down on them, the lights in the sections switched off.

You put your hand on the bill, intending to split the check, but he covered your hand with his, eyeing you as if you’d just committed the biggest faux pas known to men. You didn’t have the chance to argue, he simply placed his card on the bill and handed it back to the server, not bothering to even check it.

He didn’t let go of your hand, tentatively eyeing you to make sure you were okay with it.

You were.

When you walked out of the restaurant, he laced his fingers with yours, walking so slowly to get to his truck. When you got there, he just stood there, hand still on yours, reluctant to let go.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Want to take a walk?”

The smile on his face then was contagious. So the two of you took a walk instead, continuing your conversations. Well, not really a conversation, he was giving you a tour of the place, telling you his favourite this and that, Sarah’s favourite doughnut place, Tommy’s favourite bar, Tess’s favourite hobby store, Daniel’s favourite toy store.

You listened. His voice was calming, to you. Whenever he was talking about someone or something he loved, there was a reverie in his tone that made you just feel… something.

The walk wasn’t enough. When it got a bit too cold to be walking about, he reluctantly led you back to the truck, and just before he turned the corner to your place, he asked if you felt up to a drive.

“I’m not ready to say goodnight,” he shyly admitted.

You happily admitted, neither were you.

So he took you on a drive instead, just driving around slowly, his hand not letting go of yours.

By the time he parked by your cottage, it was well near midnight. He walked you to your door, fingers still interlaced and waited for you to unlock your front door.

“Do I get a second date?” he asked when you turned to face him.

“I think you do,” you said, smiling.

“Phew!” he joked, pretending to wipe his forehead.

“I had a great time,” you told him, squeezing his hand.

“So did I,” he replied, taking both your hands in his. “Well, good night. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

He leaned in and kissed you on your cheek, his lips lingering on your skin, making your eyes droop.

He withdrew a little and you couldn’t help but drop your eyes to his lips, knowing that he too, was looking at yours. He leaned back in, and your mind just screamed at you to stop him.

“Joel,” you said, pulling back a little. His eyes met yours, looking a bit panicked. “There’s something I need to tell you before this goes… anywhere… will you come inside?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking both relieved and apprehensive at the same time.

He lit the stove for you and sat on the daybed with you, both of you facing each other, legs crossed.

“I need to tell you about my late husband, Eric, and how he died.”  

*Warning: Domestic Violence*

It all started small. He didn’t want to spend time with Ellie, so he mostly left you and Ellie at home, going to work functions and gatherings with his friends alone. People knew Officer Williams, knew he had a wife and daughter, but the three of you were hardly seen together.

There were a few times he took you and Ellie to the game, the pool, but Ellie fell asleep at the game and cried when her tiny feet touched the water, so he took the two of you home and huffed off to hang out with his buddies instead.

It got to the point that you were basically a single mother, going about your business alone with your daughter.

You had gotten so used to him not including you and Ellie in his life you didn’t even mind anymore. You had Ellie, and that was enough.

You remember the first time it happened. Ellie had just turned three. It was his day off. He had worked the night shift the night before, came home just in time for breakfast. He had his breakfast as usual and went to bed. You did your chores, got Ellie fed and dressed, and took her with you to do your weekly shopping. You even stopped at the park so Ellie could have a few minutes on the swing. You planned to deep clean the house that day, so you wouldn’t have the opportunity to take her in the evening.

You got home just in time to cook lunch, as you usually did. Eric would usually sleep ‘til about 3. But when you got home at 11.30, he was already dressed in his day clothes, waiting for you with his hands on his hips.

“Where were you?” he snarled just as the garage door closed, standing right next to your open door, not letting you out of the car.

“Grocery shopping,” you answered, confused.

“I called you so many times! Why didn’t you answer? I needed the car!”

“The phone is on silent – you know I do that when you sleep, and you usually sleep ‘til later. I didn’t think you’d call,” you defended yourself, your voice still soft. He would get so angry if you made a sound when he was asleep. He was a light sleeper, so even a beep of a text message became an annoyance when he was asleep. The house was small, so you’d resorted to just leaving the phone on silent when he was home and sleeping. “Plus, you usually use the cruiser when you go out,” you added, “Is there something wrong with it? I would have gotten home sooner if you’d told me you needed to use the car.”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, you knew something bad was going to happen.

“What are you saying, huh? That I’m lazy? That I sleep all day? Well I’m sorry I stayed up all night working my ass off to support this family. And I’m sorry I woke up early to put a dampener in your day. And in case you forget, this is my fucking car. I bought this car, I paid for it. So I can damn well use it whenever the fuck I feel like it!” he spat.

“I’m not saying any of that, I just didn’t know you wanted to use the car…”

“Are you calling me a liar? Huh? It’s my fault you’re so fucking selfish that the world only revolves around you?”

“I didn’t say that, it’s just, we needed groceries, and you know I go shopping on Mondays…”

“Oh, I’m supposed to remember your schedule now?” he retaliated, putting his face to yours so suddenly you drew back. He wrapped a hand around your neck, holding you in place, “Don’t forget you live under my roof, spending my money. Don’t forget your place!” he seethed.

“No Papa!” Ellie yelled, her tiny little voice full of fear. “Mama!”

He turned towards her, “Shut up!” he yelled, turning back to face you, his hand still around your neck.

“You teaching her to think badly of me? Huh?”

“No, I would never,” you said, trying not to rile him up further. “Eric, honey, you’re scaring her,” you pleaded, your voice shaky but calm.

“You think I’m abusive now? I’m warning you, try my patience again, and see what happens,” he said, squeezing his hand slightly, a warning, before letting go and retreating. “Get out! Get her out! Take the fucking car seat with you. I need the car!”

You got out, got the groceries out and took Ellie out of the back seat, taking the seat out with you. He opened the garage door and shoved you out of the way by the face, his hand pressed up against your face so hard your neck creaked. Luckily, the garage was small, so you managed to lean against the wall to prevent from falling, holding Ellie so tightly the girl squeaked.

You stood there as he reversed the car and peeled off, shaking from the shock of it all.

When he came back to get ready for his shift, he didn’t say a word to you. And life went on as if nothing happened.

You knew right there and then.

You had to get away from him.

Before you met Eric, you were working at a clothing store, trying to save up money to go to nursing school. The other staff were all older than you, all married with children. One day one of the staff, Lucy, didn’t show, and when she finally came in two days later, she had remnants of a black eye on her. Obviously, everyone freaked out for her, but she kept insisting that he didn’t mean to do it. That he was drunk. That she had provoked him by insisting he eat something so he wouldn’t have a hangover the next day.

He shoved the entire bowl full of hash in her face.

And then he punched her.

He was so sorry, she said. He promised he would never do it again, she said. He’s the sweetest man in the world, she said.

You remember Edna, the manager, a kind lady in her 50s, gently taking Lucy by the shoulders and speaking to her in the most maternal voice you had ever heard. “Lucy, sweetheart, once a man realized how easy it is to shut you up with physical harm, they will never stop. They will escalate. Please don’t let this happen to you. Get out. This is not something you forgive, honey,” she had advised.

“He’s my husband,” Lucy said. “I can’t just get out. I’m dependent on him, it’s not like I make a lot of money here. What am I supposed to live on? Where am I supposed to go? Plus, you don’t know him like I do,” she defended him.

“Honey,” Edna said, taking her hands now, “I’m not saying every woman should do this, but now that this happened, even if it’s just once, even if he didn’t mean it, even if he’s sorry,” she said as Lucy opened her mouth to retaliate, “Get a ‘go bag’ just in case.”

“What’s a ‘go bag’?” you asked.

“A bag you can quickly grab and escape with. Essentials. Toothbrush, blanket, a change of clothes, documents, cash,” another staff explained. “It’s usually for emergencies like a fire or something, a ‘just in case’ bag. Women shelters and domestic violence advocates recommend women keep one at home. Particularly if they were battered women.”

The other ladies nodded, as if they all had one stashed away at home already. As if that was an ‘it goes without thinking’ thing everyone did.

Everyone could literally see Lucy bristle. You don’t know him, she said. How dare you say this about him. You haven’t walked a day in my shoes, she said. Stay out of my business, she said.

She quit five minutes later. Packed up her belongings and left.

She was found dead a little over a year later. Her body had so many burn marks, so many cuts and bruises, some healed, most not. The coroner said her arm was broken quite some time before her death and never healed properly, in fact, it was never reset.

Her husband had skipped town with some 18 year old he was cheating on her with. He didn’t even bother to take her to the hospital after beating the living crap out of her.

Edna’s words stayed with you. You needed to get out. He will do it again. It might have started with a hand wrapped around your neck, lightly squeezed, followed by a shove in the face, but that should be enough.

You couldn’t just leave. You didn’t have any money. You didn’t even have a bank account anymore. You were alone. Your parents were long gone, all you had was Maria. That fierce, fiery, childhood friend of yours was all you had. The one person you could rely on.

But you couldn’t tell her. She’s busy. She has her own life. Plus, she lived at the other end of the country. You shouldn’t bother her with this.

God only knew how she would react. After she shoved Missy Gilberts off the swings years ago for pushing you off it, despite not doing anything to defend herself when the bully taunted her relentlessly, you learnt just how protective your friend could be. What if she went too far and ‘shoved’ him? What if he retaliated against her? Harm her in any way? Her job? Her livelihood? Her life?

So you kept quiet and began preparing your exit.

You did small things, things you could do when Eric was at work. Did the neighbours’ laundry, mow their lawns, clean their houses, heck, you even tended to their gardens. Those were the things you could do, and the few who hired you were kind enough to keep the information from Eric. You told them you were planning a vacation for the family and wanted to earn the money yourself. You skimped and saved from the money he gave you weekly, counting every penny to make your goal. Just enough to get plane tickets for you and Ellie to get to Maria, and maybe a few extra dollars for a motel, just until you get a job.

To be honest, when a month went by without incident, you were starting to believe it was an isolated incident. You felt relieved, but kept working to put the money away, realizing that should anything happen, you had no way out. You needed to at least get your ‘go bag’ ready.

A month later, almost to the day, it happened.

He was at work. Ellie was perched up on the kitchen counter, helping you make cookies. A bowl of chocolate cubes next to her. She was pressing a cube into each cookie dough you balled up and placed on a tray with parchment paper. She was having the time of her life, purposely getting her fingers sticky with the soft chocolate and cookie dough, licking and sucking them delightfully between each cookie.

You tickled her, naughty girl, you teased her. Now all the cookies are soiled with your saliva, you joked, tickling her. She squealed, squirming away from your tickling fingers, her laughter ringing true and clear around the house.

The front door slammed shut. So hard, so loud the kitchen vibrated. Ellie jumped, shocked, her hands accidentally swiping the bowl of chocolates. It fell with a crash on the kitchen floor, shattering into a million pieces.

“Stay where you are sweetie, there’s glass on the floor,” you warned.

Eric was standing in front of the door, the house now weirdly quiet. His eyes were closed, his neck taut. He took a deep, calming breath, as if he was on his last nerves before he spoke. And when he did, his voice was so calm it was eerie.

“You think money grows on trees, Ellie? Why did you break the bowl?” he asked, taking slow, deliberate steps towards the kitchen, his heavy work boots echoing.

“Eric, she didn’t mean to, she was shocked, you slammed the door,” you defended your daughter.

“Oh, it’s my fault now, is it?”

“I didn’t say that…”

“So what are you trying to say?”

“It was an accident, she didn’t do it on purpose.”

“And you,” he said, his steps taking him closer and closer, “Why the fuck would you use a glass bowl within her reach? Hmm? You think that bowl is free? Snap your fingers and another will appear?” he asked, snapping his fingers, his boots crunching on the broken glass on the floor.

Before you could answer, your face exploded, and you fell to the floor, the broken glass cutting into your right arm, leg and hip. You heard Ellie scream your name in high pitch, her voice immediately breaking into a cry. You held your left hand up, telling her you were okay, that she should stay where she was, that she shouldn’t move.

You heard his heavy boots move away, and then coming back, before a broom and a scooper fell before you. You looked and saw him retreating to the bedroom, “Clean the fucking mess, and I’d better not see a drop of blood left on the fucking floor!” he barked.

He had slapped you so hard you flew off your feet, one of your house slippers flying off your feet. Your left ear was ringing, your left eye felt as if it had popped out of its socket, the left side of your face red hot from the sting.

You got up, stepping gingerly where you don’t see any chunks of glass through your blurry sight – whether it be from your tears or the confusion and shock of it all, you didn’t know – picked up the broom and scooper, put your slipper back on, brushed the glass shards that stuck to your arm and began sweeping so your daughter wouldn’t accidentally step on glass.

You pushed through the pain and vacuumed the floor and mopped the entire kitchen just in case before picking your daughter up and bringing her to the living room. She wouldn’t let go, wrapping her arms around your neck so tightly you almost couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stop crying, her shaking, sobbing body melded into your own shaky one, still in disbelief.

Eric came back out, showered and changed, rolling his eyes at the sight of the two of you. He grabbed your face tightly, turning it to see your left cheek, now starting to swell. He eyed the cuts on your person, the blood leaking from your wounds did not go unnoticed.

“Clean yourself up. You’d better not waste my insurance on this. Good luck explaining the injuries. Don’t forget, the whole town knows me. Tell anyone, see if they believe you. Report it, see whose side they will take. And don’t leave the house until you heal. If I hear about this from anyone else, you’ll be sorry,” he warned, a finger pointed at your face.

“And you, stop crying. Don’t be such a girl,” he sneered at your crying daughter. With that, he picked up his keys and left the house, slamming the door behind him.

You waited until you heard your car drive away before taking Ellie to the bathroom, sitting her on the toilet before tending to your wounds. Your little girl, your three year old, helped without saying anything, quiet sobs accompanying her tiny hands gently rubbing iodine and antibiotics onto your cuts, lips wobbling every time you hissed in pain.

It wasn’t until the two of you were cuddled up in bed, a pack of frozen peas on your left cheek, that she spoke.

“I’m sorry I break bowl Mama,” she sniffled.

“Hey,” you pulled away to look her in the eyes. She refused to let you go, burying her face in your chest. “Oh, sweetie, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Papa hit you. Because I break bowl,” her sniffles turned into sobs. “I’m sorry Mama,” she cried.

“Sweetie,” you cooed, “Your Papa didn’t hit me because of you. It’s not your fault,” you hugged her tightly, rubbing her back as she sobbed into your chest.

“Yes he hit you because I break bowl,” she reiterated. “Last time he push you because I want to swing,” she continued, and her sobs quickly turned into a wail.

“No, sweetie, no… he didn’t… please don’t blame yourself for this. Please sweetheart, don’t,” you coaxed, trying hard not to let her hear your own breaking voice.

She cried herself to sleep in your arms. You lay there, stroking her hair, wondering how your life turned into this nightmare.

He had done it again. He escalated. Injured you. Even warned you not to go get treatment.

You knew then that even if you walked into the PD with half your face torn off, no one would believe you. He was a cop. A great one, apparently. Kindest of them all. So sweet. So dedicated. Who would believe him to be a wife beater?

The number of times you had run into other officers while going about your days where they recognize you from when he used to take you to events (pre Ellie), telling them how much he talked about you and Ellie, how much he adored his little family, it was all so sweet and adorable.

He made himself out to be the best family man to have ever existed.

Who would believe you? No one.

You kept putting money aside. All your important documents, Ellie’s, were all in an envelope, placed in a gym bag you hid in the kitchen cabinet. He would never look there. It was going to take a while for you to get to your goal, but you were not going to stop. This wasn’t just about you anymore. You were worried he was going to start hurting Ellie. You needed to leave.

Over the next year, he kept at it. The slightest dissatisfaction would earn you a slap at the very least. Being shoved up against the wall was a norm, a hand around the throat? Just another day.

The first time he punched you, your face swelled up so badly he didn’t let you out of the house for two whole weeks. He got the groceries himself. Of course, he made a huge deal about it to his friends and colleagues, how Ellie had the chicken pox, and just as she got better, you came down with a bad cold, so he was being the dutiful husband to make sure the household ran smoothly. Such a sweet man.

It was such an inconvenience for him, having to stop in the middle of his shift to get groceries and spending his days off doing the yard work, he didn’t punch you again. Open palm and hard shoves only. He was careful. No one could ever see the marks.

Until that day.

“Sorry,” you told Joel, “I think I’m up to my limits for today.”

His eyes were soft, tears brimming in them. His hands were still on yours, squeezing gently, trying his best to reassure you that all that was behind you. That you never had to worry about that ever again.

“Joel…” you said, your tears starting to pool, “You haven’t heard everything…”

“It’s okay, I know… I’m just saying that if this goes well,” he said, raising his pointer finger to point at the two of you, “You never have to worry about being treated that way ever again. I would never…”

“I know,” you whispered. “What I’m trying to say is, there are other things that happened, things that I’m not prepared to relive… and in order to tell you, I have to relive them, and I don’t think I should take this further until I do, until you have the chance to know everything and decide for yourself if you want to deal with this.”

He squeezed your hands again, nodding. “Okay,” he said, lifting your hands and kissing them. “But you need to give me a chance to keep trying. I like you, and I’d like to get to know you more. The past is past, I mean, if you can forgive me for yelling at you in the school yard…”

He suddenly stopped talking, his expression changed. There was a horrific look of realisation replacing the earnestness he was sporting mere moments before. He let go of your hands, closed his eyes and rubbed his face. When he finally looked at you again, he looked so remorseful you wanted to comfort him.

He took a very deep breath, “Did you feel threatened by me? Did I make you feel that I might attack you?”

He genuinely looked like he was about to cry. You wanted so badly to comfort him, but nothing came out of your mouth. His face fell. You could tell that he wanted to make you feel better, wanted to comfort you, but he was frozen. He didn’t dare move, lest he frightened you. His fingers, now on his lap, twitched, like he wanted to reach out, but stayed where they were.

“Hey,” you said, reaching out to him instead. The moment your hands touched his, he let out a huge breath of relief, his fingers immediately wrapping around yours. “It’s okay, you didn’t know.”

“No, Annie, it’s not okay. I’m so sorry,” he said. He inched forward, getting closer to you, “I swear I was never going to hit you. I would never do that. My Dad, he used to beat me and Tommy when we were kids. He didn’t do it without reason, more of a punishment, and as far as I know he never beat my Mom, but I swore to never do that to anyone, certainly not a woman I like.”

You smiled, “I know, at least, I do now.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, moving to hug you.

You let him.

And somehow, the two of you ended up falling asleep, fully clothed, in the comfort of each other’s arms.

Green Cove Springs Community Forum

Question by: aspiringauthor334223

Greetings residents of Green Cove Springs.

I am a final year student majoring in journalism. I am currently writing my dissertation titled ‘Narratives of crime in small-town journalism: A media studies approach’ as part of the completion of my degree.

In doing this, I have selected a few small towns (population <10000) across the United States and am studying how one case is reported by the local media, namely how accurate the crimes were being reported.

Obviously, I have access to the media via the internet. I do, however, need to interview a few locals who might know about the cases involved for more details, particularly those that might have been kept out by the media or sensationalized as clickbait.

The case I have in mind for this lovely town is the murder of Officer Eric Williams.

Please do not hesitate to DM me should you have information pertaining this sad case.

Thank you.

gcsresident1778: Dear aspiringauthor334223.

gcsresident1778: I regret to inform you that if that is the case you were hoping to research on, you might find a dead end.

gcsresident1778: Officer William’s death shocked our community. He was a nice guy, always so friendly and helpful. To hear he was killed in his own home, in an invasion at that, was beyond shocking. This is a safe town. It was so sad to learn that he had died protecting his wife and child. The media outlets did report on the case, obviously. But if you had done your research, you will have known that the manner of his death was deemed suspicious when a new witness came forward. You may also know that his wife, who was seriously injured in the attack, became the main suspect due to the new testimony.

gcsresident1778: However, if you searched further, you will find that the case was closed almost immediately. In fact, it is now sealed. You will not find any information on that case any further than what you have found. The media just stopped reporting the case, and his death was ruled as accidental. Nothing more was mentioned after.

gcsresident1778: His wife was taken off the suspect list and she and her daughter left town not long after. It is not known where they are now.

gcsresident1778: I think you would be better off if you chose another case to study instead.

aspiringauthor334223: Thank you for your response.

aspiringauthor334223: Actually, the sudden end to the reporting factors in my interest towards the case. Do you know of anyone I can contact for more details? A family member? Neighbours? Friends?

gcsresident1778: I suppose I can see why the abrupt end to the case would be of interest to you from a journalistic point of view.

gcsresident1778: Unfortunately, I don’t know of anyone you can contact who was close enough to the family, they were rather private, especially the wife and child. The only reason Officer Williams was known to us was because of his duties and proximity to the townsfolk.

gcsresident1778: I would suggest you contact his former patrol partner, but she has since transferred out of town. I don’t know where though, and we were not acquaintances at all so I do not know how you could contact her.

aspiringauthor334223: I could try that, do you know her name?

gcsresident1778: Officer Abigail Anderson.

Part 10

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Walking the red carpet with your man became something you were accustomed to after an almost five year relationship. Going from a normal-ish life of working as a makeup artist on movie sets to the glamorous life that came along with being Pedro Pascal’s fiance was major.

And today? It was the Academy Awards. Pedro had only attended the award show one time before this one and it was still something incredibly new and exciting. He grew up a huge fan of cinema as a kid, watching award shows from home and dreaming about it one day being him attending one. And now he was. But what was even more exciting about this one was the fact he was going with his beautiful woman.

And fuck, did you look fine.

You were dressed in dress Pedro had helped you find. The gown was a sheer black creation, layered with delicate lace and intricate embellishments that shimmer discreetly in the light. Fine beading and sequins are scattered across the fabric, catching in reflections like tiny stars against the dark material. The neckline plunges deeply, framed by detailed lacework that made you feel confident and beautiful, especially so when it made Pedro remind you of your beauty every waking second.

You sat with your legs crossed in your seat in the second row of the Dolby Theatre, your knee bouncing a little anxiously as you listen to the chitter chatter of the audience and the singing from the performers on stage. You were in the last seat nearest to the rows exit, pedro next to you along with an actor and his wife — the actor was one who was featured in the nominated movie Sinners.

You felt a little overwhelmed with the crowd, with the room filled with peers and actors you grew up watching. I mean, Micheal B Jordan was seated in front of you for god sakes.

But Pedro seemed to notice your feelings and his large, calloused hand stayed firmly on your knee, his thumb stroking your knee over the fabric of your dress.

You turn to him when you notice his staring, leaning in close to him to be respectful to those on stage at the time. “Why are you staring at me?” You ask him with a giggle, pulling back to watch his face as you cup his newly smooth cheek, curtesy of the director of De Noche wanting him cleanly shaven.

His eyes stayed glued to you, a beautiful glimmer in the brown orbs you adored as they stared back at you. His hand travels up to your thigh and gently squeezes it, a slow smile crossing his lips. “You just look so beautiful, baby. Can’t get over you — I can’t stop staring at this beautiful face.” He says, raising his hand from your leg and gently chucking you under the chin to empathise his words.

You roll your eyes, a smile growing on your lips despite yourself. “Stop. People are gonna hear you.” You warn flusteredly. This was probably the hundredth time he’d complimented you this evening. He wouldn’t let it go no matter how much you’d tell him to stop flattering you. When you’d revealed your outfit to him back at the hotel, he’d practically dropped to his knees to worship your beauty — pedro was very not dramatic, of course.

Pedro groans exaggeratedly and rolls his head toward you once again as you drop your hand from his face. With your hand off his cheek, he takes the opportunity to copy you and palms your cheek gently. “You’re a literal angel, cariño. I was put on this freakin’ earth to worship you, I can’t just stop when others are around. Fuck, I can’t wait to get you home.”

You chuckle and raise your eyebrows, speaking quiet enough for nobody else to hear but loud enough for him to. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do to me at home?” You ask innocently, playing into his flirting.

Pedro beams like he’s just won a prize. He sighs like he can’t decide where to begin. “Oh, baby. I’m gonna show you exactly how fucking sexy you are. Gonna show you just how much I love my gorgeous fiance.”

“Mhm?” You hum, removing his hand from your face and holding it in yours. You run your thumb over the rough skin of the back of his hand, bringing it up to your lips and pressing a gentle kiss there. “Are you gonna be nice and gentle with me? Make love to me?” You ask. Normally, with how completely gorgeous pedro is, you’re more down for rougher, enthusiastic sex with him. Foreheads smushed together as you both show each other exactly how much the other means to them.

But tonight, you were feeling a little more romantic. A little more loving and craved more of these soft touches he was giving you throughout the whole night. The sweet brushes of his hands on your back, guiding you through the crowd, brushing your hair from your face while you laughed and caressing your thighs and hips while you sat next to him when others weren’t looking.

Something in Pedro’s features softened as he looked back at you. He loved how you looked — of course he did, maybe a little too much if he was being honest, but he also loved that heart of yours. He loved getting all sweet and soft with you, laying you down on your back and tasting your beautiful pussy, listening to the sounds you made and kissing away your tears of pleasure. Or when you’d hold him so tightly, mouth moving against his as you bounced on his lap, taking the both of you to paradise. Whispering the sweetest things into his ear as he’d cradle your body in his arms.

He leans into you again, cupping your face with both hands and pressing a kiss to your lips that lingered just long enough not to be viewed as over-the-top PDA by people who may or may not have seen. “Is that what you need? For me to make love to you? You know I’d give you anything you want.” He states in a whisper in your ear.

You nod slowly, pulling him back by the collar and grinning happily. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Only,” you say as you raise a finger in a teasing warning. “—If you behave yourself and stop flattering me 24/7. Now gimme one more kiss and stop talking over the damn performance.”

And when you two got home? Oh, he did just as you’d requested.

But Texas wasn't cruel about it either. There was a different kind of mercy in the heat that clung to the windows even after dark, in the scrubby, sun-bleached scenery that had never once tried to compete with a skyline. New York made you feel like an ant crawling between glass towers. This, this flat, wide, cricket-loud dark, made you feel like something with actual weight again, feet planted on the same dirt you'd grown up running barefoot across. You'd lived here almost your whole life before you hadn't. Of course some part of you still fit the shape of it.

You stared up at the popcorn ceiling, tracing the bumps and shadows into shapes that weren't really there, a lopsided star, a rabbit with one ear, a scatter that looked almost like the freckles on Joel's shoulder if you squinted hard enough and hated yourself a little. The trees outside threw restless shadows across the comforter, black lace shifting every time the wind picked up.

Someone else, in some other life, might've found this peaceful. The kind of quiet you could sink into. But every time your eyes started to drift shut, your whole body would jerk back awake, chest heaving, heart slamming against your ribs like it was trying to escape the room without you. Even as you forced yourself to breathe through it, slow in, slower out, the adrenaline didn't fade. It just sat there in your blood, patient, waiting for the thoughts to catch up.

What if he gets up without calling for you? What if he falls? What if he wakes up remembering Claire? Or worse… what if he wakes up remembering everything?

Fuck it. Lying here dissecting your own nervous system wasn't doing anyone any good.

You pushed the sheets off, the cool air biting at your bare legs, and picked your way across the cold hardwood with the kind of practiced, silent stealth that came back to you frighteningly fast, third board from the closet creaks, skip it, the one by the dresser groans low, step wide.

Joel's door sat cracked open exactly the way you'd left it. Moonlight slid in through a gap in the curtains, laying a pale stripe across his bicep, his chest, catching on the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing. He looked almost peaceful like this. Almost like none of the last twenty-four hours had happened at all.

You crossed the room slowly, kneeling by the edge of the mattress, leaning in close enough that his exhale ghosted warm against your cheek.

"Joel?" Barely a whisper.

Nothing. Your pulse ticked up a notch.

You leaned closer still, close enough to catch the smell of him, that low, warm mix of sleep and skin and something underneath that was just him, unchanged by five years or state lines. "Joel. Hey. Wake up."

His eyes dragged open, slow and heavy-lidded, and for one full, suspended second, he didn't move. He just looked at you. Then his brow furrowed, deep and genuine, confusion spreading over his face like a shadow crossing water.

"I'm sorry… who're you?"

The words hit you like a dropped glass, all sharp edges and sudden silence.

"What? Are you- Are you serious? Joel, it's me." The words came out before you could stop them, panic cracking your voice down the middle as your hand shot out to grab his wrist. The floor seemed to tilt beneath your knees. This was it. This was the nightmare you'd been rehearsing all night, the hole in his memory finally widening enough to swallow you whole too.

You were already halfway to your feet, already reaching for where you'd left your phone, Dr. Anders's number burning behind your eyes, when a low rumble started building in his chest.

Then he lost it completely.

Joel's shoulders shook, the vacant look melting off his face in an instant, replaced by that familiar, wicked glint you hadn't seen in five long years, the one that used to mean you were about thirty seconds from wanting to strangle him.

"God, darlin'," he wheezed, dragging a hand down his face, laughter cracking his voice in half. “You shoulda seen yourself. Went white as a damn sheet. Looked like you'd seen a ghost-“

"You-" Your voice came out strangled. "You son of a bitch."

The adrenaline that had kept you upright curdled instantly into something hot and shaking. You swiped at your eyes and realized, humiliatingly, that they'd gone wet. "That's not funny, Joel. That's not even a little bit funny."

"Aww, c'mere." His laughter softened into something gentler, something almost sorry, and his hand found your wrist before you could retreat into the hallway and slam the door on both of you. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. You were hoverin' over me like a nurse waitin' for me to flatline… it was just too easy."

He tugged, gentle but insistent, and because you were bone-tired and your defenses had been worn down to nothing, you let him pull you down onto the edge of the mattress.

"You jerk." You dragged in a breath, steadying yourself, glaring at him through the dark. "You're lucky you're fragile right now, because I would not be this forgivin' under normal circumstances."

"I'm a jerk with a broken leg and a concussion," he reminded you, thumb tracing slow, absent circles over the back of your hand. "Give a man a little grace."

You looked at him, really looked, the moonlight carving soft silver along his jaw, and for one unguarded second, the clinical, careful silence of the room cracked open to let a memory through. A real one. Warm and whole and untouched by everything that came after.

"Grace?" A small, involuntary laugh slipped free, the corner of your mouth twitching upward before you could stop it. "The last time I gave you grace, I spent four hours in the middle of the night pressin' cold, wet towels to your face because you thought you could handle that monster of a 'Hell-Fire' wing at the state fair."

Joel's eyes lit up like a struck match. A genuine, booming laugh rolled out of him, cutting off into a wince and a grin at the same time. "Hey!” he whisper shouted, “That guy told me nobody had ever finished the whole thing. I liked my odds."

"You had one bite. A single bite," you shot back, the tension bleeding slowly out of your shoulders as the memory unfurled fully in front of you. "You were cryin', Joel. Actual, silent tears runnin' down your face while you tried to insist it 'wasn't even that spicy' through lips swollen to three times their normal size."

"I was fine," he wheezed, his thumb pausing over your knuckles just long enough to squeeze. "And you didn't leave me to suffer alone, either. Sat on the edge of that tub and hand-fed me ice cream for two hours while I hummed every song I could think of just to keep from screamin' like a man bein' murdered."

The memory hit you with a warmth you weren't remotely prepared for, the two of you crammed into that too-small bathroom, knees knocking, laughing until your ribs ached because your big, stubborn Texan husband had finally, gloriously met his match in a ghost pepper. That was the Joel you'd fallen for. Not the man who cheated. Not the man who let you down, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to salvage. Just this, too stubborn for his own good, and somehow, impossibly, still yours in this one suspended moment.

"I think Tommy still has the photo of your face the next morning," you murmured, the smile softening into something quieter, more dangerous, as your fingers found their way into his hair without permission from the rest of you.

"Probably," Joel said softly, leaning into the touch without thinking, his other hand still wrapped loosely around yours, refusing to let go. His eyes had gone heavy again, humor giving way to that raw, medicated exhaustion tugging at the edges of him.

You stayed there, letting your fingers rake slowly through the salt-and-pepper strands, the motion so familiar it felt like no time had passed at all, like the last five years had folded up small enough to fit in your back pocket and disappear.

"Have you slept at all?" he asked, breaking the quiet that had settled comfortably between you.

"A little," you lied.

He shook his head slow against the pillow. "Liar." A pause. "But I haven't either."

His smile finally faded, something more solemn taking its place. He glanced at the empty stretch of mattress beside him, your side, once, a lifetime ago.

"Just stay. At least till I fall asleep." His voice dropped, rough at the edges. "You know I can't sleep without you…"

You knew you should walk away. You knew the real Joel, the one who should be sitting across from you, had spent the last five years sleeping just fine without you, had probably slept in this very bed with someone else, for all you knew. But the "Hell-Fire" Joel, the one still hovering warm and unguarded in the air between you, was the man you'd never quite managed to stop loving, no matter how far you ran or how many state lines you put between yourself and Texas. You were so tired. And the scent of the room, cedar and rain-cooled cotton, was pulling at a version of you too worn down to keep fighting it at three in the morning.

"Just for a little while," you whispered, finally caving, climbing over the edge of the mattress onto what used to be your side. You stayed close to the edge, spine to him, eyes fixed on the shifting shadows against the wall.

"You're gonna fall clean off the bed if you get any further away," Joel mumbled, words already slurring soft with sleep.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted. He didn't pull you against him, just leaned forward until his forehead came to rest between your shoulder blades, warm and solid and asking nothing more of you than this. It wasn't a demand. It was an anchor.

"No more spicy wings," he breathed against your shirt, voice thinning to almost nothing. "Promise."

A stray, broken laugh caught in your throat. You closed your eyes. For the first time since the phone had rung in your apartment a lifetime ago, the static behind your ribs finally went quiet. Joel's breathing deepened, slow and even, and as the Texas night pressed soft against the windows, you let your head sink into the pillow until your own breath found the same rhythm as his.

The morning sun didn't ease in. It arrived with an arrogance, bold and gold, forcing its way through every gap the curtains failed to cover.

You didn't wake to an alarm. You woke to weight. Heavy, solid, radiating heat like a furnace banked low overnight. For one long, hazy minute, the past folded seamlessly into the present, and God, it was a gift you hadn't earned. You melted further into it before your brain caught up, and a large, calloused hand moved instinctively to follow, splaying flat against your stomach, drawing you back against a broad, warm chest. A face nuzzled into the curve of your neck, breath slow and hot against your skin.

"Stay," Joel murmured, the word rough with sleep, vibrating straight through you. His lips began a slow drift down your neck, tracing a path they'd memorized a lifetime ago, grazing skin in a way your body remembered even when your mind was screaming at you to run.

You let out a soft, involuntary hum, tilting your head to give him more room before you'd made a single conscious decision to do so. Your hips rolled back on instinct, chasing a heat you thought you'd forgotten how to want.

Joel met the movement instantly, hips answering yours, his hand sliding higher up your abdomen to anchor you flush against him. The friction dragged a low, rough sound out of his chest, half groan, half your name.

"Fuck, darlin'," he breathed.

Your eyes flew open.

Reality hit like a bucket of ice water straight down your spine. This wasn't your husband. This was your ex-husband, tangled around you like you were the only solid thing left in his world, and every nerve in your body had just betrayed you completely.

Your heart lurched. You scrambled, all frantic, jerky movement, peeling his heavy arm off your waist as gently as a panicking person possibly could, careful not to jostle the cast between you. Joel groaned low in protest, eyes fluttering without fully opening, his hand already searching the cooling sheets you'd abandoned.

"Sweetheart?" Half a question, thick with sleep.

"I'm up!" Your voice came out two octaves too bright, too fast, as you shoved your hair back and swung your legs over the side of the bed. "I'm up- I have to make breakfast. The pills. You need to eat before the morning pills."

You were out the door before he could fully process the sentence, feet hitting cold hardwood, heart hammering a frantic, guilty rhythm as you all but sprinted down the hallway. You didn't look back once.

The kitchen felt like a sanctuary you hadn't earned. You braced both palms against the counter, chest heaving, staring at the coffee maker like it might have answers. Get it together. It was one night. One accidental, half-asleep tangle of limbs. It didn't mean anything.

But your skin was still humming everywhere he'd touched it, and it had been the best sleep you'd had in years, and that had nothing to do with Joel. Obviously. You were exhausted, emotionally wrung out, running on fumes. Joel had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Right.

To drown out the increasingly unconvincing arguments your own conscience kept lobbing at you, you moved. You cracked eggs with more force than necessary, let bacon spit and hiss in the pan, gripped the spatula like it was the only thing tethering you to the room. Between tasks, you fired off a text to Tommy:

Can you come by soon, everything's fine, I just need to get out of the house for a bit 

And true to Tommy fashion, all you got back was a thumbs-up.

You were halfway through plating breakfast when the uneven rhythm of crutches started down the stairs, thump-drag, thump-drag, growing louder as it approached the kitchen. Your shoulders went rigid on reflex.

"Somethin' in here smells like heaven," Joel's voice drifted in, clearer now, the sleep mostly shaken off his words.

You turned, a bright, brittle smile already fixed in place, armored and ready before you lost your nerve completely.

He swung himself into the doorway, hair a wrecked mess of sleep-mussed curls, gray henley stretched taut across his shoulders. His eyes moved over the spread. Bacon, eggs, toast browned just shy of burnt, before landing on you. Whatever intensity had softened with sleep sharpened right back up in the morning light.

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble, darlin'."

"It's no trouble." Your movements were quick, clipped, efficient, as you set his plate down at the table. "Doctor said you need to eat well. Helps the bone knit back together. Sit. Please."

You watched him lower himself into the chair, every motion a small, careful negotiation with the cast. You ate in a silence too loud for comfort, the scrape of forks against ceramic the only thing standing between you and the scream building somewhere behind your sternum. You were so focused on your eggs you didn't notice him watching until you glanced up for the salt.

"You're quiet today," Joel noted, thumb tracing the rim of his mug. "Even for you."

"Just thinking through the to-do list," you lied smoothly, already standing to clear your plate though you'd barely touched it, appetite long gone. "Errands. Groceries. Some household things. Tommy's coming by to keep you company."

His brow pulled together. "Groceries? We got plenty in the pantry."

"There's half a bag of flour and a jar of pickles, Joel." A little more of your natural edge slipped through despite yourself. "That's not a pantry. That's a cry for help."

A real, warm laugh broke out of him. "Alright, alright. Whatever you say."

Tommy showed up twenty minutes later looking like he'd had just as rough a night as you had. He gave you a knowing, exhausted look as you grabbed your keys off the counter.

"Take your time," he muttered, leaning back against the island. "I'll make sure he doesn't try anything stupid."

The second the truck door clicked shut behind you, you felt something in your chest finally unclench. You drove toward the nearest Target with the windows cracked, letting the hum of the highway steady your nerves in a way the too-quiet house never could. You needed to buy a life. Shampoo that matched the brand in your New York shower. A spare toothbrush. A stack of paperbacks. Anything to fill the hollow, scrubbed-clean spaces in that house before Joel started asking questions his amnesia couldn't cover for.

But before you went inside, you sat in the parking lot with the engine ticking as it cooled and dialed a number you knew by heart.

"You're alive!" Winnie's voice crackled through, loud and vividly herself. "I was about to file a missing persons report. Do the Texas Rangers still exist? Is there a horse involved in this rescue?"

A small, genuinely helpless laugh cracked out of you before you could stop it. "Winnie. God, it is so good to hear your voice."

The line went quiet for exactly one beat. Winnie's tone shifted instantly, teasing dropping away for something razor-sharp. "Okay. Talk to me. What's going on? Is he okay? Are you okay?"

"Work," you started, your lawyer brain scrambling for the wheel. "How's the Henderson filing? Did the partners-"

"Forget the Henderson filing." Winnie cut you off flat. "I want to know why you sound about three seconds from a total breakdown. Straight talk. What the hell is happening down there?"

You dropped your forehead against the steering wheel, the gold band catching the light through the windshield. "He has amnesia, Winnie. He thinks it's five years ago. He thinks we're still married. And the doctor told me I can't tell him the truth, not yet. Says it could shock his brain into shutting the whole process down."

"Wait." Winnie's breath caught audibly. "So you're… you're living in that house? Playing house? With the man who-"

"Yes," you whispered. "I'm in the guest room. Or I was. I'm wearing the ring, Winnie. I made him bacon and eggs this morning like the last five years never happened."

"Hold on, hold on- were in the guest room? What does that mean?"

You let out a slow breath, wincing even though she couldn't see it. "I went to check on him last night and… may have laid down to comfort him. And before I knew it, I was asleep."

"Okay, we're circling back to that. What's he like? Is he the same?"

You closed your eyes, and for a second you could feel the phantom weight of his arm slung heavy across your waist from that morning, feel the heat radiating off him, hear the way he'd said darlin' like it was something sacred.

"That's the problem," you said, voice cracking down the middle. "He's better, Winnie. He's patient. He's kind. He looks at me like I'm the only person left in the world. He looks at me the way he used to, before everything turned ugly. It's like the last five years just… didn't happen to him. But they happened to me. I'm the only one who remembers how it ended, and it's making me feel like I'm losing my mind."

"You need to tread careful, honey," Winnie said, grave now. "Memory's a tricky thing. But muscle memory? That's the real killer. You stay detached, you hear me? Don't let the good version trick you into forgetting why you left in the first place."

"I know." You watched a mother wrangle a shopping cart across the lot, oblivious to the small disaster unfolding in your chest. "I know. I just have to get through the next few weeks. Buy some clothes. Act like I belong there."

"Call me every day," Winnie ordered. "And if he starts looking too good in flannel, you call me immediately. I’ll read you your own divorce decree over the phone if I have to."

You laughed, thin and watery. "Deal."

Inside, you moved through the aisles slower than you needed to, letting the fluorescent hum and cart-wheel squeak fill the silence in your head. Joel's pantry situation turned out to be even sadder up close, one man's worth of groceries, cooking for no one, for years. You tried not to think too hard about what that said.

By the time you loaded the bags into the truck bed, you'd gone fully numb to the strangeness of it all, letting your body drive on autopilot while the rest of you floated somewhere just outside your own skin.

You don't remember turning onto his street. Don't remember slowing at the stop sign, or the way your hand reached automatically to lower a radio that had never even been on.

But when the house comes into view, your grip tightens hard around the wheel.

Still the same. Same wraparound porch, same chipped white paint curling off the railing in thin ribbons, same stubborn wind chime that always catches one note too sharp whenever the breeze shifts.

You pull into the driveway, gravel popping and crunching under the tires.

And there he is.

Joel sits in the old wooden rocking chair on the porch, one leg propped awkwardly in its cast, a sweating glass of water forgotten on the little table beside him. The chair creaks low and steady beneath him, back and forth, like he's got nowhere else in the world to be.

Like he's been waiting the whole time.

His head lifts at the sound of the engine, and the second his eyes find you, his whole face opens up — soft, lit from somewhere underneath, in a way that lands square in your chest before you can brace for it.

He smiles. The real one.

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. "There she is."

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat.

For one dangerous second, everything else goes quiet, the heat pressing down, the gravel under your shoes, the static behind your ribs, and it feels easy. Frighteningly, seductively easy.

You swallow it down hard, forcing your focus back onto the task in front of you as you cut the engine and climb out. Heat wraps around you instantly, thick and close. You circle to the truck bed, hauling bags out one by one, aware the entire time of his eyes tracking your every movement, warm and unguarded in that way you used to live for.

Your arms are full by the time you shove the tailgate shut with your hip, turning toward the house-

"Well, I'll be damned."

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn.

Mrs. Carter is standing at the edge of the driveway, sandals scuffing to a stop, a canvas grocery bag hooked over one arm. Her eyes flick between you and the porch, lighting up like she's just stumbled onto the best gossip of her week.

"Well, look at this," she says, beaming. "It's real good to see you back."

Your stomach drops straight through the driveway.

Don't look at him. Don't look at him.

"Joel's been a wreck since you've been gone," she adds, breezy, like it's the most ordinary sentence in the world.

Everything in you goes rigid. You can hear the uneven scrape of crutches approaching behind you, and every nerve in your body screams like a struck wire.

The bags dig deep grooves into your fingers. Your lungs feel too small for the air you're pulling into them. Your mouth works before your brain fully catches up.

"Yeah-" You shift the bags, voice pitching too quick, too bright. "Just work stuff. New York got a little crazy for a while."

A beat.

Then, oblivious, Mrs. Carter presses on: "Well, that sure was a long time to be gone for work. Didn't y'all get-"

You cut her off with a sudden, violent coughing fit, loud enough to swallow the end of her sentence whole.

You feel it before you even look, Joel's attention sharpening, the crutches' rhythm slowing to a stop.

"Been gone?" His voice carries from behind you. Not loud. Just enough.

You turn just far enough to catch him leaning forward on the crutches, brow furrowed, gaze moving between you and Mrs. Carter. Not angry. Not yet suspicious. Just trying, earnestly, to make the pieces fit.

Your stomach folds in on itself.

Before you can force out any kind of answer-

"Oh," Joel says, something clicking visibly into place behind his eyes. His shoulders ease. "Yeah. She had to head up to New York for a bit. Work stuff."

Your breath catches hard in your throat.

Mrs. Carter nods immediately, satisfied, no further push behind it. "Well, I'm just glad you're back. He wasn't himself without you."

You force a small smile, knuckles white around the bags. "Yeah… I'm back."

"Well, don't be a stranger now." She's already turning to go. "Town's too small for that."

You nod, barely registering her retreating steps, her words hanging thick and unresolved in the heavy afternoon air.

Silence settles over the driveway.

"You didn't tell me you were gone that long," Joel says quietly. "She made it sound like months."

You shift the bags again, using them as a shield, a reason not to fully face him.

"It wasn't a big deal," you say too fast. "Just work. You know how it gets."

You brace for more. It doesn't come.

Joel just nods, easy, like the explanation slots cleanly into whatever version of the last five years he's built for himself.

"Hey." Softer now. "You're here now. That's all I care about."

You swallow around the lump lodged in your throat and move past him toward the door, shouldering it open before you have to look at his face any longer.

The lie had been easy inside the house.

Out here, in the open air, in front of witnesses who remembered things you'd rather stay buried, it was already starting to crack.

Dinner passed in a quiet neither of you seemed eager to disturb. Not uncomfortable, exactly, just careful, like every thread of conversation wanted to wander somewhere dangerous before one of you gently steered it back to safer ground. You talked about Tommy burning an entire pot of instant rice that afternoon. About the heat finally letting up after sundown. About how Joel swore the new medication made everything taste like wet cardboard, which earned him a pointed look and a laugh when he grimaced dramatically through a bite of green beans. For one fleeting, unguarded stretch of time, it almost felt like an ordinary evening between two ordinary people.

When the plates were empty, Joel insisted on helping clear them despite every protest you offered. Predictably, he nearly lost his balance two steps from the sink, trying to juggle a stack of dishes and his crutches at once, and only avoided disaster because you lunged and caught the plates just before they hit the floor.

"I was helpin'," he defended, grinning like a man who knew exactly how close that had been.

"You were two seconds from breakin' your other leg."

"Worth a shot."

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile you couldn't fully suppress as you steered him toward the back door. "Go sit down before I have to explain to Dr. Anders how you survived fallin' off a scaffold just to wipe out in your own kitchen."

"Yes, ma'am."

The screen door creaked shut behind him, and a moment later, the low, warm sound of guitar strings drifted back through the open kitchen window.

Your hands stilled beneath the running water almost instantly.

The melody started soft, almost absent-minded, his fingers finding their footing before he committed to the rhythm, but you recognized it before he'd made it through the first line. It wasn't a song anyone else would know. Joel had written it years ago, during one of those long, slow stretches when work dried up and he'd spend whole evenings on the porch with a beer sweating in one hand and the guitar balanced across his lap. He always swore it wasn't finished. He played it often enough that you used to hum along without meaning to, the melody stitched somewhere permanent under your skin.

You couldn't remember the last time you'd heard it before tonight.

The sponge sat forgotten in your hand, water running cold over your fingers, your eyes drawn helplessly toward the window. Outside, the porch light threw a warm gold halo over the railing, and you could just make out Joel's silhouette rocking slow in the old chair, cast stretched stiff in front of him. His fingers moved over the strings without hesitation, without searching, like his hands had never once forgotten the shape of this song even while the rest of him forgot everything after it.

Memory was a strange, uneven thing, you thought. His mind couldn't hold onto the last five years. But his hands still knew every chord by heart.

You finished the dishes slower than you needed to, drying each plate with your attention fixed somewhere far past the kitchen wall. By the time you folded the towel over the sink's edge, the song had wound down to its last, unresolved note, leaving only the steady chorus of crickets to fill the space it left behind.

When you stepped out onto the porch, Joel looked up with an easy smile that hadn't dimmed once since you'd gotten home.

"There you are," he said. "Thought maybe you drowned in the sink."

"I was cleaning."

"You've been cleanin' for fifteen minutes."

"There were a lot of dishes."

He gave you a look that made it clear he wasn't buying a word of it, but instead of pushing, he just nodded toward the empty rocking chair beside him. "Come sit."

You hesitated only a beat before lowering yourself into it, the old wood groaning softly under your weight. The evening had cooled just enough to make sitting outside comfortable, the air carrying the green smell of cut grass and the distant, half-hearted bark of someone's dog down the road. Joel rested the guitar flat across his lap, plucking one more absent chord, his gaze fixed somewhere out past the yard.

"Haven't played in a while," he said after a minute.

"You haven't forgotten how."

A faint smile. "Guess not."

His fingers brushed the strings again before his eyes slid sideways to you. "Funny thing is, I didn't even have to think about it. Hands just knew where to go on their own."

You followed his gaze down to the guitar, your stomach tightening into a slow, cold knot.

"Muscle memory," you murmured.

"Yeah."

The silence that settled between you was comfortable for exactly one breath. You could feel him studying the side of your face, and when you finally glanced over, he made no attempt to pretend otherwise.

"What?" you asked.

He lifted one shoulder in a slow shrug. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I just-" He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, hunting for the right words. "You've been lookin' at me funny all day."

"I've been making sure you're okay."

"I know the difference."

The certainty in his voice caught you completely off guard.

"You keep watchin' me like you're waitin' on somethin'. Like every time I walk into a room, you're wonderin' if today's the day somethin' finally changes."

Your gaze dropped to your hands, folded tight in your lap.

"Did I do somethin'?" he asked quietly.

The question landed harder than you were braced for.

"What?"

"Before I got hurt." He spoke slower now, piecing the thought together carefully as he stared out past the porch rail. "Did we have a fight? Did I say somethin' stupid? Everybody keeps lookin' at me like there's some big thing nobody's tellin' me, and I hit my head, darlin', I didn't lose my whole damn mind."

You let out a slow breath, fingers tightening around each other.

"The doctor wants your memories comin' back on their own."

Joel frowned. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got."

"No, it isn't."

His tone wasn't angry. If anything, it sounded worn thin, tired in a way that had nothing to do with the concussion.

"You could tell me."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because Dr. Anders thinks it could do more harm than good."

Joel let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head at the guitar in his lap. "So everybody gets to know what's wrong with me except me."

"That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?"

You opened your mouth. Nothing came.

He looked up again, and whatever frustration had been simmering behind his eyes had softened into something that ached far worse to look at.

"I'm scared," he admitted, voice quiet in the dark. "I wake up every mornin' feelin' like I'm readin' the middle of somebody else's story. Tommy keeps lookin' at me like he's about to say somethin' and then swallows it back down. Mrs. Carter's got memories I don't. The nurses talked to me like I might shatter if somebody said the wrong word." He swallowed hard, eyes finding yours again in the porch light. "And you- you look at me like you're carryin' around the one answer I'm not allowed to ask for."

Tears pricked hot at the backs of your eyes.

"I'm trying to help you."

"I know."

"Then trust me."

"I do trust you." The answer came instant, unhesitating, and somehow that only made it worse.

"I just don't understand why everybody else gets to decide what I can handle."

The words hung there, carried off slowly by the breeze moving through the trees at the edge of the yard.

You stared out past the porch rail, blinking hard against the sting building behind your eyes.

"I hate lying to you."

The confession slipped free before you could stop it.

Joel was quiet a long moment before he finally spoke. "Then don't."

You laughed, soft and utterly without humor. "If it were that simple, don't you think I would've already?"

He searched your face for something you couldn't give him. Eventually he nodded, more to himself than to you, and reached carefully for his crutches, setting the guitar against the railing.

"I don't wanna fight with you," he said, pushing himself up, finding his balance with a slight hobble. "I just, I need you to promise me somethin'."

You looked up.

"When I do remember-" He paused, gripping the crutch handles a little tighter. "Don't let everybody else tell me who I was before I get the chance to figure it out for myself."

Your throat closed around a knot you couldn't swallow.

He wasn't asking if he'd remember.

He believed, completely, that he would.

What he was really asking was whether the man waiting for him on the other side of that memory was someone worth becoming again.

"I promise," you whispered.

Joel held your gaze a second longer before offering a tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good," he murmured. "Because I'm startin' to think whoever that guy is… everybody's a little afraid of him."

The screen door swung shut softly behind him, leaving you alone on the porch with the guitar propped against the railing and the weight of a promise you weren't entirely sure you could keep. The night stretched on, quiet and endless around you, and for the first time since you'd landed back in Texas, you found yourself wondering if the thing you feared most wasn't Joel remembering at all.

Maybe it was what the truth would do to both of you once he finally did.

Of course the house would look the same. Of course it would bring everything back.

Joel kept the house in the divorce. It made sense. You were the one leaving Texas, chasing something new, something far enough away that it wouldn’t feel like this. You knew all of that. You told yourself you were prepared for it.

Still, standing outside, staring at it, the familiarity knocked the air from your chest.

And then you stepped inside, and whatever breath you had left disappeared completely.

Nothing had changed.

Maybe a different TV mounted above the mantle, but everything else was exactly as you remembered. The same couch. The same backsplash in the kitchen. The same wallpaper, the same carpet.

The same wedding photos.

They hung exactly where you had placed them, like time had decided to stop here and never move forward.

The memory hits you before you can brace for it.

The day you got the photos back from the photographer, you had been so happy you could barely sit still. You wanted them printed immediately, couldn’t stand the idea of them just living on a screen. Joel had insisted on making the frames himself, staying up late at the kitchen table, measuring twice, sanding the edges down until they were perfect.

You had loved them more because he made them.

Before you can stop yourself, your hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly over the glass. Over your faces. Over a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore.

As if touching it might bring it back.

It doesn’t.

You haven’t been that happy in years. And somewhere along the way, you stopped believing you ever would be again.

New York had been hard at first. Too loud, too fast, too unfamiliar. But eventually, that became the point. Life moved quickly enough that you could get lost in it. In the noise, in the people, in the work.

Especially the work.

You landed a job at an up-and-coming law firm not long after you moved. Women-run. Sharp. Driven. The kind of place where no one questioned whether you belonged in the room. The past three years had been good. Busy in the best way. The firm was growing, and so were you.

And Winnie made it easier.

Your boss, technically. But never really just that. She was the kind of person you could grab drinks with after work, the kind who called you out when you needed it and sat with you when things got heavy. She told you things you didn’t always want to hear, but probably needed to.

Like last week.

“You’re too buried in work,” she had said, sliding a drink across the table to you. “At some point, you have to let yourself live a little.”

You had laughed it off.

But she wasn’t wrong.

Ever since the divorce, nothing had felt the same. No one had felt the same.

You tried. God, you tried.

You even switched it up completely. Went out with a girl you met on Tinder, thinking maybe you had just been looking in the wrong place this whole time. But there was nothing there. No spark. No pull.

Then there was Eli.

Four months. Four months of trying to convince yourself that something would click eventually. That feelings could grow if you just gave them enough time.

He was perfect on paper. Smart, funny, great hair, an even better smile. The kind of green eyes people wrote poetry about. Stable job, good with money, kind in a way that didn’t feel performative.

He should have been everything.

But he wasn’t.

And you couldn’t fake it forever.

Winnie never understood that part. She couldn’t understand why you let him go, why you wouldn’t even let her set herself up with him after.

But you knew. He wasn’t for you. And you weren’t for him.

Maybe that was just it. Maybe you weren’t meant for anyone anymore.

The thought settles heavier than you expect.

You thought if you moved seventeen hundred miles away, the air would taste different. You thought if you traded the sound of cicadas for sirens, you’d finally be able to hear your own thoughts without his voice interrupting them.

And for five years, you lied to yourself. You told Winnie, you told Eli, you told the mirror every morning that you were ‘cured.’ That Joel was just a fever that had finally broken.

But then the phone rang. A Texas area code. And before the woman on the other end even says his name, your heart is already at the airport. It didn’t ask for permission. It didn’t remember the yelling, or the boots tracking mud, or... or Claire. It just knew its owner was in trouble.

The doctors call it retrograde amnesia. They say his brain has a hole in it where the last five years should be. He looks at me and he doesn’t see the woman who slammed the door and signed the papers. He sees the girl who promised to love him until the end of the world.

And God, that’s the knife, isn't it? Because he forgot how to stop loving you... but you never even learned how.

You’ve spent five years building a fortress in New York. Steel, glass, billable hours, and expensive gin. You thought you were strong. But you walk into this house, our house, and you see the frames he sanded by hand. You smell the cedar and the dust. And you realize you haven't been 'living' in New York. You’ve just been holding your breath.

You look at him in that hospital bed, and he calls you 'sweetheart,' and for a split second, the world stops shaking. The anger? It’s there. The betrayal? It’s screaming. But under all that rubble... it’s still him. It was always him.

That’s the real tragedy. Not the accident. Not the memory loss. It’s the fact that you could be anywhere in the world, with anyone else, and you’d still be waiting for a Texas area code to light up your screen.

You never left him. You just changed your address.

You move further into the house, and every floorboard that groans under your weight sounds like an accusation. Each step feels like you’re trespassing on a version of your life that died a long time ago. Or at least, it was supposed to be dead.

Because it isn’t yours. Not anymore.

Your life is six floors up in Manhattan, tucked into an apartment that smells like the burnt espresso from the shop downstairs. It’s a space defined by west-facing windows and the sunset bleeding over the skyline while you sit in your nook, anonymous and safe. That life is quiet. That life is earned.

This? This is a haunting.

You make your way to the bedroom, the door creaking with that same familiar, high-pitched hitch that Joel always promised to oil but never did. The bed is a time capsule, same frame, same comforter, the same dent in the mattress where he sleeps. It’s like the house itself refused to believe you were gone.

You don't let yourself look. You can't. Instead, you move with a clinical, frantic energy, grabbing a duffel bag and raking clothes out of drawers. You focus on the fabric, the tactile reality of denim and cotton, anything to keep your mind from drifting toward the scent of his detergent.

But then, you open the sock drawer.

The air in the room suddenly feels twice as heavy. There, resting against the dark wood like a silent heart, is a small velvet box. Your stomach drops before your hand even reaches for it. You know. You know what’s in there, but your fingers move on an instinct you thought you’d killed years ago.

You flip it open.

There it is. Joel’s heavy gold band, scratched and dull from years of work. And nestled right beside it, tucked into the same velvet slot as if it never left, is yours.

The breath leaves your lungs in a ragged rush.

You remember the exact spot you left that ring five years ago. You’d placed it on the kitchen counter next to the keys, a cold, silver period at the end of a very long sentence. You walked out and never looked back.

But he hadn't thrown it away. He hadn’t pawned it for a bottle of bourbon or hurled it into the brush. He’d brought it in here. He’d kept them together. Like they still had a promise to keep.

Your chest tightens so violently you have to press your palm against your sternum, trying to keep your heart from hammering its way out. The silence of the house is suddenly deafening, filled with the ghost of the woman who used to wear that ring.

If I’m his wife, the thought hits you with the force of a physical blow, I have to look the part.

Dr. Anders’s voice echoes in your head, clinical and detached: Treat things as normally as possible. Don’t contradict him. You are his anchor.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the ring. It’s cold against your skin, but as you slide it back onto your finger, it fits perfectly. Infuriatingly perfectly. It’s a weight you aren't ready to carry again, a gold shackle that tells the world a lie you’re starting to realize you never truly stopped believing.

The "Mrs. Miller" you left behind in Texas wasn't dead. She was just waiting for him to call her home.

Your fingers tremble as you reach into the box. You pluck the ring from the velvet, and the metal feels freezing against your skin, a sharp, cold reminder of a life you spent five years trying to outrun. For a second, you just stare at it sitting in your palm, a small circle of gold that used to mean everything and now feels like a threat.

You take a sharp breath, close your eyes, and slide it onto your left ring finger.

It slips on perfectly. It doesn’t snag or resist; it just settles into the groove it wore into your skin years ago. The weight of it is immediate and suffocating. It’s a physical shackle, a gold anchor dragging you right back into a role you thought you’d finally shed.

You drop Joel’s ring into the front pocket of your purse before you can overthink the intimacy of the gesture, zip up the duffel bag, and walk out of the bedroom without looking back.

The drive back to St. Luke’s is a blur of shimmering asphalt and a rising sense of dread. The Texas heat presses down on the roof of the rental car, thick and demanding, but you’re numb to it. The only thing you can actually feel is the metal band on your finger. It feels like it’s burning a hole through your skin, a brand marking you as a woman who hasn't lived in this state for half a decade.

When you push the door to room 412 open, the sterile air hits you like a wall. Tommy is leaning against the windowsill, his silhouette sharp against the bright afternoon light. He looks over as you walk in, his eyes dropping to the duffel bag slung over your shoulder, and then, inevitably, to your left hand.

His gaze catches on the gold and sparkle from the center diamond. He doesn’t say a word, but the subtle, heavy nod he gives you says everything. Thank you. He knew you’d do it, but he also knows exactly what this is costing you. He sees the New York version of you disappearing in real-time.

Joel’s head turns toward the door, and that same devastating, open smile spreads across his face.

“There she is,” Joel says. His voice drops into that warm, gravelly register that used to make your stomach flip, the one that still does, despite the screaming protest in your head.

You force a smile, the muscles in your face feeling brittle and tight. You drop the bag onto the small sofa near Tommy, desperate for the distance. “Brought your favorites. The gray sweatpants, a few clean shirts. I figured you wouldn't want to leave in a hospital gown.”

“You're an absolute lifesaver, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You step closer to the bed, the word sweetheart sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. It’s a label you haven't answered to in years. As you reach out to adjust his blanket, a nervous habit just to keep your hands busy, Joel’s hand comes up to catch your wrist.

His grip is gentle, but firm. It’s so familiar it aches in your bones. He tugs your hand down, pulling it to his chest, right over the steady rhythm of his heart.

His thumb automatically strokes across your knuckles. It’s a rhythmic, mindless habit, a language his body remembers even if his brain doesn't. Then, his thumb slides down to rest directly over the cold metal of your wedding band.

He sighs, a deep, contented sound that vibrates against your palm. He traces the edge of the diamond with his thumb, completely oblivious to the fact that your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Missed you,” he says quietly, looking up at you with nothing but absolute, terrifying trust.

Tommy pushes off the windowsill, the faint scrape of his boots against the floor breaking the heavy silence. He clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at your joined hands.

“Right, well,” Tommy mutters. “Now that the warden’s here to keep an eye on you, I’m gonna go track down Dr. Anders. See what kind of paperwork we need to sign to bust you out of here.”

Joel doesn’t look away from you. He just lifts his free hand in a lazy wave toward the door. “Bring the truck around to the front when you’re done. I ain’t walking across that parking lot in this cast with those annoying ass crutches.”

“Yeah, yeah. Princess treatment, I got it,” Tommy grumbles affectionately, slipping out the door and letting it click shut behind him.

The silence that settles over the room is immediate and heavy. It feels too intimate, too full of things you can’t say without breaking the fragile peace in his eyes.

Joel’s thumb is still resting over your wedding band. His skin is warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to the freezing metal digging into your finger. You try to subtly pull your hand back, a small, jerky movement, but his grip just tightens slightly, anchoring you in place.

“You’re shakin’,” he notes. His voice drops an octave, softening into that gentle, low timber that used to completely undo you.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You force your shoulders to drop, trying to mimic the posture of a wife who is simply relieved her husband is okay, rather than a woman playing a terrifying game of pretend. “It’s just… cold in here. Hospitals are always freezing.”

Joel’s brow furrows a fraction, his dark eyes scanning your face. He takes in the rigid line of your jaw, the way your gaze keeps darting to the monitor, the blanket, the window, anywhere but his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging your hand again until you’re forced to look at him. “I’m okay. I promise.”

Your breath hitches. He thinks you’re worried about him. “I know,” you manage to force out, the words tasting like ash. “The doctor said it was a mild fracture and a concussion. You just… scared me.”

Joel’s face softens into something so open and tender it makes your chest physically ache. He reaches up with his other hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek. You flinch, barely, just a microscopic stiffening of your spine, but he catches it.

For a second, a flicker of confusion crosses his face. But then he lets out a quiet, tired breath, brushing his thumb under your eye where the dark circles of a sleepless redeye flight have settled.

“I know you hate hospitals, darlin’,” he says gently, completely brushing off your distance. He rationalizes it instantly, packing your behavior into a neat little box that makes sense to him. “And I know you’ve probably been runnin’ yourself ragged on that big case you were talkin’ about last week. Add a midnight phone call about me fallin’ off a damn scaffold… I don’t blame you for being a little spooked.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight. That big case from last week. He’s pulling memories from five years ago. He’s placing you right in the middle of the hardest year of your marriage, but looking at you with a patience he lacked right before the end.

“Yeah,” you whisper, stepping back just enough that his hand falls from your cheek. You turn toward the duffel bag, desperate for a task. “I’m just exhausted. Let’s… let’s get you out of that gown. The sooner you’re dressed, the sooner we can get you home.”

“Bossin’ me around already,” Joel chuckles, a low, easy sound. He groans slightly as he shifts his weight, trying to sit up straighter against the pillows. “Guess that means you’re feeling a little better.”

You unzip the bag, pulling out the gray sweatpants and a soft, worn-out henley you found shoved in the back of his drawer. You keep your back to him for as long as possible, fighting the tremor in your hands.

“Do you need help?” you ask, finally turning around.

Joel is already working the snaps of his hospital gown, the fabric falling off one broad shoulder. He pauses, looking up at you with a smirk that is entirely too familiar. It’s the look he used to give you across the kitchen island.

“Well, unless you want me flashing the nurses when I try to get these sweatpants over this giant cast, I might need a hand, yeah.” He watches you hesitate, your feet glued to the floor. His smirk softens into an easy smile. “C’mon, sweetheart. Ain’t nothing you haven’t seen a thousand times before.”

The casual intimacy of the statement hits you like a freight train. You squeeze your eyes shut for a fraction of a second, battling the rising tide of panic, anger, and a grief so heavy it threatens to pull you under completely.

Just treat things normally.

You force your feet to move, stepping up to the edge of the bed. “Alright,” you say, your voice remarkably steady for how fast your heart is racing.

You step closer to the bed, your sneakers creating a soft squeak as you move. The air between you feels thick, suffocatingly so, as you reach out to help him with the remaining snaps of the hospital gown.

His hands drop to his lap, letting you take over. It’s an act of complete submission, of absolute trust, and it makes you feel violently sick.

"Arms up," you say. Your voice is strictly clinical. It's the voice of a lawyer who has detached from the emotion of a case, not a wife tending to her husband.

He complies with a soft grunt, the movement clearly pulling at the bruised muscles in his ribs and shoulder. The thin, faded fabric of the gown slips down, pooling at his waist, leaving his chest bare.

You freeze for a fraction of a second.

There are new scars you don't recognize. A small, jagged line near his collarbone. But the rest of him is exactly the same. The broad line of his shoulders, the dark smattering of hair across his chest, the warmth radiating off his skin. You used to fall asleep with your face pressed right over his heart.

You grab the gray henley, your movements jerky, a little too fast. "Here. Careful with your head."

You guide the collar over his thick hair, avoiding the white bandage at his temple. As he pushes his arms through the sleeves, his knuckles graze the side of your neck.

It’s a tiny, accidental touch, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight down your spine. You flinch, pulling back so quickly you almost trip over the leg of the chair behind you.

Joel pauses, his head emerging from the collar of the shirt. He doesn't pull the hem down right away. He just watches you, his dark eyes hooded and observant.

"You're jumpy," he notes softly.

"I just didn't want to hurt you," you lie smoothly, crossing your arms over your chest. A physical barrier. The wall going up. "Your head."

He doesn't look entirely convinced, but his brain is still too foggy to push the issue. He tugs the shirt down, wincing slightly as it settles over his torso. "Okay. Pants."

This is worse.

You swallow the lump in your throat and bend down near the edge of the bed. You grab the sweatpants, gathering the left leg so you can ease it over the bulky, gray cast.

"Lift," you instruct.

Joel leans back on his elbows, using his good leg to shift his weight as you carefully guide the fabric over the cast. You're so close to him now. The sterile smell of the hospital is fading, replaced by the faint, earthy scent that is just Joel. It’s a scent that has no right still being so familiar.

As you pull the waistband up past his knees, your hand accidentally brushes against his bare thigh.

You jerk your hand back like you've been burned.

Joel lets out a soft sigh. Before you can stand up, his hand reaches down, his warm fingers wrapping gently around your wrist.

"Look at me," he says.

It’s not a command; it’s a plea, quiet and rough. You keep your head down for a second too long, staring at the gray fabric of his sweatpants, at the way your hand looks against his skin. The gold ring catches the harsh overhead light, a bright, lying glint that makes you feel sick.

Slowly, you lift your gaze.

Joel is leaning back on his elbows, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. The shadows under his eyes make him look older, but the way he’s watching you, with that focused, unwavering intensity, is exactly how he used to look at you before everything turned into a battlefield.

"You’re acting like I’m made of glass," he states, his thumb brushing the pulse point on the inside of your wrist. He can feel it. He can feel your heart racing, a frantic beat that contradicts every clinical word you’ve spoken. "Or like you’re scared to touch me."

"I told you," you say, your voice sounding thin and reedy in the quiet room. "You had a head injury, Joel. I’m just trying to be careful."

"It's more than that," he says, his grip tightening just a fraction. He searches your face, his eyes tracking the tension in your mouth, the way you’re holding your breath. "You’ve been... quiet. Ever since I woke up. Like you’re standing ten feet away even when you’re right in front of me."

He lets out a short, frustrated breath and shakes his head, the movement causing him to wince. "I know things have been rough lately. I know the work... the hours... I know I haven't been the easiest man to live with this past year. I've been angry, and I've been loud, and I've said things I shouldn't have."

You freeze. He’s apologizing. He’s apologizing for the version of him that existed five years ago, the one that was tracking dirt through the house and picking fights about your career. He’s trying to fix the cracks in a marriage that has already been shattered for half a decade.

"Joel, don't," you whisper.

"No, I need to say it," he insists, his voice growing thicker. "Wakin' up today... it was like a reset button got hit. All that noise, all that bickering... it doesn't matter. Not when I almost lost the chance to see you again. I'm sorry, darlin'. For all of it. I’m gonna make it up to you. I promise."

The irony is a physical weight in your lungs. He’s finally giving you the apology you would have died for five years ago, and it’s arriving five years too late, addressed to a woman who isn't there anymore.

You want to scream. You want to tell him that he did make it up to you back then, and then he broke it again, and then he ended it in a bar with your best friend in his lap. You want to pull your hand away and run until you hit the state line.

But then he pulls your hand up to his face, resting his cheek against your palm. He closes his eyes, a long, shaky exhale escaping him.

"Just be here with me," he breathes against your skin. "I just need to know we're okay."

He doesn't mean the divorce. He means the fight you had "last night" in his head. He means the tension that was brewing before the accident.

You stand there, bent over the edge of the hospital bed, your hand trapped against the stubble of his jaw. You don't say anything. You can't. You just let him hold you, a silent participant in a story that’s already over for you, but is just beginning again for him.

The door handle turns, the sharp click of the latch cutting through the tension like a blade.

Dr. Anders walks in, carrying a clipboard, followed closely by a nurse pushing a wheelchair. Joel takes one look at the chair and lets out a heavy sigh, his jaw setting stubbornly.

"I can walk," Joel grumbles, adjusting the hem of his henley.

"Hospital policy, Mr. Miller," Dr. Anders says smoothly, unfazed by the glare Joel shoots him. "Before we get you out of here, I just need to take a final look at that laceration."

The doctor steps to the side of the bed, and you instinctively move back, trying to reclaim some of the air in the room. But Joel’s eyes track you instantly, his gaze anchoring you to the spot, making sure the distance between you doesn't grow too wide.

"Let's get this bandage off," Dr. Anders murmurs.

You watch as the doctor’s gloved fingers work at the edge of the thick white tape. The adhesive makes a sharp, tearing sound against Joel’s skin. Joel winces, a low hiss of breath escaping through his teeth, and his hand twitches on the bedsheet as if he wants to reach up and stop the sting.

Without thinking, your own hand rises, a phantom jolt of sympathy shooting through your chest.

Don’t, you tell yourself, the thought cold and firm. You force your arm back down to your side, your fingers curling into a fist. Do not touch him.

Dr. Anders peels the gauze away. The skin beneath is a bruised, mottled map of purple and black, the center held together by a neat, ugly row of dark stitches. It looks raw. It looks painful. The reality of the impact, the height of that scaffold, the concrete floor, hits you in a sudden, sickening wave. For all the anger you’ve carried for five years, seeing him broken like this still makes your stomach turn.

"Healing nicely," Dr. Anders observes. He leans in with a small penlight, the clinical click of the switch echoing in the quiet. He checks Joel’s pupils one last time, his movements practiced and detached. "No signs of infection. I’m going to put a lighter dressing over it just to keep it clean, but you need to keep the site dry."

The doctor turns his attention toward you, shifting the weight of the medical chart.

"Mrs. Miller," he says. The title still feels like a bucket of ice water down your back. "I’m sending him home with a prescription for pain management and an anti-inflammatory. He needs to take them exactly as directed. I also need you to wake him up every few hours tonight, just to check his responsiveness. Standard concussion protocol."

Joel scoffs lightly, though the sound is tight with the pain in his head. "You’re gonna make her set an alarm to bother me all night? She’s already exhausted, Doc."

"I’m going to make her ensure you don't slip into a coma, yes," Dr. Anders replies dryly. He slaps a fresh, smaller bandage over the stitches with a crisp efficiency. He hands you a stack of discharge papers, thick, white sheets filled with instructions for caring for your ex. "Keep an eye on his mood, his balance, and any extreme spikes in confusion. And remember what we discussed in the hall."

The subtext hangs in the air, heavy and invisible. Don’t push his memories. Keep him stable. Keep up the lie.

You take the papers, the edges of the staples digging into your palm. You don't look at Tommy, and you certainly don't look at Joel. You just nod once, a silent agreement to the terms of your surrender.

"I understand," you say, your voice as clinical as the room.

"Good," the doctor says, already turning toward the door. "Then let’s get him into that wheelchair and out of here."

Ten minutes later, the nurse is wheeling Joel out of the room. He looks utterly defeated by the chair, his jaw set in a line of deep annoyance as the small wheels click against the floor. You follow a few paces behind, the duffel bag heavy on your shoulder.

Tommy is waiting at the curb, his truck idling and sending plumes of exhaust into the shimmering Texas heat.

"Look at you, riding in style," Tommy teases the second the automatic doors hiss open. 

Joel lets out a curt chuckle, flashing Tommy the bird without looking up. "Shut up and help me get into this damn thing," he snaps, though the bite is gone, replaced by a weary edge that makes him sound older than he should.

It takes both of you to maneuver him. You have to get close, closer than you can probably handle, hyper-aware of the placement of your hands: one on his waist to steady him, the other bracing his back as he hoists the dead weight of the gray cast into the passenger seat. The second he’s settled, you recoil, stepping away so quickly you almost stumble off the curb.

"I'll take the back," you mutter, practically diving into the cramped backseat of the extended cab before either of them can protest. You just need the distance. You need a barrier.

Tommy catches your eye in the rearview mirror once he’s in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say anything, but the look is heavy with understanding. He knows exactly what you’re doing, building a fortress, brick by brick, just trying to survive.

The drive is agonizingly quiet. The low hum of the AC struggles against the heat, and the muffled static of the radio barely masks the tension vibrating in the cab. From your spot in the back, you have a perfect view of the back of Joel’s head. You can see the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his hand rests heavily on his thigh. From this angle, the changes you missed are undeniable. There’s more gray lacing through his dark curls now, and the scruff along his jaw is thicker, grittier. He looks tired, not just from the accident, but in a way that suggests the last five years haven't been kind to him either.

Halfway there, Joel reaches back. His hand moves blindly, feeling for the empty space of the center console, searching for yours.

You press yourself harder against the door, pulling your knees tight together and staring fixedly out the window at the passing highway. You use the blur of the trees as an excuse not to see him, not to reach back. You let his hand grasp at empty air until, with a heavy, resigned sigh, he pulls it back to his lap.

When Tommy finally turns down the familiar oak-lined street, your pulse starts thudding in your ears. The tires crunch over the gravel driveway, rolling to a stop in front of the house. Joel looks out the window at the front porch, at the hanging ferns that somehow survived the summer and the peeling paint on the railing he’d always promised to fix. A soft, grounded smile touches his lips.

"God, it's good to be home," he murmurs, and the sheer weight of his relief hits you right in the center of your chest.

He pushes his door open, bracing his good leg against the running board. Tommy is out of the truck in a flash, grabbing the crutches from the bed. You sit frozen in the backseat for three seconds, your heart doing a strange, frantic double-tap against your ribs. It’s not just the urge to run anymore; it’s the terrifying pull to stay. Your emotions are being tugged in both directions.

Then Joel looks back at you through the open truck door. His dark eyes are tired, clouded with pain, but they settle on you with a quiet certainty.

"Comin', darlin’?" he asks softly.

The "darlin’" catches you by surprise, pulling you from your thoughts, familiar and sharp. You nod stiffly, swallowing the lump of uncertainty as you step out into the stifling heat. 

You follow them toward the front porch, the wood creaking under your feet, a sound you haven't heard in five years.

Tommy unlocks the door, pushing it open with his shoulder while keeping a firm grip on Joel’s right side. You step inside behind them, and the air immediately knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s the scent, cedarwood, old leather, and that faint, lingering spice of his cologne. It’s a sensory tidal wave, making the last five years feel less like a new life and more like a very long, very cold intermission.

For a second, you aren't a lawyer from New York. You’re just home.

The heavy, awkward thud of Joel’s crutches against the hardwood snaps you back to reality.

“Easy, easy,” Tommy mutters, guiding him toward the living room. “Don’t put any weight on it, you stubborn ass.”

Joel grunts, his jaw tight as he maneuvers across the rug. “I got it, Tommy. Stop hovering.”

You hang back by the entryway, your hands white-knuckled around the straps of the duffel bag. Your eyes dart around the space, searching for your own reflection in the house. When you were here just a few hours ago, you were moving too fast to notice, but now the silence of the walls is deafening.

Five years ago, your heels would have been kicked off by the door. Your favorite coat would be hanging on the rack, smelling like the perfume he used to say he could find you by in a crowd. There would be a bowl for your keys and a stack of mail with your name on it.

But the entryway is stripped bare of you. It’s a museum of a man living alone.

You brace yourself, your pulse thudding in your fingertips. You wait for him to look around, to ask why your coats are gone, why the entryway table is empty, why the house feels like half of it was removed. You have the lies ready, tucked behind your teeth, but you find yourself almost wanting him to notice, to prove that your absence left a mark, even to this version of him.

He doesn’t.

In fact, his dark eyes slide right past the empty coat rack without a flicker of doubt. It’s as if his brain is simply filling in the blanks, projecting the version of the house he remembers over the reality of the one he’s standing in. He isn't looking for your things because, to him, you are already right where you belong.

“Just get me to the sofa,” Joel breathes out, a heavy sheen of sweat on his forehead from the exertion.

Tommy helps him pivot, and Joel sinks into the cushions with a long, pained groan. His casted leg stays propped up stiffly on the oak coffee table, the one you’d picked out together at a flea market three lifetimes ago. He leans his head back against the leather, squeezing his eyes shut as he rides out a wave of pain.

You stand there in the hallway, the duffel bag feeling heavier by the second. You realize that the house doesn't feel like the prison or trap that you originally thought it would. It feels like a memory that won't let you go. And as you watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, you realize the most dangerous part of the lie isn't that he believes it.

It’s how easily you could let yourself believe it, too.

“You good?” Tommy asks, hovering near the armrest.

Joel swallows hard, keeping his eyes shut against the thrumming in his skull. “Yeah. Just… spins a little if I move too fast.”

“Alright.” Tommy claps his hands on his thighs, taking a reluctant step back. “Well, I got you delivered in one piece. I gotta get back to Maria before she sends out a search party. You got the meds?” He looks over his shoulder at you.

You move into the living room, setting the duffel bag down on a nearby chair with a practiced, steady hand. “Yes. I have them. Go on, Tommy. We’ve got it from here.”

“Good.” Tommy walks toward the door, but pauses, looking back at his brother. A flicker of something complicated passes over his face—a mix of relief and a heavy, lingering guilt—before his eyes shift to you. “Call me if you need anything. Seriously. Anything.”

“I will,” you say quietly.

The front door clicks shut a moment later, the sound echoing through the house like a final seal.

And then, it is just the two of you.

The silence isn't the cold, empty kind you expected. It’s thick, and layered. Filled with tension of things you can’t say. You stand rooted to the spot, feeling less like a stranger and more like a ghost who accidentally stepped back into her own life.

Joel finally opens his eyes. He looks at you standing there, clutching your purse, and for a split second, a shadow passes over his face. It’s a flash of profound, ancient sorrow, the look of a man who has spent a long time memorizing the way a room feels when it's empty.

But then he blinks, and the shadow vanishes, replaced instantly by that soft, lopsided smile.

“You look like you’re waitin’ for me to go blank in the mind, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, teasing rumble. “Relax. I’m not gonna break again.”

“I’m just thinking about the schedule,” you deflect, dropping your purse onto the chair to free your hands. “The pills, the check-ins... I need to get you some water for your first round of meds.”

“Before you go play nurse,” Joel interrupts softly, gesturing toward the TV. “Can you turn that on? The quiet in here is making my head echo.”

You nod, grateful for the task. You walk over to the media console, your fingers finding the remote exactly where it used to live. You point it at the screen, and the low, familiar murmur of a sports broadcast fills the room, grounding the space in something mundane.

When you turn around, Joel isn’t looking at the TV.

He’s looking at you.

His head is tilted back against the leather, his dark eyes tracking you with a quiet, hungry intensity. It’s not the look of a man who saw you this morning; it’s the look of someone who has finally found his way back to the only thing that makes sense.

“What?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

Joel’s jaw tightens. For a second, the air between you pulls taut, but then he exhales, letting his head loll to the side to look at the screen.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, his tone shifting effortlessly back to easy. “Just... love you.”

The words hit you like a physical weight, simple and devastating. You escape to the kitchen under the pretense of getting his water, your chest heaving the second you’re out of his sight. The kitchen is a time capsule, but the signs of his solitude are everywhere. One coffee mug. One plate. No magnets on the fridge. It’s the kitchen of a man who stopped expecting anyone else for dinner a long time ago.

You turn the faucet on, letting the water run cold as you pop two pills from the bottle. You can do this. You just have to keep the rhythm. Helpful. Distant.

Then, you hear it.

Thump. Squeak. Drag. 

The rhythmic, metallic strike of the aluminum crutches hitting the hardwood floor makes your blood run cold. You shut off the faucet, spinning around just as Joel’s large frame fills the kitchen doorway. He’s leaning heavily into the supports, his broad shoulders hunched as he navigates the tight space. He looks exhausted, his face pale beneath the stubble, but his eyes are locked onto yours with a startling, quiet intensity.

"What are you doing?" The panic rises in your throat, sharp and instinctive. You drop the pills onto the counter and move toward him, hands raised as if you could catch him. "Joel, the doctor said to stay off that leg. You’re going to fall and hurt yourself."

"I’m fine, darlin’," he mutters, his voice a low, raspy drawl that vibrates in the small room. He swings himself forward another step, the rubber tips squeaking against the tile.

"Then why are you up?" you demand, backing up until your hips hit the edge of the kitchen island.

He stops just inches from you. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of the hospital fading under the familiar, earthy musk of his skin. Even injured, he has a way of making the room feel incredibly small, crowding the distance you've tried to maintain.

Joel shifts his weight, leaning into the right crutch so he can free his left hand. He reaches out, his rough fingers wrapping loosely around the edge of the granite counter, effectively trapping you between his body and the island. A slow, tired smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I've been stuck in that bed lookin' at beige walls and Tommy’s ugly face for the past three days," he says, his voice dropping to a soft, gravelly murmur. "I finally get to come home to my wife, and you run off to the kitchen. Didn't wanna sit in there by myself."

Your breath hitches.

It’s such a simple, reasonable request from a man with a broken body and a foggy brain. He just wants to be near you. But since you know the reality of the last five years, the words carry a suffocating weight. He hasn't just been lonely for three days; he's been sitting in this quiet, empty house for half a decade. And now that you're finally standing in his kitchen again, he physically cannot bear to let you out of his sight.

"I was just getting your water," you say softly, desperately trying to keep your voice level. You reach blindly behind you, grabbing the glass. "You need to take your pain meds."

Joel glances down at the water glass in your trembling hand, then back up at your face. He doesn't move back. He just stays there, soaking in the proximity, his dark eyes tracing the line of your jaw with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.

"I know," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. "Just missed lookin' at you, is all. That a crime?"

The sheer, unbroken devotion in his tone feels like a slow-turning knife.

"Here," you whisper, holding out the pills. Your voice is stripped of its sharp edge, leaving only a raw, shaky vulnerability. "Take these. And then I'm helping you back to the couch before you fall and I have to call Tommy to scrape you off the floor."

Joel lets out a soft, genuine chuckle. He takes the pills from your palm, his calloused fingers deliberately brushing against yours, sending a jolt of heat straight up your arm.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs obediently.

You watch his throat work as he swallows, draining the glass. He hands it back, his fingers lingering against yours for just a heartbeat too long before he grips the handles of his crutches again.

“Alright,” he sighs, his shoulders slumping as the exertion finally starts to catch up with him. “Take me back. Before I actually do hit the floor.”

You set the glass down and step up beside his uninjured side, sliding your arm around his waist. He’s heavy, solid, and incredibly warm. Instinctively, he shifts his weight, dropping his free arm heavily over your shoulders. He tucks you right into his side, a puzzle piece fitting perfectly back into a place that shouldn't exist anymore.

The walk back to the living room is slow. Every step is agonizingly close. You can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against your shoulder and the way his fingers curl loosely against your collarbone. When you finally reach the couch, you help him ease down, holding your breath as he straightens his casted leg with a tight wince.

He lets his head fall back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut as the medicine begins to take hold.

“You should go unpack,” he murmurs, his voice thick with fatigue.

You freeze. How does he know you need to unpack?

“Whatever work trip you were on… ya’ must be exhausted,” he continues blindly, his eyes still closed, completely unaware of the ice forming in your veins. “Go put your stuff away. Take a shower. I’m just gonna… rest my eyes for a minute.”

Your stuff. In the bedroom.

“Right,” you choke out, your voice sounding thin and hollow. “I’ll go do that.”

You back away from the couch and practically sprint toward the entryway to grab your purse and the small carry-on bag you brought from New York. When you step into the master bedroom and softly click the door shut behind you, the silence of the house finally turns into a scream.

You drop your bag onto the floor and stare at your side of the dresser. It’s scarred and bare. The nightstand where your lamp used to sit is an empty island of dust. You look at the closet door, knowing with a sick certainty that it is filled only with his flannels and work boots.

How the hell are you going to hide this?

You unzip your suitcase with trembling hands. You pull out the few things you packed, like two blouses, a pair of jeans, a pair of pajamas, and a makeup bag. You slide open the top drawer of the dresser, which is the one that used to hold your lace and silk.

It is completely empty. Wiped clean.

You dump your folded clothes into the hollow space and shut the drawer. It is a fragile illusion. If he opens the closet or looks in the bathroom cabinet for your shampoo, the lie will unravel in seconds. You make a mental note to get to a Target the second Tommy can take over, just to buy enough fake clutter to make it look like a woman still lives here.

By the time you walk back out, the sun has completely set. The living room is cast in thick, heavy shadows. Only the blue flicker of the muted television illuminates the space.

Joel is fast asleep on the couch.

His head is tilted to the side, and his chest rises and falls in a deep, even rhythm. The harsh lines of pain and exhaustion have smoothed out. He looks devastatingly peaceful. He looks exactly like the man you fell in love with before everything went to shit.

You glance at the clock. Wake him up every few hours, Dr. Anders had said. Check his responsiveness.

You swallow hard and step quietly around the coffee table. You kneel on the rug right beside his chest. The plush fibers dig into your bare knees.

For a long moment, you just look at him. Without his dark eyes tracking you and without the weight of his expectations pinning you down, you let the mask slip. God, you are so tired. You are tired of the anger, tired of the distance, and mostly you are tired of how much it hurts to be this close to him.

You reach out, and your hand hovers over his chest.

"Joel," you whisper.

He doesn’t stir. You press your hand gently to his shoulder and give him a small shake. The warmth of his skin seeps right through the thin cotton of the henley. It grounds you in a way you are not ready for.

"Joel," you say, louder this time. "Wake up."

With a sharp inhale, his eyes snap open.

For a split second, he looks completely disoriented. His pupils are blown wide in the dim light. He blinks hard, and his body tenses defensively before his gaze focuses and lands on you kneeling there. The tension instantly drains from his muscles. It is replaced by a soft, sleepy recognition.

"Hey," he breathes out. His voice is a gravelly, sleep-heavy rasp that sends a shiver straight down your spine. He shifts, turning his face toward you. "What time is it?"

"Just past nine," you say softly. You keep your voice level. "The doctor said I have to wake you up, remember? Ask you some questions. Just to make sure you are okay."

Joel lets out a quiet, huffing laugh. He turns his body slightly so he is facing you. He reaches out, and his large, warm hand finds the side of your neck. His thumb rests right against your pulse point. He can probably feel how fast your heart is going.

"Alright, Doc," he murmurs. His voice is deeper in the quiet. His eyes are locked onto yours, and they are heavy with an intimate, sleepy heat. "Interrogate me."

You clear your throat and desperately try to ignore the warmth of his thumb. You force your voice into a calm tone.

"What is your name?"

Joel huffs a quiet, amused breath. "Joel Miller."

"Do you know where you are?"

His dark eyes soften. They drop to your lips for a heartbeat before drifting back up. "I am in my living room. In our house. With my wife."

The words land like stones in your stomach. They are heavy and sinking, but you force yourself to press on.

"What’s your favorite football team?"

"The Cowboys," he answers without missing a beat. A faint, sleepy smirk pulls at his mouth. "Even when they are playing like absolute shit and ruin my Sunday."

You nod slowly, and your eyes drop to the rug. 

It hits you then with a sharp and terrifying clarity just how much of him still lives in your head. Five years in New York. Five years of new restaurants and new cases and new people. Yet you still know exactly how he takes his coffee. You know he hates the smell of lavender but loves the smell of rain on asphalt. You know his favorite team and his worst habits and the exact way his jaw ticks when he’s trying not to get angry.

All this time apart, and you still know him down to his bones.

"Okay," you whisper. You gently reach up to pull his hand away from your neck. You place it carefully back on his chest to break the contact before it completely undoes you. "You pass. Your brain is intact. But you can’t sleep down here. It’s gonna ruin your back, and we need to elevate that leg properly."

Joel groans softly as you stand up and the reality of his injuries settles back in. "I thought you were supposed to be the nice nurse."

"I am the practical one," you correct. You grab his crutches from where they rested against the coffee table. "Come on. Up we go."

Getting him off the couch is an ordeal, but getting him toward the stairs is worse. The heavy plaster cast throws off his entire center of gravity. After just a few steps toward the staircase, his breathing is ragged. A fine sheen of sweat breaks out over his brow.

"Screw the crutches," he mutters. He leans heavily against the banister at the bottom of the stairs. "I can’t balance with ‘em on the steps."

"Okay," you say. Your heart picks up a frantic rhythm as you step up next to him. "Put your arm around me."

He doesn’t hesitate, wrapping his heavy and muscular arm around your shoulders. He tucks you flush against his side. You snake your arm around his waist, and your hand rests flat against the heat of his lower back.

"Take it slow," you instruct. Your voice trembles slightly at the sheer proximity.

The climb up the stairs is agonizingly slow. Every step requires him to shift nearly all of his weight onto you as he hops his good foot up to the next tread and drags the casted leg behind him. You bear it silently. You feel the powerful flex of his back muscles under your palm and the warmth of his chest pressing into your shoulder. His breath ghosts over your temple. It is ragged and warm, and it smells of mint and the lingering scent of the hospital.

It takes nearly five minutes to reach the top landing. By the time you navigate down the hallway and through the door of the master bedroom, you are both out of breath. You guide him to the edge of the mattress, and he sinks onto the comforter with a heavy and relieved sigh.

"Jesus," he breathes out. He runs a hand through his messy dark hair. "I feel like a helpless old man."

"You did good," you say softly. You step back carefully, putting a safe three feet of distance between you and the bed. You grab an extra pillow from the armchair and tuck it under his cast to elevate it.

Joel watches you. The fatigue in his eyes battles with something much deeper. He reaches out and grabs the edge of the comforter to pull it back. He is making room on your side of the bed. The side that has been empty since you left.

"Come here," he murmurs. His voice is a low and thick rumble. "I’m exhausted. Let's just go to sleep."

Your feet remain glued to the floor. Your heart is hammering so hard it physically hurts your ribs.

"I’m actually going to sleep in the guest room," you say. Your eyes cast downward to avoid his gaze.

Joel freezes. His hand stops moving on the comforter. He looks up at you with genuine confusion. A sharp spike of hurt flashes across his features.

"Why?" he asks. His voice cracks slightly. "We have a perfectly good bed right here."

You wrap your arms around your stomach as a defensive shield against the raw vulnerability in his eyes. "You’re injured, Joel. You have a concussion and a broken leg. I toss and turn in my sleep. If I accidentally kick your cast in the middle of the night or elbow your head..."

"You are not going to hurt me," he argues immediately. He shakes his head. He reaches his hand out toward you with his palm up in an open plea. "You’ve never hurt me. Come on, sweetheart. Don’t go across the hall. I just want you next to me. I-I sleep better when you’re next to me. Please."

The plea nearly shatters you. It takes every ounce of willpower you possess not to cross the room and crawl into that bed. You want to bury your face in his chest and pretend the last five years were just a terrible nightmare.

But you know the truth. The lie is already suffocating you. Lying next to him in the dark will only make the inevitable reality hurt worse when it finally crashes down. When he finally remembers everything, and it all goes back to the way it was.

"I’ll be right across the hall," you whisper. Your voice is thick with unshed tears. "If you need anything… just call for me. I’ll leave the doors open."

Before he can argue again and before he can hit you with another look of devastating betrayal, you turn on your heel and walk out of the room. 

You step into the dark guest bedroom and pull the door mostly shut. You sink down against the wall and bury your face in your hands as the first silent sob finally rips through your chest.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. It comes out wrong, thin, disbelieving.

“That-that can’t be right,” you say. “I’m his ex-wife.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I see,” the woman says gently. “Well, he was brought in earlier today after an accident at work. He’s stable. But he’s experiencing some memory loss, and-”

Your hand curls into the edge of the counter, gripping onto it a little harder than necessary, almost as if you’re hoping it’ll keep you grounded for what's to come next.

“What kind of memory loss?”

“We believe it’s retrograde amnesia. The doctors are still running tests, but from what we can tell… his most recent memories don’t extend past about five years ago.”

Five years.

The word echoes. Hollow. Loud.

“That would place his last clear memories at…” the woman hesitates, checking something, “…just before your divorce.”

The microwave beeps.

You don’t move to turn it off.

You picture Joel as he was then, scruffy, tired, still wearing his wedding ring even when you’d stopped wearing yours. You picture the way he used to lean in doorways, arms crossed, watching you like you were something he might lose if he blinked.

“Has he… has he asked for me?” you ask.

“Yes,” she says. “He woke up about an hour ago. He was confused. When we asked if there was someone he trusted, someone who would know him well, he said your name.”

Your chest aches in a way you thought you’d outgrown.

“He thinks you’re still married,” she adds quietly. “And we didn’t want to contradict him without support present… You see, the brain is a tricky thing, but the doctor can explain everything once you get here.”

Support.

You look around your apartment, your clean lines, your carefully chosen furniture, the life you built brick by brick to get as far away from Texas as possible, to start fresh.

“I live in New York,” you supply.

“That’s okay,” the woman replies. “We just needed to notify you. But… he keeps asking when you’re coming.”

You close your eyes, and your left hand comes up to rub at your eyelids, probably more harshly than you should. It brings black dots swimming over your vision, and all of a sudden, you have a thumping headache sitting right in your temples.

Five years ago, you left with a suitcase and a certainty that you would never go back. Now, the past is calling, and it frustrates you to no end that you even picked up the phone.

“When do you need me there?” you ask.

And that's how you found yourself on the first redeye to Texas. Your seat was stiff, close to the back of the plane, and the crick in your neck would not go away, no matter what you did. You asked yourself over and over why you were even doing this, why you were putting in the effort, why you even cared… but it hit you square in the chest. It was Joel; you were always going to care, no matter what happened five years ago.

The entire flight, you just stared ahead, thoughts racing through your mind. Maybe when you landed, there would be voicemails saying he remembered, that the amnesia was gone, and you could just go home.

But luck was never really on your side.

You powered your phone back on when you landed, and nothing. No messages, no voicemails, just emails relating to work. Thankfully, your boss hadn’t hesitated. Family emergency, you’d said, and she told you to go, no questions, no guilt. You were a hard worker, after all, and even though you insisted you could work remotely on the cases you were actively handling, she still told you to take the time you needed. They could find someone to fill your shoes for the time being.

You hadn’t corrected yourself about it being a family emergency. It was just easier than explaining everything that had happened, and the history was better left buried.

Because Joel wasn’t family anymore.

At least not on paper.

Not since your shaky hand signed those goddamn divorce papers. Not since you last looked Joel in the eyes as you left your lawyer’s office, searching for any ounce of sorrow… but his gaze wouldn’t meet yours.

Good, you had thought then. He doesn’t get the satisfaction.

But your body didn’t seem to know that Joel wasn’t family anymore.

Your heart had been thrumming since the phone call, and those old butterfly feelings were back. Whether it was nervousness or anger, you didn’t know, but you fucking hated it. How could you even let that brooding man have such an effect on you after what he did? How could you still feel anything other than strict hatred after he cheated on you?

And with your best friend at that.

It was honestly one of the worst moments of your life.

You and Joel had already been on the rocks at the time. You were going to couples counseling to try to fix things, but it just wasn’t working. Joel was always mad about how focused and busy you were with work, and you were always picking fights with him over his nightly bar visits. Or maybe it was something small—him tracking dirt through the house with his boots, or you forgetting to clean your hair out of the sink.

It just wasn’t working.

At first, you thought it was just normal bickering, but then it got mean. And one night, things were said that couldn’t be taken back. That pushed Joel to leave with a slam of the door, and left you sitting on the couch crying.

How productive.

Really, you hadn’t meant for it to come to that. It had just been a long day at work, your boss yelling at you for what felt like the eightieth time that week, not getting the case you wanted, and that promotion to partner at the law firm seeming further and further out of reach.

So coming home to an absolute mess of a kitchen, and Joel’s attitude, was what finally sent everything over the edge.

You slipped out of your heels as you closed the door, glancing toward the living room where Joel sat in front of the TV watching the pregame announcers talking about the Cowboys game. It was late, and you had gotten home much later than you’d originally planned. Even from where you were standing, you could tell Joel was pissed. He’d expected you home two hours ago, and the dinner he’d made was sitting on the kitchen counter, cold.

You took a deep breath and made your way over to the couch, plopping down beside him.

“I’m sorry that I’m la—”

“Don’t.”

He cut you off. You bit down on your lower lip, trying to compose yourself before responding.

“Baby, I really am sorry.”

“Really, darlin’? How many times can you be sorry before I actually see a change? What’s the excuse tonight? Some bullshit about your boss again?”

He snapped with a scoff as he rose from the couch, grabbing his plate and carrying it into the kitchen.

“For all I know, you’re probably fucking the guy with how bad you want this promotion,” he added over his shoulder.

You scoffed and followed him.

“Really, Joel? Fuckin’ really?” you threw back, standing on the opposite side of the island as he had his back to you, taking deep breaths.

“You think I’m fucking Larry?” you start, voice already rising, heat already finding its way to your cheeks as you felt the anger creep in. “He’s fuckin’ in his 70s for christs sake, and about to retire. I’m working my ass off to be the one who gets to step up and fill his position. Lord knows we could use the money-”

“Use the money on what? You’re never here to use the money on anything anyway!” he shouted back in his deep southern drawl as he spun around to look at you, letting out a sharp, dry laugh. It came out venomous, like he was ready to attack if you pressed the right buttons, and damn did you want to.

 “You’re always workin’, I don’t even see you anymore. I wake up, go to work, come home, and you’re not here. Most nights I go to bed alone, because you would rather be in that fucking office, slaving away for a guy who just wants to get into your fuckin’ pants,” he added on, placing his hands on his hips as his angry eyes found yours.

“Oh, you’re disgusting, Joel. How can you be this insecure to think that I would sleep with someone in their fuckin elder years? Huh?” You crossed your arms, feeling your nails dig into your biceps slightly as you tried to hold on to the little reserve you had left.

“Me? Insecure? You’re fuckin’ delusional,” he scoffed, walking from the kitchen to the bedroom, where you followed closely behind.

“Delusional? Yeah, maybe, but at least I know I actually have a career worth something, rather than trying to start a fuckin’ company with my deadbeat brother who needs to be bailed out of jail every other night.”

Joel turned around so fast that you almost ran straight into his chest, “That's rich coming from a girl who would do anything to get her Daddy’s attention, and, again, practically fucked her way to the top-”

Crack.

The sound echoed through the bedroom, sharp and violent in the quiet house. Your palm stung instantly, heat blooming across your skin as your hand lingered in the air between you, fingers slightly curled like your body hadn’t quite caught up to what you’d just done.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Joel’s head had turned slightly with the impact, his jaw tightening as a red mark began to bloom across his cheek. Slowly, almost carefully, he turned his face back toward you. Not angry. Not shocked. Just… tired.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand across his jaw as if testing whether it actually hurt.

Your chest rose and fell too fast as the adrenaline rushed through you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you lowered your hand to your side.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” you said, though most of the bite had drained from your voice. “You don’t get to talk about me like that.”

Joel stared at you for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable, something heavy shifting behind them.

“You wanna know the truth?” he said quietly.

You should have walked away then. You knew you should have. But your feet stayed planted where they were, like the floor had nailed you in place.

“The truth is,” he continued, his voice low and steady, “I haven’t had a wife for a long damn time. You stopped being here years ago. You just didn’t notice.”

The words hit harder than the slap.

Your throat tightened instantly. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” Joel let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he dragged a hand through his hair. “Fair would’ve been my wife giving a shit about this marriage.”

“I do give a shit!” you snapped, the words rushing out before you could stop them. You felt crazy, screaming at the man you once loved more than anything in the world, the same man who now only seemed capable of filling you with shaking rage.

“Do you?” he shot back immediately. “Because from where I’m standing, you gave more of a damn about becoming partner than you ever did about being my wife.”

The accusation landed square in your chest like a physical blow. The anger surged back, hot and familiar.

“You think I work this hard for fun?” you said, your voice trembling with the effort to hold yourself together, tears threatening to spill. “I’m doing it for us, Joel. For our future.”

Joel’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What future?”

The question hung in the air between you like a crack running through glass.

He exhaled sharply and ran both hands through his hair before pacing across the room, the worn wood floors creaking under his dirt-caked boots.

“You’re never here,” he continued, his voice quieter now but heavier. “We don’t talk anymore. We don’t eat together. Hell, half the time we don’t even sleep in the same bed.”

Your stomach twisted.

“That’s not because of me,” you said, though the words felt weak the moment they left your mouth.

Joel stopped pacing and slowly turned back toward you, his eyes locking onto yours.

“No?” he said. “Then whose fault is it?”

You swallowed, your throat dry, but the anger pushed forward again. If he could hurt you, you could hurt him too.

“At least I’m trying to build something,” you shot back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “What are you doing, Joel? Drinking every night with your brother and pretending that stupid company of yours is ever going to take off?”

His expression hardened instantly, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

“You know what?” he said quietly. “At least when I’m at the bar, someone actually wants to talk to me.”

The words landed deep.

“That’s pathetic,” you said, though your voice lacked the confidence you wanted it to have.

Joel shrugged slightly, his shoulders lifting before falling again. “Maybe,” he said. “But at least they look at me like I matter.”

Silence fell between you, heavy, ugly, the kind that made the room feel smaller.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again.

“I don’t think you’ve loved me for a long time.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs.

“You’re wrong,” you whispered, your eyes burning.

Joel shook his head slowly, the movement tired and resigned. “No,” he said quietly. “I think I just admitted it before you did.”

He grabbed his coat from the closet and shrugged it on quickly before heading for the door. The slam echoed through the house as he left.

Three hours later, you were still sitting there, the silence of the house pressing in on you. The silence nearly suffocating. The fridges hum, the clock ticking on the wall, the lull of commentary from the Cowboys game that Joel was watching… Waiting had started to feel pathetic.

So, fuck it.

If Joel wasn’t coming home, you knew exactly where he’d be.

The Bison.

You didn’t bother changing. You just slipped on a pair of dirty sneakers, grabbed your keys, and headed out. The drive was quiet, the kind that let your thoughts get too loud. You rehearsed what you were going to say in your head, even muttering pieces of it out loud to make sure it didn’t come out wrong. The last thing you wanted was to sound like an idiot, or worse, a complete dick.

The time alone had helped you calm down. The anger had burned itself out somewhere between pacing the living room and staring at the clock for the better part of three hours. Now you could actually think.

Maybe you had overreacted a little.

You were tired. That was the truth of it. Tired of the stress, tired of the long days, tired of feeling like everything in your life was constantly hanging by a thread. And if you were being honest with yourself, you missed Joel. You missed what things used to feel like between the two of you.

Things didn’t have to stay like this.

Cutting back on your hours would help. You could step away from the office more, actually be home for dinner again, and spend time together like you used to. Hell, maybe you could even start talking seriously about the family you’d both been dancing around for the last year.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Just a year ago, the two of you had been good. Happy, even. But the pressure of money started creeping in, and the hours at work kept piling up. One late night turned into two, then three, then suddenly you were barely home at all. Somewhere along the way, you’d turned into someone you didn’t even recognize anymore.

Getting the promotion at the firm would be nice.

But saving your marriage was better.

And why it took you this long to realize that, you didn’t know. But better now than never.

The Bison’s parking lot was already packed when you pulled in. Of course it was. The fucking Cowboys were playing.

When you stepped out of the car, you could already hear the roar of the crowd spilling out through the bar’s front doors. Cheers, shouting, the muffled echo of the game blasting from the televisions inside.

You made your way toward the entrance.

The second you opened the door, the noise hit you.

The Bison smelled like cheap beer, fried food, and too many sweaty bodies packed into one place. Every TV in the bar was tuned to the game, the crowd erupting in cheers as the Cowboys pushed down the field. Glasses clinked, someone whooped near the bar, and the bartender shouted something you couldn’t make out over the noise.

You hesitated just inside the doorway, letting your eyes adjust to the dim lighting as you scanned the room.

Joel had to be here; he was always here on game nights.

You pushed your way through the crowd, squeezing past groups of guys in jerseys and women perched on barstools. Someone bumped into your shoulder, sloshing beer onto the floor.

“Watch it,” someone muttered.

You ignored it, craning your neck to see over the crowd.

Then a voice came from your left.

“Well damn,” a guy slurred from a high-top table. “Did someone get lost?”

His friends laughed.

You kept walking.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called after you again, louder this time. “Cowboys are playin’, come sit on my lap and make me a cowboy!”

You didn’t even bother looking at him. Your eyes were still scanning the room, searching past the bar, past the dart boards, toward the booths lining the back wall.

Joel usually sat back there. At least you both used to on late nights after a date or just a hard day at work.

Your heart started beating faster the closer you got.

Maybe he’d cooled off. Maybe he’d be sitting there with a beer, sulking like he always did when the two of you fought. Maybe you’d slide into the booth across from him and say what you’d practiced in the car. Maybe the two of you would finally talk. Maybe things could still be fixed.

You slowed as you reached the back of the bar, your eyes drifting across the booths.

One booth held a group of college kids yelling at the TV.

Another had two older men arguing over a play.

Then the corner booth.

At first, you only noticed the boots. Joel’s boots.

You knew them instantly, scuffed leather, the same pair he wore nearly every day.

Relief rushed through you so fast it almost made you dizzy.

See? you thought. Of course, he’s here. You’re being dramatic.

You took a step closer, and that’s when you saw her.

She was half in his lap, her hand tangled in the back of his hair as she leaned across the booth. Joel’s hand was on her waist, pulling her in as their mouths pressed together like they had nothing else to do in the world.

For a second, your brain refused to process what you were looking at. The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar in your ears, then the girl shifted slightly, and her face came into full view.

Familiar, too familiar, your stomach dropped, because you knew her.

For a moment, your brain refused to place the face, as if it were trying to spare yourself the answer. But then the girl shifted slightly, brushing Joel’s cheek as she leaned back just enough to laugh at something he’d said.

And there it was.

Claire.

Your best friend. The girl who took you to the bars on nights when you were studying too hard. The girl who cried on your shoulder after her first real heartbreak. The girl you have known since middle school. The girl who was now holding the knife she just used to stab you in the back.

The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar in your ears. The televisions were still blaring, people still shouting at the game, glasses clinking somewhere behind you, but it all sounded distant, like you were hearing it from underwater.

Joel noticed you first.

His eyes flicked up over Claire’s shoulder, and the moment he saw you standing there, they widened. His body went rigid beneath her.

Claire didn’t notice right away. She was still half draped across him, one hand tangled loosely in the back of his hair, the other resting against his chest, lips still roaming along his jaw.

“Joel?” you said.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost swallowed by the noise around you.

Claire turned, and the smile on her face disappeared the moment she saw you.

For a second, none of you moved.

Joel’s hand slipped quickly from her waist like he’d just realized it was there. His eyes were dark and heavy, like he’d almost been here before. Had this happened before? Had he fucked her already?

“Hey-” he started, already pushing himself up from the booth. “This isn’t-”

You let out a short laugh, not amused, not angry.

Just… disbelieving.

“Really?” you said flatly.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, panic flashing across his face as he stepped out of the booth. “She-she came onto me, I didn’t-”

You scoffed softly and shook your head.

“Right.”

Your eyes slid to Claire, lingering on her for a long moment. She didn’t say anything, just watched you with wide eyes like she was the one who’d been caught in the middle of something terrible. You gave a small, incredulous shake of your head.

“Really?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

You turned and pushed your way out of the bar, the cold night air hitting your face as soon as the door swung open. Your hands were already shaking as you crossed the parking lot, digging your keys from your pocket and fumbling with them as you reached your car.

Behind you, the bar door burst open again.

“Hey, wait!”

Claire.

Of course.

You turned just as she hurried across the lot toward you, her heels clicking against the pavement. She slowed when she reached you, reaching out gently to grab your arm.

“Please just listen for a second,” she said softly.

You looked down at her hand on your arm before meeting her eyes. Your best friend. The girl who had cried on your couch over bad boyfriends. The girl who had stood beside you at your wedding, holding your bouquet while you fixed your veil.

“What?” you said, cold, wanting to get out of there, and also wanting to slap the taste out of her mouth. The rage from earlier was slowly creeping back in.

Claire’s grip loosened slightly. She glanced back toward the bar door, then back at you again. “I didn’t want you to find out like that,” she said with a coy smirk.

Your stomach twisted, “What are you talking about?”

Claire hesitated just long enough to make it look like the words were hard to say, then she sighed.

“Joel and I… this wasn’t the first time.”

The words landed slowly, like they needed a second to sink in.

“We’ve been fooling around for a while,” she continued, her voice overly smooth. “I kept telling him we needed to tell you, but he didn’t want to hurt you.”

She shook her head slightly, almost tauntingly as she sucked her teeth, “I guess he was never going to.”

Something inside your chest cracked. You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even argue. You just nodded once, like everything suddenly made sense.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

Claire’s expression stayed hardened, like she expected you to fall apart. “I’m really sorry,” she added, a sly smirk making her way to her lips as she shrugged.

But you were already opening your car door.

You slid into the driver’s seat and slammed it shut before she could say anything else. Your hands were still shaking as you started the engine.

Behind you, the bar door burst open again.

Joel.

You saw him in the rearview mirror as he ran out into the parking lot, scanning the rows of cars until his eyes landed on yours.

He started toward you immediately.

“Wait!” he shouted.

Your foot hit the gas.

The tires crunched against gravel as you pulled out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, Joel slowed to a stop in the glow of the neon bar sign, one hand dragging through his hair as he shouted something you couldn’t hear.

He got smaller.

And smaller.

Until he disappeared completely.

Sometimes it still felt like you could see him in the rearview mirror like that, even now as you drove toward the hospital.

The ride had been silent. No radio, no podcasts, just you and the steady hum of the road beneath the tires while your thoughts circled endlessly.

You hadn’t seen Joel since the day you signed the papers and left for New York.

Would he look different now?

Would there be grey threaded through his dark hair? Would the Texas sun have left his skin tanner, rougher? Maybe he’d gotten leaner. Harder. Maybe time had carved new lines into his face the way it had yours.

And his voice…

Would it still sound the same? That southern drawl that had always been the perfect mix of rough and smooth, the one that used to make your stomach flip the first time he said your name.

Or would it be different now? Deeper somehow. Sharper. Filled with anger and years of things left unsaid.

You pulled into the hospital parking lot almost on autopilot, barely registering that you had arrived until the engine clicked softly as you turned it off. For a moment, you just sat there, picking at your nails while you worked up the courage to go inside.

Eventually, you opened the car door.

Heat pressed in immediately, heavy and familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. Texas didn’t ease into you the way New York did; it announced itself. The air smelled faintly of asphalt and something green, maybe fresh-cut grass, and for a second, you just stood there with your keys dangling loosely from your fingers, letting the reality of where you were sink in.

You shut the door and turned toward the building.

The hospital rose in front of you, all glass and pale stone, the early morning sun glaring off the windows so brightly you had to squint. It looked clean. Neutral. Like nothing bad could ever happen inside it.

Like it wasn’t holding someone who once knew you better than anyone else.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the blast of air-conditioning hit you hard enough to make you shiver.

The smell came first—sterile and sharp, tinged with something faintly metallic that clung to the back of your throat. Your shoes squeaked softly against the polished floor as you stepped into the lobby, the sound embarrassingly loud in the open space.

People moved around you with purpose. A nurse hurried past, her ponytail swinging behind her. A man in scrubs laughed quietly into his phone. A couple sat close together near the wall, their heads bowed toward each other.

Everyone looked like they belonged here.

You didn’t.

You paused just inside the entrance, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you glanced down at your phone out of habit, hoping that there would be a phone call or a text saying that this was all some cruel joke. Still nothing.

You shoved it back into your bag before you could check again.

Information Desk, a sign read, with an arrow pointing left.

You follow the sign, your legs carrying you forward before your mind has fully caught up. The lobby feels larger the farther you move into it, the ceiling high and echoing with the muted shuffle of footsteps and the low murmur of voices. When you reach the information desk, the woman behind the counter glances up from her computer. Her smile is the kind that feels practiced but sincere, the quiet professionalism of someone who spends her days guiding people through moments they’d rather not be having.

“Hi,” she says gently. “Can I help you?”

Your throat tightens before the words can reach it.

“Yes,” you manage after a moment. “I’m here to see someone. Joel Miller.”

His name feels strange leaving your mouth after all this time. Too personal. Too familiar. As if saying it out loud exposes something you’d meant to keep buried.

The woman’s fingers move across the keyboard, her nails tapping softly against the keys. The sound fills the brief silence between you, each second stretching longer than it should.

“Date of birth?”

You answer immediately. The numbers come easily, instinctively, something you’ve written down on forms and paperwork so many times they exist somewhere in muscle memory. Your voice remains steady despite the weight of it.

“And your relationship?”

The question lands heavier.

It’s simple. Routine. Something she probably asks a hundred times a day.

Still, your mouth opens and then stalls.

“I’m his-”

The sentence falters. The word ex presses against the back of your teeth, precise and painful in its accuracy. You swallow hard, forcing it down.

“…wife,” you say instead.

The lie sits between you.

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t question it. Just nods once, as though it fits neatly into whatever quiet category she’s placed you in.

“He’s on the fourth floor,” she says, her voice warm but efficient. “Room 412. Visiting hours are open right now. The elevators are just past the gift shop.”

“Thank you,” you murmur.

You turn away before she can say anything else, afraid that if you linger, she might offer something sympathetic—something gentle enough to break whatever fragile composure you’ve managed to hold together.

The gift shop sits just off the corridor, spilling the faint scent of coffee and artificial lilies into the hallway. Shelves of stuffed animals, greeting cards, and overly cheerful balloons blur together as you pass, but you don’t slow down long enough to actually see any of it. The elevator doors glide open as you approach, and you step inside without company.

The ride upward unfolds in silence, broken only by the low mechanical hum of the elevator cables working somewhere above you. You watch the digital numbers illuminate one by one, each floor punctuating the climb with a soft chime.

Two.

Three.

Four.

The doors slide apart.

The hallway on the fourth floor feels quieter than the lobby below, the lighting softer and dimmer, casting everything in a muted yellow glow. The air here carries the same sterile sharpness, but heavier somehow, thick with the steady rhythm of machines beeping behind closed doors and the faint murmur of a television somewhere farther down the corridor.

You move slowly down the hall, your eyes tracing the numbers beside each door as you pass. Your footsteps fall carefully against the polished tile, measured and deliberate, like you’re trying not to disturb the quiet that hangs over the floor.

410

411

Your breath catches in your chest.

412

You stop in front of the door.

Your hand lifts, hovering just short of the doorframe. Your pulse pounds so loudly in your ears you’re half convinced it must be echoing down the corridor. Five years. This is the closest you’ve been to him in five years.

You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself, then push the door open before you can talk yourself out of it.

The room is brighter than the hallway outside, sunlight filtering through a narrow window and spilling across the floor in pale, slanted bands. The quiet hum of hospital equipment fills the space, machines breathing softly beside the bed while a monitor ticks along in steady rhythm, as though keeping time for him. The air smells aggressively clean, that sharp antiseptic scent that seems determined to erase whatever happened here.

Joel is sitting upright in the bed.

At first, he doesn’t notice you.

His gaze is fixed on his hands resting in his lap, turning them slowly beneath the light as though he’s trying to decipher something written in the creases of his palms. A thick bandage wraps around his head, stark white against his dark hair, and a bruise spreads along his temple, yellowing at the edges where it’s beginning to fade. He looks thinner than you remember. Not fragile, exactly, just worn down, like something inside him has been rattled loose.

Then he lifts his head. His eyes land on you. And everything inside your chest collapses inward.

There’s no hesitation in his expression. No flicker of confusion. He doesn’t study your face the way a stranger might, searching for recognition.

It finds him instantly. Easily. Devastatingly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly.

The words land somewhere deep in your chest, stirring memories you thought you’d buried years ago. It’s the same way he used to say it when you came home late from work, when you’d step through the front door, and he’d glance up from wherever he was sitting, looking at you like he’d been waiting without realizing it.

Your breath falters.

Sweetheart.

You hadn’t heard that word in years… Hadn’t been called it in years.

Across the room, Joel’s entire posture loosens. His shoulders sink as though some invisible tension has finally slipped from them, like the strings cut from a puppet, relief spreading openly across his face. It’s warm. Immediate. Unmistakable.

“You’re here,” he says.

The simple statement lands harder than you expect.

Without meaning to, you take a step farther into the room, your body moving before your thoughts can catch up with it.

“Yeah,” you manage after a moment. “I’m here.”

His gaze follows you carefully, tracking every small movement as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away. There’s something disarmingly soft in his expression, a tenderness that makes your chest tighten, like he’s committing you to memory all over again.

“I knew you would,” he says with quiet certainty, as though your presence had never once been in doubt.

Your fingers curl slowly into your palm.

“They kept askin’ if there was anyone else they should call,” he continues, his voice still easy, still calm. “I told ’em no. Just you.”

You nod automatically, even as the truth presses painfully against your ribs.

His smile deepens, reassured by the gesture.

“Didn’t like the idea of wakin’ up without you.”

The words land square in your chest, knocking the air from your lungs. He doesn’t notice the way your shoulders stiffen or the careful effort it takes to keep your expression composed. Joel only looks relieved, anchored, somehow steadied by the simple fact that you’re standing there.

“Yeah…” you let out a soft chuckle, “Sorry, it was a long flight…”

Joel nods while he shifts slightly against the pillows, a faint wince crossing his face as he lifts a hand toward the bandage wrapped around his head before letting it fall back to the sheets.

“Tommy’s been here most of the night,” he says casually, like the detail barely matters. “Wouldn’t leave. Guess he finally stepped out to get coffee.” One corner of his mouth lifts in a tired half-smile. “Said the stuff here tastes like burnt dirt.”

That sounds exactly like Tommy.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

“He knows you were comin’, though,” Joel adds, glancing back at you. “Seemed real relieved when I told him.”

You nod again, though you aren’t entirely sure what you’re nodding to. The words settle heavily in your chest, another quiet weight you’re not prepared to carry.

“He okay?” you ask after a moment, choosing your words carefully. “Tommy, I mean.”

Joel lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Yeah. Just… hoverin’. Kept actin’ like I was gonna forget my own name.”

If only he knew.

Joel’s gaze drifts back to you then, more thoughtful this time. A faint crease forms between his brows as he studies your face, something quietly uncertain flickering behind his eyes.

“You said long flight,” he says slowly.

Your stomach tightens.

“Yeah.”

He frowns, not with suspicion, but with the mild confusion of someone trying to piece together something that doesn’t quite make sense.

“Why’d you fly?”

The question is gentle. It still lands like a bruise. Well fuck, how were you going to get out of this?

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly.

“Well…” His gaze drifts briefly toward the window, hand rubbing at his stubble, like the answer might be waiting somewhere outside. “You would’ve just driven. It’s only like thirty minutes.”

Your hands tighten together in your lap.

“I thought you were at the house,” he continues, his voice quieter now, softer in a way that makes your chest ache. “Figured you’d walk in complainin’ about traffic, ask if I ate yet.” A chuckle breaks free from his chest, his eyes squinting as he tries to solve the puzzle in his head.

The image forms instantly in your mind, so ordinary, so familiar it almost steals the air from your lungs.

“I didn’t realize you were that far, whe-” he murmurs, pausing himself as he looks around confused, “Where were you?” the thought still sounding like it arrived only halfway formed. “How long were you on the plane?”

“About four hours.”

Joel goes very still.

Four hours is too long to brush aside, too long to tuck neatly into the explanation he’s been building in his head.

“That… doesn’t make sense,” he says quietly, the words drifting out more to himself than to you. “You hate flyin’. Only do it if you absolutely have to.”

Of course he remembers that.

His gaze lifts again, settling on your face with a new kind of focus, not suspicious, not accusing, just searching, like he’s trying to assemble a picture with pieces that refuse to cooperate.

“Where were you comin’ from?” he pushes gently after you don’t answer right away.

Before you can muster up an answer, find some form of excuse to spill,  the door swings open.

“Alright,” Tommy’s voice cuts through the room, gravelly and familiar. “I swear they make this shit by runnin’ it through a sock.”

He stops short when he sees you.

For a brief moment, the entire room seems to pause, the quiet hum of machines suddenly louder in the silence.

Then recognition settles over his face, followed by something softer, relief, maybe, though it carries a heavier weight behind it.

“Hey,” Tommy says, his voice dropping as you both exchange a look.

“Hey,” you answer.

Joel glances between the two of you, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Took you long enough,” he tells his brother. “She just got here.”

Tommy nods slowly as he steps farther into the room, the paper coffee cup still warm in his hand.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

But his eyes never leave yours.

There’s something in them, steady, apologetic, burdened with a knowledge Joel no longer carries.

And standing there, caught between the man who looks at you like nothing in the world ever broke between you and the one who remembers exactly how it did, you realize something with a slow, sinking clarity.

Joel has no idea you ever left.

You aren’t the only one holding the truth anymore.

The door opens again, this time with a softer, more clinical presence. A man in a white coat steps inside, a clipboard tucked beneath his arm as his eyes move quickly around the room before settling on Joel.

“Mr. Miller?” he asks.

Joel straightens immediately, shoulders tightening. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“I’m Dr. Anders,” the man says, voice calm and measured. “I understand you sustained a concussion at work today. First, I want to reassure you, you’re stable. There’s no internal bleeding and no life-threatening injuries.” He gestures briefly toward the bed. “The head trauma caused a concussion, and you’ve got a mild fracture in your left tibia. We’ve already set it and placed a cast. Orthopedics will take another look before you’re discharged and set up a physical therapy schedule for you.”

Joel glances down, like he’s just now remembering his body belongs to him. The blanket shifts slightly, revealing the thick gray cast extending from just below his knee to his ankle.

“Huh,” he mutters, flexing his fingers against the sheets. “That explains why it feels like someone took a golf club to it.”

Dr.Anders nods once, keeping his attention on Joel. “Because of the concussion, you’re also experiencing retrograde amnesia. That means your memory of the time leading up to the accident, and possibly a longer period before that, may be temporarily lost.” The doctors voice is calm, almost like he’s approaching a startled horse, not wanting to spook it further.

Joel’s brow furrows, his hand twitching toward the bandage wrapped around his head, moving downwards to rub at his eyes, like he’s trying to put a puzzle together that only he can see. “How long? How much did I… lose?”

“That’s difficult to predict,” Dr. Anders says carefully. “Memories may return gradually, all at once, or, in some cases, not fully. What’s most important right now is that you don’t try to force them. Straining to remember can actually make the condition worse.”

Joel shifts slightly, then winces as his casted leg moves beneath the blanket.

“I… I want to know,” he says. “I need to know what I missed. Everything. Did anything happen? Did anyone… anyone important… pass? Ma? Pa?”

“No, no,” Tommy assures gently, “Ma and Pa are still good, just maybe a lil’ older than you remember,” he lets out with a forced chuckle as he rubs at the scruff on his face.

Joel shifts slightly in the bed, adjusting his weight without thinking. The movement is small, but the second his injured leg moves beneath the blanket, his face tightens.

“Jesus-”

He exhales sharply through his teeth and glances down, like he’s just remembered something is wrong with his body. The blanket has slipped just enough to reveal the thick gray cast running from below his knee to his ankle. Joel stares at it for a moment.

Tommy snorts quietly from where he’s leaning against the wall. “You fell off a scaffold, man. You should feel hella lucky right now.”

Joel glances between the two of you, still trying to piece together the edges of his reality. His hand moves carefully toward the cast, fingers brushing along the hard plaster like he’s checking to see if it’s real.

“Scaffold,” he repeats slowly.

Dr. Anders nods, “About ten to twelve feet, from what your coworkers told us. You were unconscious for a short period of time, which is likely what caused the concussion.”

Joel leans back against the pillows again, staring up at the ceiling for a moment as he processes everything.

“Head’s foggy,” Joel admits, rubbing absently at the edge of the bandage on the side of his temple again.

“That’s normal,” Dr. Anders replies evenly. “You’ll likely experience headaches, fatigue, and confusion for a few days. The most important thing right now is rest.”

Joel nods, though his attention has already drifted elsewhere. His gaze finds you again, lingering in a way that makes your chest tighten.

There’s something unsettling about it to you, the way he looks at you like you’re the only stable thing left in a world that suddenly stopped making sense.

Dr. Anders notices it too.

His eyes flick briefly between the two of you before he clears his throat and straightens slightly.

“Joel, I want you to focus on resting for the next few days, alright?” he says gently. “I’m going to step out into the hallway with your family for a moment and go over the details of your recovery plan with them. We’ll make sure everything is set up so you have the help you need while you’re healing.”

Joel glances between you and Tommy, then gives a small, tired nod.

“Alright.”

Dr. Anders opens the door and gestures politely toward the hall.

“If you two wouldn’t mind.”

You push yourself out of the chair, Tommy following a step behind as the three of you slip into the quiet corridor. The door closes softly behind you, the muffled hum of Joel’s monitors fading as the fluorescent lights overhead take their place.

Dr. Anders exhales quietly, leaning back against the wall for a moment as if organizing his thoughts.

“We need to be mindful that Joel is dealing with both a concussion and retrograde amnesia,” he begins carefully. “His brain is essentially trying to rebuild connections. If we push too hard—or introduce emotionally distressing information too quickly, it can interfere with that process. In some cases, it can delay the return of memories for months, maybe years.”

He pauses, choosing his next words with care before looking directly at you.

“For example… his relationship with you.”

Your stomach twists.

“Joel currently believes you’re still married,” Dr. Anders continues. “For the time being, it would be best not to challenge that assumption. Speak to him as his wife. Treat things as normally as possible.”

Your stomach drops.

“Wait,” you say slowly. “You’re telling me to lie to him? Pretend we’re married?”

“Yes,” Dr. Anders replies, calm but unwavering. “For the time being. Joel trusts you, and right now that trust is incredibly important. It gives him a sense of stability. If he’s suddenly confronted with information that contradicts what he believes, especially something emotionally significant, it could create stress that interferes with his recovery.”

Your jaw tightens.

“So it’s all on me,” you murmur, staring down at the polished hospital floor. “I’m the one keeping him stable… by pretending to still be his wife.”

Dr. Anders doesn’t argue.

“I understand how unfair that sounds,” he says gently. “But in the state he’s in, you are the most familiar and emotionally grounding presence he has. Right now, you’re his anchor, even if he doesn’t fully realize it.”

He glances briefly toward Joel’s room before continuing.

“There’s also the matter of his leg. The fracture means he’ll be on crutches for several weeks, possibly longer, depending on how the bone heals. Combined with the concussion, he shouldn’t be living alone or moving around without help for a while. Someone will need to assist him at home, getting around, monitoring symptoms, making sure he doesn’t push himself too quickly.”

Tommy exhales slowly beside you.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “And that someone sure as hell ain’t me.”

Dr. Anders turns toward him.

Tommy rubs the back of his neck, already looking apologetic. “My wife’s eight months pregnant. She’d kill me if I disappeared for a few weeks to babysit my stubborn older brother.”

Your chest tightens.

“So that leaves…” Tommy gestures vaguely between the two of you.

You.

A bitter breath escapes before you can stop it.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.

Five years. Five years spent building something separate from Joel. A different city, a different routine, a different life entirely. You had finally learned how to exist without him in it. And now you’re supposed to step right back into the role you fought so hard to leave behind. As if none of those years ever happened. As if you never signed the papers and walked away.

Just… step back in and pretend. Just for him.

Tommy gives you a small, sympathetic nod, but it does nothing to quiet the storm inside your chest.

You’re not fine. You shouldn’t have to be fine.

But if you walk away… he could get worse.

And somehow, after everything, you still care enough not to let that happen.

You straighten slowly, shoulders squaring as you force your hands to unclench.

“Fine,” you say at last, your voice low and tight with restraint. “I’ll do it. But don’t pretend that makes this okay.”

Dr. Anders nods once, solemn.

“I don’t expect it to feel fair,” he says. “But you’re doing the best thing for Joel right now. The most important thing is patience. Let his memories return naturally. Don’t push him to remember, and don’t overwhelm him with information. His brain needs time.”

Tommy shifts beside you, his voice softer now.

“We’ll get through this,” he says quietly. “Just… take it one day at a time.”

He pauses, then adds with a small, almost apologetic shrug, “It’s good to have you back. Even if the circumstances are pretty damn terrible.”

You give him a stiff nod, then turn back toward Joel’s room.

Your chest feels heavy as you walk down the hallway, every step pulling you closer to a life you thought you’d buried years ago.

A lie. That’s what this is now. A carefully maintained illusion for the man who once shattered everything you had together. And the worst part, the part you don’t dare say out loud, is that beneath the anger, beneath the resentment, beneath the years of distance…

A small, stubborn part of you still wants to be there for him.

Even if pretending doesn’t just break your heart. Even if it slowly kills you to do it.

You push the door open, the soft click of the latch announcing your return. Joel’s head lifts, dark eyes tracking you immediately, alert but not tense.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer.

Joel props himself up slightly, a small wince escaping his mouth, a forced crooked grin tugging at his lips. “There she is. What’d he say?”

“I… talked to the doctor,” you say carefully, “He wants you to rest, but… I’m gonna go home and grab some things for you. Stuff you might need when you’re ready to leave.”

Joel quirks an eyebrow, still grinning. “Stuff, huh? You packing my royal necessities?” His tone is teasing, light, like he’s trying to make the hospital feel a little less serious.

“Yes,” you say softly, a gentle chuckle and smile forcing its way out. “The essentials for surviving with Joel Miller…”

“Right,” he mutters, shaking his head, amused. Then he leans back slightly, eyes narrowing playfully. “But before you go… can I get a kiss?”

You freeze. Your chest tightens, stomach coiling. A kiss. Here. Now. With him like this.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say. It’s a lame excuse, but god, you’re hoping it works. Twenty-four hours ago, you wouldn’t have imagined being in the same state as Joel, and now, here you were, trying to get out of kissing him.

“Hurt me? C’mon, I hit my head, didn’t break my neck.”

And damn, if that wasn’t a good argument.

Joel watches you patiently, that familiar spark in his eyes making it impossible to resist. After a long beat, you lean in and give him a tiny, careful peck.

He blinks, a mischievous glint in his eye, and quips, “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna give me?” He asks, going to grab your wrist to pull you back in.

You bite back a nervous laugh as you evade his grip, “That’s… enough,” you murmur, cheeks warming, lips still tingling from where the other man’s were moments ago.

Joel shakes his head, grinning wider now, clearly enjoying himself. “Damn. You’ve gone stingy on me,” he teases. “I know you’re more generous than that. Is it the bandage? Is it a turnoff?”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes, despite the tension in your chest. Even pretending, he still has that way of drawing you in.

“No, it’s not the bandage… Just get some rest, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Joel settles back against the pillows, surrendering to the fight,  hands behind his head, eyes following you. “Okay, go then. But don’t take too long. You know I get bored when I’m stuck somewhere with nothing to do.” He winks, light and playful, like he’s still your Joel, the same man you remember.

“I’ll miss you,” he added, and just like that, the air from your lungs was gone.

You nod, turning towards the door slowly,  gripping your purse strap. One last glance at him, grinning softly in that rugged, familiar way, and you step out of the room, heart tight, chest heavy, but knowing this little spark of playfulness makes the lie a little easier to bear… for now.

The door closes softly behind you.

Inside the room, Joel watches the door for a long moment after you leave, and the smile fades slowly from his face.

divider cred: @/dividers-are-us

taglist: (i hope i spelled them right)

Joel and Ellie are a family. An unlikely pair of post-apocalyptic survivors end up forming a family that eventually allow one more into their family as Joel's companion.

It happened when I was asked to do wound care for Ellie, when she suffered a burn to her forearm. At first Joel and I were like oil and water. He was so overprotective of Ellie that we butt heads. He practically growled at me when Ellie whimpered during my first home visit. He was taken aback when I just looked at him and rolled my eyes. If looks could kill he would've killed me that day.

Eventually I had to treat him like I did other helicopter parents when I used to work the ER. I simply stated, " Mr. Miller, if you'd like me to leave and let you do this, I'm happy to leave you to it."

I began to stand up, then Ellie yelled at him."Cut it out Joel! Stop hovering! Where are your manners?! You haven't even offered her a drink or something!" She shook her head and told me, "Sorry. Please excuse Joel. He's not used to having company, especially female company."

I replied to Ellie, "I get it. I saw this back in the day in the ER from a lot of overprotective parents. It just goes faster and easier without someone growling." I smiled and winked at her. He went to the kitchen and could be heard opening and closing cabinets.

Ellie was intrigued with "the before the events that changed the world forever" and began asking lots of questions about my previous life. After that initial home visit Joel would always have coffee or tea available to me. He never growled at me again.

I continued daily wound treatment visits for Ellie for a little over 3 weeks. Some of her burns were only 1st degree, but most of the surface area were 2nd degree burns. I would go see her every afternoon at about 3pm, at the end of my shift. It took less time to clean as her wound began to heal, but she loved to ask me questions about life before everything went to shit.

On my 4th visit was when I noticed Joel was less tense around me. That's when he said, "Ellie loves to ask a lot of fu… pardon me ma'am. She likes to ask a lot of questions." He was setting my tea on the table when I paused and looked up at him, with my right eyebrow arched. He paused with his hand still on my mug of tea and for the first time I noticed him get nervous under that tough exterior. He quickly looked away from me and his hand slipped off the mug before it was completely resting on the table, causing the mug to tip over and out spilled the tea onto some of my supplies.

I quickly picked up all the gauze I had out before it could become soaked with liquid. Gauze was a precious commodity, and I couldn't afford to lose any of it. That's when Joel began cursing and swung into action.

"Goddammit! I can't believe I did this fucking shit!" He quickly grabbed a dish towel and began soaking up the tea that was trying to make its way off the table. I was just standing with gauze in my gloved hands, away from the whirlwind that was happening in front of me. Ellie sat staring at Joel, smiling with large, surprised eyes. She looked towards me, then back at Joel. That's when I noticed a little pinkish tinge crawling up his face from his neck. Ellie just laughed, "You really fucked this one up Joel!" She continued laughing at him and he gave her a sneer as he finished cleaning up.

Once Joel was finished, I sat back down and began working on Ellie, again. Joel returned a few minutes later with another cup of tea, but while he was gone Ellie had questions that went in a different, more personal, direction.

"So, you married? Or were you married? Kids?"

I kept on working on her arm and stated, "No."

"Oh. So, you have a boyfriend, girlfriend, partner?"

"No, I'm not attached to anyone Ellie."

"Well," she looks towards the kitchen and in a lower voice asks, "would you consider dating Joel?"

I paused and look up at her with my hands stopped midair, "Excuse me?"

She looks at the kitchen and I look in the same direction. I'm thinking about what she just asked me, and I didn't see this coming.

She whispers, "I've never seen him nervous around anyone, so I think he might like you." She grins at me with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

I return to working on her arm without responding just as Joel returns with another cup of tea. He carefully sets it down beside me, "Sorry about that mess earlier. I made you a fresh cup."

I look up at him to see a sheepish smile on his face. I nodded, "No worries. Thank you, Joel. Would you care to join us?"

He smiles, "Um … if I'm not imposing upon y'all." He puts one hand on the back of a chair and pauses.

I look back up at him and smile, "I wouldn't have offered it was an imposition."

I see the pink tinge begin to grow, again, as he gives me a little crooked smile and pulls the chair out to sit. He smiles at Ellie and drinks his coffee.

I continued working on Ellie for a few more minutes, quietly as I feel both sets of eyes on me. I pause and look up at them, from one to the other, "Is there something either one of you want to ask me? You had a lot of questions earlier, Ellie."

Ellie smiles and looks at Joel for a beat, then returns her attention to me. " Would you like to join us for dinner tonight? Maybe at 6?" She looks at Joel, and I follow her gaze. " That's a good time to be finished with your ribs, right Joel?" She tilts her head at Joel, with widen eyes, and mouths 'Yes' to Joel.

I suppress the grin and laughter and just stare at Joel. He looks from Ellie to me and there is no hiding the nervous energy coming from his end of the table or the scarlet red tint rising up his cheeks.

"Uh, yes," he nods. "They should be ready by that time or pretty darn close to it. It would be great to have you join us for dinner tonight." He looks to me with anticipation and smiles.

I returned his smile and nodded, "Thank you for the invitation, but, um," I can visibly see Joel's smile disappear and Ellie look at me with disdain, "you better make it 7 because I still have another house call. Plus, I need to return to the clinic and write up my notes for today. This is normally my last stop, but today I have one more stop."

Ellie relaxes back in her chair and Joel looks relieved as he smiles, "Oh! Okay great!"

Prologue

JFK smells like too many stories crammed into too little space. Jet fuel and perfume. Anxiety and cheap coffee. You check your watch—early, as always—and shift the strap of your carry-on higher on your shoulder. The leather digs into your collarbone. You don’t mind.

You’ve always preferred airports to people. Anonymous spaces. Controlled chaos. A choreography of movement where no one expects you to speak unless you have to. That suits you fine.

Gate 47B is quieter than most. The flight to London doesn’t board for another thirty minutes. You’ve already walked two terminal loops. You’ve already declined the overpriced wine bar and the invitation to call anyone. There’s no one left to call.

You sit. Cross your legs. Open your book. You don’t see him coming.

There’s just a sudden weight—shoulder, arm, the smack of another body colliding with yours. Your water bottle flies. Your book closes. A half-muttered apology collides next, low and harried.

“Shit, I’m sorry—I wasn’t looking—are you okay?”

You look up.

He’s taller than you expected. Curls mussed like he’s been running his hands through them for hours. Brown eyes that crinkle before the smile comes. Faint stubble. Comfortable sneakers, scuffed at the toes. Something about him says warm. Unbuttoned.

You blink. “I’m fine.”

He crouches to grab your water, returns it to your hand with a sheepish smile. “Full points for grace, huh?”

You almost smile. Almost. “Do you make a habit of tackling strangers before takeoff?”

“Only the pretty ones.” Then, instantly—“I mean—that was a joke. God. Sorry. I haven’t slept much.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’ll...go find a wall to walk into,” he mutters.

And then he’s gone, weaving toward a row of seats across the gate, face flushed. He sits between two men—one older with a newspaper in hand, one younger scrolling through a phone. He’s flanked by a carry-on and a large black backpack. He says something to the man on the right, who laughs and smacks his knee.

You go back to your book. You read the same line three times.

Chapter One: Terminal Velocity

You board late on purpose. It’s habit by now. Less standing in aisles. Fewer forced conversations. You let the queue dwindle until it’s just you, a teenage couple glued to a phone, and a flight attendant tapping at her tablet.

Your seat is 14A — window, economy-plus, your one travel indulgence. You like the view, and the barrier of the fuselage beside you. You like that no one can sit on your left.

You stow your bag. Slide into your seat. Pull out your noise-canceling headphones. Not on yet. Just the ritual.

You're halfway through a text to the conference coordinator when you feel it again — the presence. Not collision this time. Just warmth, movement. You glance up.

The man from the terminal. Sweater slung over one arm. Hair slightly damp now, like he splashed water on his face. He looks… hesitant. Brows slightly furrowed. Then he blinks, double-checks his boarding pass, and looks at the seat next to you.

14B. Of course. He smiles. Smaller this time. Quieter. “Fate or punishment, I guess.”

You don’t smile, but your lips part. “Do you bump into all your seatmates too?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress them.”

You tilt your head. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Jury’s still out.”

He slides into the seat beside you, careful this time. Less crash, more fold. You can feel his body adjusting—elbow angling away from the shared armrest, knees subtly tucked to avoid brushing yours. He's trying not to intrude. You pretend not to notice. But you do.

As the plane taxis, he exhales slow. A low sound in his throat — not quite a sigh, not quite a hum. “Nervous flyer?” you ask, surprising yourself. He shrugs. “No. Just… a lot on my mind.” You nod once. Not an invitation. Just acknowledgment. There’s a silence after that. Not awkward, exactly. Just full. Like both of you are pretending it’s still empty.

Two hours later

You’re mid-Atlantic. Cabin lights dimmed. The hum of jet engines wraps the plane like a lullaby.

You should be asleep. Instead, you’re watching the back of the seat in front of you. The man next to you is watching a documentary. Subtitled. Something about ancient ruins. You glance sideways once, maybe twice. His profile is cut from shadow and screen-light. He catches you, eventually.

“What?”

You shake your head. “You don’t seem like a history buff.” He grins, eyes still on the screen. “I like old things. They tell the truth.” You think about that. About the wedding band you still keep in your drawer at home. The creases in your father’s coat that still hang in the back of your closet.

“You traveling for work?” he asks. You nod. “Conference. Surgery.” He turns his head now, gives you his full attention. “You’re a surgeon?” 

“Visceral. GI trauma, mostly.”

There’s a low whistle. “That explains the calm.” You blink. “The what?”

“You’ve got that…stillness. Like if the world ended mid-flight, you’d just make a list and get to work.”

You don’t laugh. But your chest tightens slightly. Something about the way he says it — not flirtation, not admiration. Just noticing. Like he sees you.

“Doesn’t take much to impress you,” you murmur.

“Pretty sure it does,” he says softly. “You just already did.”

Somewhere over the northeast coast, he falls asleep.

Not instantly. Not all at once. You watch it happen in increments—head tilted slightly to the side, one hand loosely curled on his thigh, mouth parting as breath slows. The flickering light from his seatback screen still dances across his cheek, but his eyelids don’t flicker.

You let yourself study him now. Just for a moment. He has the kind of face that shouldn’t be allowed to rest. It disarms. The lines around his mouth have been written by both laughter and sorrow. You know the difference. You’ve seen them on patients, on yourself.

Your tray table is down. Your journal open. Pen paused mid-thought. You haven’t written anything in twenty minutes. Just sat there, letting the hum of the cabin fill in the blank spaces your thoughts won’t.

You write:

People are always softest when they’re sleeping. Like a ceasefire. No defense, no performance. Just the body remembering how to be a body.

You don’t write about him. But you think about it.

The cabin lights dim further. Midnight service—supper in plastic trays. You decline. He stirs at the clink of silverware and the soft thud of the cart bumping seat edges. His eyes open slowly, blearily. He blinks at the tray in front of him, then looks at you.

“How long was I out?”

“An hour. Maybe less.”

He sits up. Stretches slightly. The hem of his T-shirt lifts just a breath—enough to reveal a scar near his left hip. Old. Jagged. The kind that comes with a story.

You look away before he catches you watching.

“I snore, don’t I?” he asks, half-dreading.

“Not yet.”

“Yet?”

“There’s still five hours to go.”

He laughs under his breath, cracks open the bottle of water the attendant left on his tray. You see him glance at your journal. You close it.

“You a writer?”

“No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m a surgeon,” you say. Again. Like it’s an anchor. Like it’s a shield.

He nods, thoughtful. “You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to be a firefighter. Then a dinosaur.”

“What happened?”

“Acting,” he says. “One bad school play and a crush on the girl who played Juliet.”

You smirk. “Did she break your heart?”

“She married a dentist.”

He takes a sip of water, then adds, “They live in Florida. Three kids. I send them Christmas cards.”

You can’t tell if he’s joking. You don’t ask.

Hours pass in fragments. The sky outside the window is dark and endless, a sweep of velvet interrupted only by distant stars and the faint curve of moonlight on cloud.

At some point, you nap. Briefly.

When you wake, he is watching the screen again. Not a movie this time. A photos app. You glimpse a frame—three men, smiling around a hospital bed. One of them has his arm in a sling. One is Pedro.

You don’t ask.

But he notices your eyes drift.

“My dad,” he says softly.

You glance at him.

“Last summer. Heart scare. He’s okay now. Mostly.”

You nod. “You’re close.”

He shrugs. “We argue. We orbit. But yeah. He’s a good man. Old-school. Fierce. Bit of a flirt, if I’m honest.”

“Runs in the family.”

His eyes meet yours.

You hold the gaze this time. Let it stretch. Let the quiet between you feel full instead of empty.

"Him and my brother are just a couple of rows behind us, they booked their seats separately."

I turn around and I recognize the two men from the terminal that had sat next to him waiting for boarding.

“You don’t talk much,” he says, not unkindly.

“You talk enough for both of us.”

He grins. “That’s fair.”

Eventually, the cabin darkens fully. Outside, nothing but clouds and night. You adjust your seat back, close your eyes.

He speaks once more, voice low.

“Do you believe in second chances?”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t have one—but because your answer changes every time someone asks.

This time, you let silence be your reply.

A moment later, you hear him shift, the rustle of a blanket. Then stillness.

For the first time in a long time, you fall asleep beside someone else.

And your last waking thought is not about grief.

It’s about gravity.

And how it might not be such a bad thing, after all.

You excuse yourself just after meal service.

The lavatory light glows like a soft interrogation bulb. You splash water on your face. Watch the rivulets track down your jaw. The mirror warps slightly, and your reflection looks older than you remember. Tired. Alert. Alone.

You pull the chain for a paper towel. Pat dry. Look yourself in the eyes.

You are a surgeon. You are a widow. You are fine.

You open your journal again, leaning it against the counter.

Altitude makes everything thinner—air, patience, the membrane between memory and sensation. I didn’t expect the silence between strangers to feel this loud.

You close it again. Tuck it away. Exhale once. Twice.

You return to your seat.

Pedro glances at you. Subtle. A flick of his eyes, quick as breath.

“You okay?” he asks, just above a whisper.

You nod. “Just needed to stretch.”

“You move like someone who doesn’t want to be seen.”

You arch a brow. “And you talk like someone who can’t help narrating everything.”

He smiles. “Touché.”

Half an hour later, the cabin darkens again. The passengers settle. Sleep is a fog curling at the edges of everything.

Pedro shifts beside you. Not close. Just enough to be felt. His voice is softer now. Like it’s not meant for the rest of the cabin.

“Can I ask you something?”

You glance at him. “You already are.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re just… watching your life happen? Like it’s someone else’s seat, someone else’s hands, someone else’s name on the badge?”

You hesitate. Then: “Sometimes.”

MASTER LIST

Part 7

Disclaimer: I don't beta my work, and English is not my first language, so please excuse any errors.

“Hey Daze,” Joel greeted, sitting on the fold up stool he brought. The ground had gotten far too wet to sit on, and he had many things to talk about today. Things that needed whispering, not for Sarah’s ears.

He had stood impatiently waiting for Sarah to finish her incomprehensibly long story of all her time with Ellie throughout the week in excruciatingly minute detail. There were many false alarms, where she stopped speaking, only for her to continue after taking a deep breath. After what felt like days, Joel sighed when he realized she had just finished talking about Monday. Five more days to go.

God.

When did she become such a talker?

That’s right. Since she met Ellie.

She had not stopped talking about Ellie since she got home that first day of school.

Okay, minus the rest of the first week where she was angry at him for yelling at you, but other than that…

Yeah. His little princess was excited to have a new friend. Her first real friend, aside from Daniel.

And he… Joel Miller… well… he has a huge crush. On someone he most definitely fucked up any chance to ask out on a date with, quite catastrophically so, but a huge crush nonetheless, the first since his late wife.

He knew he had no chance with you. At all. And he couldn’t blame you. Heck, if the situation were reversed he wouldn’t have even batted an eyelash at himself. He fucked up. By God he knew that. But he couldn’t stop trying.

Like, he was actually inwardly giddy when he saw you by the roadside. So giddy he was surprised you didn’t feel his happiness beaming out of him in the truck.

This past week had been heaven on earth for him. You riding next to him daily in the truck, the two of you dropping the girls off together, him driving you to work, him picking the girls up, taking them to the park, bringing snacks so they could have something to much on in between the swings and the slides, sitting down with them as they do their homework, watching them play together. And then, after another snack time, they nap together, laying next to each other, facing each other, whispering and giggling before both of them finally fall asleep.

And then, he would wake them up, coax their tiny, grumpy, sleepy beings, and drive them to pick you up, where Ellie would ask all sorts of questions, followed by Sarah.

And you would answer, ever so patiently, telling them all about your day, smiling the whole time, despite being tired. The smile you gave them inadvertently soothed his aching bones as well.  

He couldn’t help but imagine this was his life. You and him, and your daughters.

A family.

Every time he dropped you and Ellie off, his heart felt so heavy. He would spend his bed time coming up with answers to your expected excuses and ‘no thank yous’ to his offer to drive you, and to take Ellie with him while you work. That Friday, a small part of him died as he watched you drive away, another part when he saw the girls cry.

Not that he condoned manipulative tears from five year old girls, but he was glad for them that day. Anything to have the four of you sitting in his truck together again.

And yesterday, spending Daniel’s birthday with you, he went home floating. You were actually speaking to him, even took a picture with him and the girls. The picture he couldn’t stop staring at. He was literally on cloud nine, falling asleep with your picture zoomed in, a smile on his face.

Thank God for Tommy. The man surprisingly did not complain about being sent in his stead to house calls just so he could keep an eye on the girls at the store.

Maybe he ought to buy that brother of his a couple of drinks.

“Well, this secret admirer of yours kept putting daisies on your grave, huh? Is this your way of telling me to start getting you flowers?” he chuckled, running his fingers through the delicate petals of the three daisies left there. “Who is this secret admirer? Should I be worried?”

He laughed to himself, watching as Sarah started waving like a crazy person and running towards Ellie, shouting she’s going with Ellie without even looking at him. He saw you waiting at the end of the row, so he wasn’t worried.

“Are you trying to make me jealous? Or are you trying to make sure I don’t stray?”

He saw Daze roll her eyes at him in his mind, the way she usually did whenever he refused to say whether a supermodel was beautiful when she asked.

He smiled, remembering the kind of cool wife she was. Tommy often commented how lucky he was that she wasn’t the jealous kind, then again, he wasn’t the kind to stray either.

“Well… you heard Sarah. Very eventful week. She wouldn’t stop yapping about Ellie and Auntie Annie. God Daze, you should have seen her. Ellie this, Ellie that, Auntie Annie this, Auntie Annie that. I mean, I can’t blame her. Ellie is a great kid. And Annie…”

He braced himself to tell her this next part. For what, he didn’t know exactly. What was she going to do? Rise from her grave and haunt him?

“Annie’s just great. You know I pissed her off, right? I told you that? Well… I’ve been apologizing, and I think it’s working. She’s talking to me again. Civil… I’d say. She didn’t yell at me, not that she ever would, not unless I yelled at her first, idiot that I am… but… I’m stalling…” he trailed off. He pursed his lips a bit, his hands pulling non existent weeds from the edges of her headstone.

“I think… I like her, Daze. Like, I like her, like her. You know? The way I liked you? Back then? Before you asked me out?”

He didn’t know what he expected to happen, but he waited a few seconds for some sort of a reaction. None came.

“Is that okay Daze? Are you okay with that?”

Nothing.

“Well,” he scoffed, “If that didn’t make you react, this might. I… uh… I don’t feel guilty about liking her. I don’t feel like I’m betraying you. Before, with other women… I felt so guilty. Like I’m cheating on you just from agreeing to go for a drink with anyone else. But with Annie… I just…”

He stopped talking, softly laughing to himself, “It’s like I can’t help myself. It just feels right. We just spent almost a week together driving around, just driving around and it just felt right, you know? I hardly know the woman, but I don’t know… it just felt… perfect. Like a dream. Is that normal? Are you okay with this? With me liking someone else, with me not feeling guilty about it? Am I being a bad husband or father here?”

He waited once more, “Sarah seems to enjoy herself. You should have heard her, Daze. She was asking Annie so many questions. She never even asked Tess questions, at least, not that much. She’s always so excited about the drives with Auntie Annie.” He didn’t know why he said that. But he felt as if he needed to tell her.

He paused, as if giving Daisy the time to mull over all this information he was giving her.

“Are you okay with this, Daze? Are you okay with me liking someone else? I don’t actually know if I am moving on, the woman hates me still, I think, though I am making progress. But if I were to move on, with her, are you okay with this? Do I have your blessing Daze?”

Just then, a soft breeze blew, carrying with it the sounds of girls laughing. He turned to look, recognizing the voices.

You were pushing the cart he saw you fill with leaves before, empty this time, apparently. Both girls were in it, arms out like that couple in that ship movie with that necklace, laughing their heads off.

Images of him watching the three of you play like that in his backyard flashed in his mind. He couldn’t stop the smile and the dreamy look that appeared on his face, his eyes closing from the sensation that the breeze brought.

“Is that a yes, Daze?” he whispered.

Another breeze passed, a leaf brushing his cheek as it flew by.

His smile widened.

“Thank you, Daze. I appreciate it. Tommy was right, I guess. You really are the coolest wife ever,” he joked, tracing his fingers on the three delicate daisies sitting in the pot in front of her headstone. “Now, about this secret admirer of yours…”

“One more, please Mama?” Ellie begged, complete with clasped hands.

“Yeah, one more please, Auntie Annie?”

“No, we should go inside and get cleaned up before your Daddy is done, okay? We’re going for brunch, remember?” you coaxed, picking them up one by one from the cart. “Next week, okay?”

Both girls pouted but let themselves be extracted from the cart.

You put the cart away in the shed, taking the girls’ hands and walked them to the house. Somehow in the hundred yards between the shed to the house, both girls ended up wrapping themselves on each of your legs, laughing uncontrollably as you struggled to take steps uphill towards your front door.

You found yourself laughing at their giddiness, their laughter, and the image you had of yourself trying and mostly failing to walk the remaining steps to your cottage. You laughed so hard you couldn’t find the energy to walk anymore, almost falling over from shaking.

“Sarah, she’s gonna fall, get off her leg!” you heard Joel playfully chastise. Your turned around, seeing the man walk up to the three of you, looking like a delicious plate of eggs, steak and potatoes, the ones with the very savoury gravy. Not the fancy steakhouse kind, but like a really rugged one, like those ones you saw on that original tornado movie where the team stopped at the aunt’s house.

This man could really make wearing flannels look like an advert from some cowboy advertisement.

Huh. Maybe this brunch was not such a good idea.

“Piggy Daddy! Piggy!” Sarah demanded, leaping off your foot and running to him, immediately climbing his person as if he was a tree.

Yeah… you’d like to climb him like a tree too.

Wait, who said that?

Ellie got off your foot too, but she stayed with you, her arms wrapped around your leg. You could tell she was eyeing Sarah and her Daddy but was trying not to make it obvious.

Joel let Sarah climb him, her tiny body barely affecting him at all. He put a hand behind him to make sure she didn’t fall but it seemed like this wasn’t her first rodeo, easily reaching his shoulder in seconds. She wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and looked at Ellie.

“Ellie, come on! Piggy back ride! Daddy gives the best ones ever! Uncle Tommy tries but his piggy back rides are bumpy!” she cringed.

Ellie moved back a step, still clinging to your leg.

“Oh, no honey, we don’t want to hurt your Daddy…”

“I’m okay with it if you are. Just a few laps around the cottage. What do you say Ells?” Joel interrupted, his eyes on Ellie.

Ellie looked up at you. And you couldn’t miss the look of longing she had in her eyes.

“Do you want a piggy back ride?” you asked her.

She nodded shyly, hugging your leg tighter.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this? You know you’ll have two girls on your back instead of one? Maybe they should take turns…” you suggested.

“No! Daddy is very strong! Daddy! Show her your Hulk arms!” Sarah encouraged before Joel could say anything.

You could see Joel’s face turning red. “Oh… I don’t…”

“Hulk arms Daddy! Hulk arms!” Sarah squealed, somehow jumping on his back.

Joel closed his eyes, pursing his lips. “I’m sorry you have to see this,” he warned you.

He took a deep breath and made a feeble mimicry of some Mr Universe poses that you were sure were usually much more exaggerated when in the privacy of his own home. By the time he was done, his face and ears were redder than his truck.

“See? Daddy is strong! Come Ellie!” Sarah reiterated her point.

“I can’t apologize enough for letting you see that,” Joel mumbled, shaking his head, scoffing a laugh. “Come on Ells, jump on,” he offered his hand to her.

Again, she looked at you for assurance. You simply nodded this time, smiling at her.

She took a step towards him and took his hand. He lifted her and swung her over his back, telling her to hold on to him. When he was sure both girls’ legs were securely wrapped around him and their arms around his shoulders and neck, he said, “Say bye-bye to your Mama Ellie, we’re going on a ride!”

With that, he placed his hands on the girls’ hands and jogged away towards the house.

“Bye Mama!” Ellie squealed.

“Bye Mama!” Sarah parroted.

Oh God. No… no, no, no, no, no.

This was not good.

Shit.

Ellie was only four when Eric passed.

She was a planned baby, at first. You and Eric tried to get pregnant for years. Four times a faint second line appeared. Four times you and Eric were excited. Four times the two of you cried with happiness holding each other.

Four times you got your period within the next week.

“It’s okay,” he told you as you cried in his arms. “It’s not our time yet. Our time will come,” he said, kissing your temple, holding you so tight. Maybe it’s just as well, he kept repeating. He had just finished his training, having decided to join the police academy to have a proper career after that first stick came out almost positive. Maybe it was better to get his posting first, settle down somewhere. Maybe the uncertainty of it all was stressing you out.

So the two of you packed up and moved to Florida when the posting came in, and once settled, the two of you tried again.

The fifth time you took that test, the second line shone bright. But the two of you didn’t celebrate. The last four times taught you not to celebrate too early.

So the two of you waited for your period to inevitably come, the way it always did.

And waited. And waited. And waited some more.

After three months of no period, you finally got checked.

Yep. You were definitely pregnant. An actual viable pregnancy. Baby was strong and healthy. Good news, good numbers, good everything.

You’d never seen a happier man. Eric was over the moon. He came home later that day with a onesie with ‘Daddy’s Little Hero’ written on it. He spoke to your belly every chance he got, speaking to his ‘little guy’, telling ‘him’ that he couldn’t wait to see ‘him’,

And then they told you she was a girl.

It was like the sun went down and remained just below the horizon.

He wanted a son. Not a girl. He wanted someone to play ball with, not have tea parties and doll play.

See, his father had him first. And for the first five glorious years of his life, he was the centre of his father’s world. And then his sister was born, and suddenly, she was the sun, the moon, the stars, the apple of his father’s eyes. Eric became a second thought. The gloves his father used to practice throwing with him sat dusty, all cracked and dry from neglect, but his nails were always coloured and his hair always decorated with pins and clips and ties from his tea parties with his precious daughter.

Eric was left to his own devices. He’s a boy. He could take care of himself. Everything became about his sister.

And then one day, Eric’s mother and sister died in a car accident on their way to pick him up from baseball practice.

His father was never the same. Blamed Eric for their deaths, drinking his sorrows away, berating Eric every chance he got, all the way to his dying breath.

Eric wanted a boy so he could give that son he wanted so desperately the childhood he only had a few happy years to enjoy, before the birth of a girl ruined it all.

And now, a girl was coming instead of the boy he wanted.

He managed to somehow fool you into thinking he wasn’t too disappointed, but it became quite clear that his heart wasn’t fully in it when it came to anything to do with Ellie. You had to do it all alone. Went to all the doctor’s appointments alone. Shop for her alone, endure the cramps and nausea and backaches alone. Went through the false alarms alone.

You even had to give birth to her alone.

He had to work, evidently. You took it all, knowing that paternity leaves existed, even for cops. You knew he just didn’t want to be there to receive a penisless child.

When he finally did come, he stood over her bassinet for a solid five minutes and just… stared at her.

“She looks like her,” he remarked, his face non expressive. “Exactly like her.”

You didn’t have to ask who ‘her’ was. You knew.

He sat with you for the next few minutes, asking you how you felt. No more questions about her. He left the moment a nurse came in for her feeding.

He didn’t like his own child. Much less love her. He’d already decided.

“But it’s okay,” you told her when you were alone with her for the first time. “I will be here for you, sweetie. Even if it’s just us two. Me and you, sweetie. Me and you.”

And that was how things went.

You were a single parent, while married, of course. You would have left, had you had other options, but you didn’t. Ellie was a baby. How were you going to feed her? Put a roof over her head? Clothe her?

Plus, he wasn’t hurting her. In fact, he hardly acknowledged her at all.

You hurt every time you see her crawl up to him, only to be ignored. How he stomped off every time she cooed at him. Every time she smiled at him.

As she grew, Eric treated Ellie just the way his father treated him after his sister was born. Refused to buy her girly things, threw them away if you did. She was an annoyance he didn’t want to deal with. Your heart went out to her a lot in that first couple of years.  

You tried talking to him, told him that him pushing his daughter away was pushing you away as well. That you didn’t see the marriage working if he kept treating his daughter this way. He promised he would try, and he did, sort of. He tried throwing her a ball sometimes, but she wasn’t interested. Tried taking her to a game, again, not interested. When she fell asleep at the stadium during a football game, he gave up completely. He went back to ignoring her.

Whatever it was Ellie spent her time doing to pass her time in her childhood, it wasn’t playing with her father. By the time she was old enough to understand, she didn’t even want to be near him that much. She was not interested. Too used to being ignored. Too used to not having him around.

That, and… other factors. But that’s a story for another day.

Luckily, he didn’t find colouring books girly or offensive, so you got her those to fill her time with. A lot of those. So Ellie drew. She drew a lot. That, and watch videos on your phone, going to the park with you and playing on the swings.

But nope. No father daughter dates for Ellie. No daddy’s little princess. No cutesy videos of her laughing in her father’s arms.

Certainly no piggy back rides from Papa.

Seeing your daughter laughing as Joel jogged with her and Sarah on his back, hands protectively holding them in place did something to you.

Sadness, mostly, due to the fact that the first time your daughter laughed from what was a typical father daughter play time was with a man she hardly knew, one who she hated for a while, even. The fact that her own father didn’t want her after actively trying to conceive her just made it…

Happiness… because, well… look at her.

But the third emotion? You didn’t really know what it was. It was unidentifiable. A mystery, really.

Okay, you know what it was. But no.

No.

NO.

You didn’t know how long you were going to be here. You cannot do this.

There’s nothing wrong with making friends, Annie. Look how far Ellie’s gotten from just a few weeks of being friends with Sarah. This was good. And if we move, so what? People move all the time. People can keep in touch. There was no need to hold back on friendships just because we might move.

Ugh. What do you know, you crazy logical entity who lives in my brain.

Unless…

Oh God.

Are we worried because we see Joel Miller as potentially someone who is more than just a friend?

What? No! No. No…

Oh…

Shut up.

My…

Shut up!

God…

Shut the fuck up!

Oooh… are we being shy?

You shook your head to get the thoughts out and went inside to take a quick shower and get ready for brunch. You could hear the girls roaring with laughter around the corner.

He just looked too good doing that. You dreamt of Eric doing just that with Ellie. Something that had never materialized.

That’s why that little scene gave you a… mysterious feeling. Not because Joel Miller looked like the perfect, strong, manly, fatherly, *cough* husbandly *cough* sexy *cough* man you had ever seen while doing that.

Yep. That’s why you had that mysterious feeling.

You quickly showered and got dressed, coming out just in time for Joel to bring the girls to your front door.

“Come on girls, let’s wash up,” you said, holding your hands out. You brought them to the bathroom, helped them wash their hands and wiped their necks and feet with a damp towel. You waited for them to use the bathroom and came back out to a waiting Joel Miller who stood still at your entrance, looking around the place with interest.

“Go put your shoes back on girls,” you instructed. You turned to him next. “Have you washed your hands? Do you need the bathroom?”

He looked a bit taken aback before bursting into a laugh. “I feel like I’m being scolded by my mom.”

“Well, you’ve been around for more than an hour, you touched outdoor stuff, dirt, headstones, you carried two girls around my place, you should at least wash your hands.”

He raised both his hands up, “Okay Mama. Sheesh,” he said, a smile on his face. He took a step inside but got scolded by Sarah for keeping his boots on.

“Oops, sorry Baby Girl,” he said, looking more scared of his daughter than he did of you.

He toed his boots off and walked into the kitchen and began washing his hands. “It’s a cozy place,” he remarked, looking around the kitchen.

“Yeah,” you said, handing him a towel. “It’s enough for me and Ellie. It’s supposed to be Bill’s, but he lives with Frank, so the church kindly allowed me to stay here in his stead. I help him out with the cemetery upkeep on the weekends in exchange for rent.”

“So, just the one bedroom?” he asked, noticing that the only two doors in the place led to the bathroom and the one bedroom.

“Yeah. Ellie gets the room, I sleep out here,” you told him, pointing to the daybed.

“So what happens if you have company?” he asked. As soon as those words escaped him, he scoffed and rubbed his face. “Sorry, too private?” he added, looking ashamed of himself.

“No… I just… don’t, I guess. Have company over, that is.”

He nodded understandingly, hands in his pockets.

The girls finished putting their shoes back on, taking so much longer than usual due to their interested chattering and giggling. You picked up your purse and closed the door, locking it.

“Well, hello there!” Maria greeted, hugging Ellie, and then Sarah.

“Hello brother, I didn’t know you’d be here,” Tommy walked up behind her, a huge grin on his face.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, confused. She had texted you the night before asking if you wanted to get brunch, but you told her you already had plans.

“Well, I thought I’d take Ellie out to brunch, you know, since you had plans,” she innocently answered, batting her eyelashes at you.

Joel frowned, looking at Tommy, who was suddenly interested in looking at everything but his brother.

“What are you doing here?” Joel asked, eyes lasered in on his brother.

“Me?” Tommy asked, his eyes wide with faux innocence. “Well, you told me you had brunch plans of your own, so I asked Maria. And you, know, I thought I’d take Sarah, since Maria is taking Ellie,” he said, batting his eyelashes at his brother, a cheeky smile on his face.

Joel looked at you, you at him.

You shrugged. Sure, you’ll all go to brunch together. Why not?

So you took Ellie’s hand, Joel took Sarah’s and walked down to the truck together. Somewhere on the way, the girls let go of your hands and walked together, whispering.

“God, those two are always whispering. Haven’t they run out of things to talk about by now?” you commented.

“I don’t know about Ellie, but when Sarah is not talking to Ellie, she talks about Ellie,” Joel told you.

“Oh my God, same!” you rolled your eyes. “You’d think there are other things to talk about! Other kids at least!”

The two girls ran ahead, going to Maria and Tommy, chattering away like excited little hamsters. Both were lifted into their Aunt and Uncle’s arms, and the whispering resumed. You and Joel looked at each other with pursed lips and rolled your eyes in solidarity.

You got to the trucks, parked next to each other. The new couple opened Tommy’s passenger doors and placed the girls inside.

“What are you doing?” Joel asked.

“Oh, they want to ride with us,” Tommy said readily, buckling Sarah in her seat.

“Well, take the other seat for Ellie,” Joel said, opening his door.

“Nope, I’ve got her booster seat from my car here,” Maria said, hastily buckling your child into what you recognized as the booster seat that she bought for Ellie when the two of you first moved here. She had insisted, telling you that she would love nothing more than take her Goddaughter out every now and again.

“Oh, okay,” you said, worried. “Behave yourselves girls!” you couldn’t help but add.

“Okay Mama,” Ellie shouted back, waving, as Tommy reversed in record time.

“Okay Mama!” Sarah shouted back, waving too. “Bye Daddy!”

“Bye Joel!” Ellie shouted, not wanting to be left out.

You felt your face get hot. Joel turned to look at you, his mouth open, his frown prominent.

“What just happened? Why do I feel like they just kidnapped the girls?” he asked you. You shook your head, not really knowing how to respond.

“By the way, sorry about Sarah calling you Mama. I’m sure she was just parroting Ellie,” he apologized, worried you might not like it.

You waved a hand at him, shaking your head. “I know.”

The two of you stood there in silence for quite a while before you came to your senses and suggested the two of you leave too.

The drive was surprisingly not awkward. The two of you talked about nothing in particular, but it was almost as if those two horrible weeks didn’t happen. In fact, you two even managed to make jokes and laugh.

Stranger things have happened, right?

And one such things happened the moment Joel parked in front of the diner.

Tommy’s truck wasn’t there.

“Maybe they stopped somewhere? Gas station, perhaps?” Joel wondered out loud, taking his phone out and dialling Tommy’s number.

“Where are you?” he asked, putting the phone on speaker.

“Oh, yeah, the girls wanted to eat somewhere else,” his brother answered, a smile evident in his voice.

“Well, okay, where? We’ll drive over,” Joel said.

“Oh… they’re not sure yet. You know how kids are. Hey, how about you let us take care of the kids and you two have brunch alone?” Maria chimed in.

You could hear the girls giggling in the background.

“Uh… I don’t know if that’s a good…”

“Okay then, see you guys later! We’ll drop the kids off around 3 ish? Byeee!!!” Maria chirped, quickly hanging up before you or Joel could say anything, the girls and Tommy chorusing a ‘bye’ as well before the line cut off.

The lack of awkwardness evaporated. An awkward silence suddenly filled the truck.

“Well… I guess it’s just the two of us…” Joel said, scoffing exactly one syllable of an awkward laugh.

“Yeah,” you said, giving one too.

“Uh…” he contemplated, scratching his beard. “Should I… uh… do you want me to drive you back home?” he asked, eyes on his hands.

You had to pause. Was he asking because he didn’t want to have brunch alone with you, or was he just being polite?

“Uhm… well… we’re already here… and I didn’t prepare anything for lunch…” you began.

“And I am very hungry,” he continued for you.

“Yeah… me too,” you concurred. “But… if you’d rather not be alone with me…”

“No, please, I would love to have brunch with you,” he quickly said, switching the engine off, turning to look at you, hope in his eyes. “Is that okay?”

You thought about it and smiled.

“Okay.”

“Here you go, Joel,” the waitress said, placing his huge plate in front of him, “And here’s yours, miss,” she said, smiling at you, pressing her lips together, giving you a little nod of approval and a wink.

“It’s good to see you out and about like this Joel,” she remarked before leaving, squeezing his shoulder as she did.

Joel almost choked on his coffee. He cleared his throat and picked up his utensils, “Sorry about that, don’t mind her. She’s just looking out,” he said, cutting into a sausage.

“What does she mean by that?” you asked, spearing a scrambled egg onto your fork.

He let out a small laugh. “My late wife, Daisy, she used to work here. It’s where we met. She asked me out right there,” he said, pointing at the table nearest to the cashier.

“She had to ask you out?”

“Yeah, believe it or not, I don’t… I don’t know how to ask a lady out. I liked her, crushed hard on her, but I just… she’s so pretty, what if she said no? So I kept quiet. Thank God she asked me out instead. I would still be single if she didn’t. And Sarah wouldn’t be here.”

You smiled, seeing the love and memories for his late wife in his eyes.

“Anyway, since she passed, I haven’t been out much. My time was always spent with Sarah. Tommy tried to set me up with some ladies, but you just heard how I am with them, I don’t… plus… I hadn’t gotten used to the idea of some woman I hardly know taking care of Sarah, you know?”

You nodded, taking a sip of your coffee.

“They all tease me. And me being seen alone with a woman? I’m sorry to tell you that you might be gossip fodder for them.”

You glanced at the counter, seeing a couple of waitresses looking your way, a cheeky smile on their faces.

“I actually didn’t think you would agree to have brunch alone with me,” he braved.

“Why?”

“You know… I’m the big monster who yelled at you.”

You laughed. “And you’ve apologized. Took me a while, but I believe you when you said you were sorry.”

“I won’t do it again,” he said.

“You’d better not.”

The door chimed. Tess and Daniel walked in, Daniel immediately clocking Joel and saying hi.

“Well hello… this is very merry,” Tess said, smiling. She took a seat across from Joel, pulling the chair in front of you for Daniel. “You could’ve told me you were planning to have brunch,” she jested. “Where are the girls?”

“Tommy and Maria took them,” Joel said, offering Daniel a piece of French toast.

Tess frowned, “A new couple on a date with two preschoolers? Deliberately? Why?” she asked, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. “Don’t tell me they’re already practicing for any family they might have!”

Tess waved at a waitress, wanting to order. You and Joel looked at each other, wondering if you should tell her about what transpired with Tommy and Maria. Neither of you said anything.

Tess studied the menu, asking Daniel what he wanted. “What did you order Joel, that actually looks good,” she said, looking at the waitress for a little help. She told him what it was, and she closed the menu, asking Daniel to tell her what he wanted as well. “And a coffee and orange juice.”

The waitress nodded, taking the menus away, giving Tess an odd look.

Tess noticed. “What’s her problem?” she asked the two of you, following that waitress with her eyes, clocking the other waitresses approaching her, talking and then giving her the same odd look.

Tess frowned, looking at you and Joel with a confused look. “Okay, what’re their problems, am I right?”

You smiled, offering Daniel a sausage before continuing your meal. Joel continued eating too, all conversations suddenly dead.

Tess looked at the two of you with the same odd look the waitresses were giving her. She cocked her head to the side, eyeing you both, a frown on her forehead. Then her expression changed. She facepalmed herself.

“Oh my God. I am so stupid! You guys are on a date, aren’t you? Oh God, I’m so sorry! Come on Daniel,” she said, getting up. “We’ll go eat at the park, okay? Can we get my order to go, Eileen?” she asked the waitress, who looked relieved and gave her a thumbs up. “Come on sweetie,” she said to Daniel, offering him a hand.

“No, Tess, it’s not like that,” you said, “Please, sit, join us. It’s really not like that,” you repeated, horrified at how bad she seemed to be feeling over her perception of the situation. You desperately looked at Joel, not wanting Tess to get the wrong impression. The man just sat there, eating his French toast, not saying anything.

“Oh hush,” Tess said, waving a hand at you. “You two enjoy,” she grinned, giving you a cheeky wink. She gave Joel a friendly nudge, “About time,” she jested, giving his shoulder a light punch. “Happy for you, brother,” she added, smiling. She took Daniel by the hand and went to the counter to pay, telling Eileen she would wait for her order in her car. She gave the two of you a small wave, mouthing ‘enjoy’ to you.

“Sorry Tess thought we were on a date,” you found yourself saying, feeling embarrassed. You didn’t want him to think you were gagging for such ridiculousness to be true. You didn’t want him thinking you wanted people thinking the two of you were something you obviously were not.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his eyes soft. He took a sip of coffee, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and turned to face you.

“Okay, I’m just gonna say it. Please don’t freak out, okay?” He took a deep breath for courage before looking you right in the eyes.

“Annie, I like you. I’ve liked you since I first saw you. You have no idea how happy I was when I saw you at the store that day. I came back to the store the next day just to see you again. I know, I said I was looking for the lunch box, but really? I just wanted to see you again. Drop off and pick up are too crowded, and I don’t know if I have the courage to talk to you if the nosy moms are watching, so I went to the store.”

You were stunned. What?

“I know,” he said, raising a hand to stop you thinking aloud, “I know I yelled at you after that lunch we had at the store, and I am so sorry I did. I know I said some mean things to you. I’m an asshole, and I know that. I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. I shouldn’t have screamed at you like that. But please believe me, my actions were partly because I was angry someone hurt my daughter, partly because I liked you, after all these years since Daisy, I actually liked someone. Really liked someone, after meeting her a few times. And when I thought Ellie was the one hurting Sarah, I guess… I was hurt that your daughter would do that to mine, annoyed that I can’t ask you out, you know, since our daughters are mortal enemies,” he said, cringing, making you laugh out loud.

“And mostly, I was disappointed that I didn’t recognize what I thought was bad parenting, or a bad trait in someone. I felt stupid. Like I crushed on someone whose daughter hurt mine. I felt like I had bad judgement or something. I know, I know, I’m so stupid, but Annie, I like you. And these past few weeks, I have seen how you were with Ellie, with Sarah, and I can’t help myself. I like you Annie.”

You felt like your face was a few degrees hotter than the rest of your body. You couldn’t even look him in the eyes.

“What I’m trying to say is, would it be okay if I asked you out on a date?” he asked after taking a few deep breaths. “Like a real date, not one where we got tricked into having brunch together by my brother and his new girl.”

“You really think they planned this?”

“Awfully coincidental, don’t you think? They just happened to show up and took the girls? And then they just conveniently want to go somewhere else? This is Sarah’s favourite breakfast place. She begs me for the pancakes,” he told you, his eyebrows raised.

Huh.

“Come to think of it, how did Maria know she would need that booster seat?”

Joel nodded, his eyebrows still raised, “See?”

You wanted to kill Maria. Typical lawyer. So cunning. So conspiratorial.

“So, what do you say? A date?”

You looked into his hopeful eyes.

“Joel, I’m not saying no, but we hardly know anything about each other. What if it goes wrong? We have to think of the girls. I don’t even know if I’m staying yet. I don’t even know if…”

“Please, give us a chance. One date. That’s all I ask. We’ll figure it out. I just know that this feels right. Please. Just… one date.”

The few seconds you took to think felt like days.

“Okay. One date.”

That now-cold plate of eggs was the best meal Joel Miller had had in years.

gcsdaily.com

September 2024             

GCSPD officer murder – a grieving widow, or a Black Widow?

What appeared to be a home invasion gone wrong may turn out to be plain old boring, cold blooded murder after all.

Officer Eric Williams of Green Cove Springs Police Department was found dead in his home in mid-August. Dispatch received a frantic call from the officer, reporting a home invasion at his private home. The investigators heard the recorded call, the late officer pleading his colleagues to hurry, worried for the safety of his beloved wife and daughter. The GCSPD responders arrived minutes later to a wrecked home, an injured wife and daughter, and a lifeless officer, shot straight in the heart with his own gun.

The town mourned, hundreds attended his funeral, their eyes and hearts on the mourning widow and her daughter.

However, new testimony has surfaced that put the whole spectacle into question. Was Officer Williams murdered defending his family, or was it all a cover up of a deliberate, calculated murder by a jealous, insecure wife?

Part 9

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Spontaneous wasn’t a word you associated with Harry. Driven, competitive & loyal were far more appropriate. So when he came round to yours one evening and, after giving you yet another mind-blowing orgasm, casually asked, “What are you doing from Monday for the next ten days?” your head was in even more of a spin.

A few phone calls & emails later, you found yourself at the airport, relaxing in the first-class lounge before boarding your flight. As you sipped champagne, Harry happily explained the difference between the various types on offer while you smiled, amused at how effortlessly he seemed to fit into this world.

Being a career man, Harry spent the first few hours of the flight responding to work emails before finally closing his laptop & turning his full attention to you & the incredible service onboard. You were on your way to Chile.

Most couples took a mini break when things started getting serious. Usually that meant a long weekend in the Hamptons or the Florida Keys.

Not Harry.

Harry’s idea of a romantic getaway was ten days in one of the most beautiful countries in South America, spoiling you rotten & treating you like a queen.

Your jaw dropped as the doors to your private clifftop villa swung open.

Staff appeared to take your luggage & insisted they would unpack everything for you. The private chef introduced himself & asked about any dietary requirements before explaining that every meal could be tailored to exactly what you wanted. Then the housekeeper offered to book you a massage to help you recover from the long flight.

It really was paradise.

You happily accepted the massage while Harry stepped outside to take a call from one of the partners at his firm.

“Last call, I promise,” he’d said with an apologetic smile.

That had been mid-afternoon on the day you arrived.

There had now been two full days since then.

When you woke up the following morning, Harry was already on the phone discussing finance. Every time you caught his eye, he’d smile, hold up a finger and mouth, One minute.

That minute never came.

On the second day, a Teams meeting stretched from breakfast well into lunchtime. You’d tried distracting him by sending a few rather suggestive photos from your sun lounger, smiling to yourself as you hit send.

Nothing.

You’d even wandered past the open doors of his office in your favourite swimsuit, deliberately taking your time in the hope he’d glance up.

He didn’t.

Harry was one of the most hopeless romantics you’d ever met when he wanted to be.

Right now, though… Any chance of romance, or even five uninterrupted minutes of his attention, felt utterly hopeless.

So here you were on the third day, slipping off your sundress before stepping into the infinity pool in your red tie-up bikini.

Cool. Calm. Unlike the slow-building frustration bubbling away inside you.

Harry had eaten breakfast with you that morning before receiving a couple of texts. After that, he’d gone for a run while you listened to music, eventually deciding to head out for a mid-morning swim.

You were halfway through your sixth length of breaststroke when you caught him arriving out of the corner of your eye. He peeled off his sweat-soaked white running vest & tossed it onto a nearby lounger.

He’d been working out more recently. Not that you’d ever minded the little softness around his stomach, it was part of what made Harry, Harry, but since you’d started dating he’d toned up, lost some weight & become noticeably more defined. It was one hell of a view.

He lowered himself onto the edge of a sun lounger, draping a cold towel around the back of his neck as he caught his breath.

Smiling to yourself, you slowly began swimming towards him. Maybe now you’d finally get your boyfriend back.

His phone vibrated. Without hesitation, he picked it up.

“Castillo,” he answered instantly, leaning back against the lounger.

You couldn’t make out the conversation, only the steady stream of “Yes, of course,” & “Absolutely,” that followed.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” you muttered.

You pushed yourself away from the pool’s edge much harder than necessary. Your leisurely breaststroke became an aggressive front crawl, your feet kicking harder with every length, sending water splashing behind you.

The voice in your head was just as relentless.

“Work comes first.”

“He’s only able to pay for this because he works so much.”

“Maybe this is just what dating Harry Castillo is like”

“Maybe he’s not interested anymore.”

“At least the sex is good”

Each thought was louder than the last, no matter how hard you swam, you couldn’t seem to escape them.

Eventually your arms began to ache. You rolled onto your back & simply floated, staring up at the cloudless Chilean sky as you tried to slow your breathing.

After a few moments, you turned your head.

Harry was still there. Still sitting on the lounger. Still looking down at his phone. He clearly seemed to be waiting for another call.

You sighed.

Then… An idea crept into your head.

Slowly, a smile spread across your face. If Harry was determined to keep staring at that phone, perhaps you just needed to give him something far more interesting to look at.

Decision made, you took one final breath before swimming towards the steps. Confidently taking your stride. The water streamed from your shoulders as you slowly climbed out of the pool, the Chilean sun instantly warming your skin. You ran both hands back through your wet hair, squeezing out the excess water before letting it fall around your shoulders like you were a Bond Girl feom back in the day.

Harry was still looking at his phone but the patter of water disturbed him & he looked up.

His gaze froze. The phone left on the other lounger.

A slow, unmistakable smirk spread across his face as his eyes travelled from your bare feet to your face. Taking in every second.

“Well…” he murmured. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

You folded your arms with a satisfied smile as you turned to walk his way, your chest glistening.

“Is this better than looking at a screen?”

He laughed quietly.

“Oh, sweetheart…” His eyes flicked briefly to the phone before returning to you. “It is considerably better.”

“I was beginning to wonder.”

“I can see that.”

You took another few steps towards him, stopping just close enough for him to catch the scent of your sunscreen mixed with chlorine & Whats was on the breeze.

“So,” you said, tilting your head, “have I finally managed to get your attention?”

Harry looked you up & down once more before giving a small nod. His shorts betraying him.

“I don’t think I could look anywhere else if I tried.”

“Right answer baby”

“I’ve always been right you know…”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t push your luck.”

“Oh?” he asked, his grin widening.

“No. You’ve spent two days making me compete with your work even though we’re in paradise.”

Harry opened his mouth to defend himself. Before he could say a word, the phone screen lit up with a text. You grabbed it before he could, swiped it to silent & turned it upside down on the other lounger.

“There.”

“No phone?”

“No phone.”

He looked at you for a long moment before a boyish smile crept across his face.

“I suppose…” he said, “…I can live with that.”

Before you could reply, his hand slipped around your wrist. With one gentle tug, he pulled you towards him & his hand tugged at the knot on your top.

You gave a surprised laugh as you lost your balance slightly, landing in his lap before then peeling the bikini top off to expose your breasts & moving to straddle him.

“There’s my siren,” he said softly.

“Finally.” You mumbled back. Your lips connected deeply, tongues intertwined. His hand cupping your breast as you started to grind on top of his lap making him even more responsive. Making the kiss more passionate. Making the moment more intense with only one destination.

“I was wondering when I’d get my boyfriend back, no point having paradise alone.”

Harry couldn’t help smiling.

“I’m not going anywhere baby” he moaned & tugged at the sting on the bikini bottoms. Your hips already rolling knowing that pleasure will soon be yours. You lifted sightly so you could shimmy off his shorts. Extremely happy he had been commando underneath.

His hands held you in place, and he whimpered.

“You’re always beautiful, sweetheart, but right now…” His breath caught at the sensation of you sinking down slowly as he filled you up, watching the euphoria wash over your face. It took him a moment to remember to speak. He was bewitched by your look of desire.

“…Fuck…” he moaned again as you rolled for the first time and started to touch yourself. “…you’re a goddess.”

A guttural moan escaped his lips. He couldn’t stop touching you as you straddled him and ground against him, his own hips matching yours. His hands went from your thighs to your breasts, even trailing the water that dripped from your hair from swimming down your body. Whenever they reached your clit, he made sure to stay there a beat longer.

It made your eyes roll back. It made your own rhythm faster. It made the pleasure intoxicating.

Neither of you cared if the staff walked in or if people in another villa had binoculars to spy on you. You were one, making love. The smell of the pool, sun lotion, sweat & sex aroused you both. Your hands matted in his happy trail. Your mouth hungry for every kiss. His hair, usually pristine, now a mess from desire. His breath inconsistent. You could feel his heart race. You could feel each thrust. Each second felt like a minute of pleasure.

Making love was easy with Harry, & the climax was no exception.

He pulled you down on top of him. Quick squelching noises would have been heard if you weren’t both moaning and kissing. Flesh was grabbed as he hit that magical spot again and again, & after one kiss, when he bit your bottom lip, that was enough.

Your orgasm pulsed through every nerve, almost an out-of-body experience, which you rode out before he then screamed out your name one last time & jerked, cumming deep inside you. Almost stuttering to a halt.

Sweat from your exertion now covered you both, along with the midday sun glaring down at the sight beneath it.

Two naked bodies tangled together in a mess, smelling of sex, exhausted but covered in pleasure.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were your breathing gradually settling & the waves crashing against the cliffs below.

Harry rested his forehead against yours, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear before stealing another slow kiss. Glowing in a moment of bliss.

“You know,” he murmured, smiling against your lips, “that was a very effective way of getting my attention.”

You laughed softly.

“I tried talking.”

“I deserved that.”

“You did.”

His thumb traced lazy circles against your hip as he looked at you, a softness returning to his expression. The sweet man who dotes you emerging from the firey passionate man who just made you cum.

“I’m sorry.” You tilted your head & looking into his big brown eyes, they were pleading for forgiveness. “For making you feel like work was more important.”

You studied him for a second before gently brushing your fingers through his now thoroughly messed-up hair.

“I just wanted my boyfriend back.”

“You’ve got him now babes.”

“I’d better have.”

“You do. You have all my attention now”

He leaned in to kiss you again, lingering just long enough to make you smile into it.

“I’ve missed this,” he admitted quietly.

“So have I.”

You settled against his chest, listening to his heartbeat finally returning to normal. The warm Chilean sun bathed the terrace, & for the first time since you’d arrived, everything felt wonderfully peaceful. Just you & Harry. In love. Soaked in sweat & happiness.

Buzz! Buzz!

Harry’s phone began to ring.

You both looked towards the abandoned lounger. Harry groaned dramatically, letting his head fall back.

“It’ll stop.”

It didn’t. You raised an eyebrow.

“It could be important.”

“So could this,” he replied, tightening his arms around you. The phone continued to ring. With an amused sigh, you slipped out of his embrace & reached across to pick it up. He squeezed your bum as you did.

“If this is another work call,” you teased, glancing back over your shoulder, “you’re buying me that handbag I’ve been saving for.”

Harry chuckled. You didn’t want to rely on Harry for gifts & money, but every time you saw that bag he said he’d get it for you, like you’d say you were getting coffee for a friend.

“Deal.”

You smiled to yourself as you accepted the call.

“Hello?”

A polite voice answered immediately.

“Good afternoon. Am I speaking with Mr. Castillo’s partner? We’re just calling to confirm this evening’s private dinner reservation…”

Your cheeks instantly warmed. You didn’t really hear the rest of what they were saying you just blinked at Harry.

“Oh…”Harry was watching you with a knowing smile, having an idea what this was about.

“I think… this is for you.”

You held the phone out. Harry chuckled, taking it from your hand.

“Harry Castillo speaking.”

You watched him listen for a moment before replying.

“Let’s go with the Krug… yes, that’s perfect. Thank you. We’ll see you this evening.”

He ended the call and placed the phone back on the lounger.

“So…” he said innocently.You folded your arms.

“So?”

“If we’re having champagne tonight…” he teased, “which one do you think you’d have picked?”

You couldn’t help laughing.

“I thought you’d been ignoring me for work.”

“I know. I had been but then I felt guilty.”

“You’ve been planning all this?”

He nodded.

“We’re going to the best restaurant in the city tonight, I want it to be perfect”

A grin spread across his face. You could tell there was more to come. Harry was not good at surprises.

“Also What if I told you I might’ve managed to turn our ten-day holiday into two weeks?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I may have pulled a few strings.” He gently brushed his fingertips along your arm before leaning in to press a soft kiss beneath your jaw.

“Consider it my apology.” Another kiss. His hand wandering towards somewhere more intimate, the brush of his fingers made your breath hitch.

“I wanted to make this unforgettable.”

You smiled, unable to hide it. Your own hand caressing his chest.

“Well…” He looked up expectantly. “I suppose I’d better ring my work & ask if they’ll let me disappear for another four days.”

Harry laughed.

“I had a feeling that might be your first question little miss over thinker.”

“I don’t exactly own a firm. I have only a set number of days leave.”

“No,” he said with a smile, “but if anyone deserves a little extra holiday… it’s you.”

You laughed, shaking your head.Harry’s grin widened.

“So About that…”

You frowned.

“What do you mean, about that?”

He wrapped his legs around you & you lay flat against him. Listening but knowing you were both once again becoming aroused.

“I may have made a couple of calls.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Harry…”

“I spoke to your manager yesterday.”

You blinked.

“You what?”

“I explained I was trying to make up for being a terrible holiday companion for the first few days.”

“You weren’t terrible…”

“I was glued to my phone.” You couldn’t really argue with that. His smile softened.

“They were happy to help. Your leave’s already been extended. Provided my company assists theirs in a few things”

You stared at him for a moment before laughing in disbelief.

“You organised my annual leave without telling me?”

He shrugged with a sheepish smile.

“I had to make sure you’d say yes.”

You shook your head, unable to hide your grin.

“Well I mean what was I gonna do fly home economy” he laughed at that before wiping a stand of hair from your face. He cupped it & looked at you.

“Sweetheart, your now a woman of luxury, I’d never let you travel like that”

You slowly lowered your head & captures his lips in a tender kiss. It got hot & passionate, tongues fighting for attention, hands in each others hair. Feeling his penis get hand beneath you.

“you gotta taste for it now baby”

“Of what” you say as you kiss his jaw line.

“Of the best things in life, of the sweetest things I can get you.”

“I have a taste for it do i” he nodded as you sat up & scooted down his body & the Sun lounger taking his penis into your hand. He gasped at the touch instantly.

“Maybe I like the taste of a few things” you said with a wink before licking all of the length before taking him into your mouth.