SINCLAIR PATRIARCH.

۶ৎ it’s not often that they have the privilege of finding themselves down here unattended. by nature, beechwood is private – no other homesteads or lights illuminating in the distance, just the ocean stretching as far as the eye can see. in fact, you’d have to go about half an hour out to find civilization from any direction. their kingdom is secluded, but seclusion does not promise stillness, and being private did not guarantee privacy. so when a rare moment like this presents itself, you seize it. that’s why when the last of their little golden touched heirs had bid them goodnight, the queen hadn’t wasted a moment reclaiming her throne. with innocent intentions of course, never having mastered the concept of personal space when it wasn’t necessary, she had climbed atop of the king’s lap. but as the logs in the fire surrendered to the flickering flames, a different kind of fire had started to burn … and this one ignited in her stomach. she’s unable to pinpoint when the conversation had naturally run its course, when her thoughtful words had become fragmented yeses and noes, before turning into little more than hums of acknowledgement … not that she had the faintest idea about what’d been said. how could she with the heat of his breath falling on her ear, crawling down her neck, making her writhe. “Edgartown?” her husband’s palms press into the soft flesh at her waistline, hard enough to hit bone, his fingers dredging, unrushed but certain, until they find anchoring at her hips, and then he draws her down against the taught muscle of his thigh. “Oh!” the high, airy interjection is all tipper can offer. she swallows hard, and her head gives a soft shake, as if that will help her regain any semblance of composure. “Yes, Edgartown that sounds…” molars digging into the delicate tissue of inner cheek to ground herself, but it certainly was all for nothing – because when her legs spread, it forces her to balance atop of his lap, “Harris-” and the sensation pulls a soft whine from her shaking lips. “Just like that.”

* 𝓗.𝓢. , edgartown, she said. ❝   ah.   ❞ a singular sound, hot and low, breathed against her earlobe, embraced by the grin he wears. harris knows what he's doing. of course he does. THEY HAVE, AFTER ALL, PLAYED THIS VERY GAME A TIME OR TWO BEFORE IN THEIR LIFETIME. ❝   so you are still listening.   ❞ spoken with a husky cheekiness. the words left hanging in the air between them ... as if missing their perfect pair: GOOD GIRL. but the inference remains all the same. unsaid, but still there. when she whines in tandem with the crash of the waves against their beach, a newfound inspiration grows roots in his bones. with it, harris dips his finger beneath the fabric of her shirt. then, like the wind itself registered his change in course, it picked up in a quiet hum against the shore, right across her now exposed skin where he presses the pads of pointer and middle to at the front of her waist. all the while keeping the pressure induced by his thumbs firmly into the small of her back above the material. once june arrives, their time for escapades— EVEN AS SIMPLE, THOUGH FAR LESS INNOCENT BY MERE NATURE ALONE— tends to slip away as easily as laughter on a breeze. it's important to carve time, he reminds himself. to take opportunities, especially when they fall into his lap. just as tipper had tonight. he peers around her in attempt to catch her eyes. blue on green as never looked better than with them he's sure. ❝   it sounds ... like what, darling?   ❞ beneath her, his knee bobs ever so slightly. a surmounting pressure made in pleasure. ❝   this is for you as much as it is for me. tell me what you're thinking.   ❞

۶ৎ silence slips between them naturally after he offers an answer. so she presses closer, not yet ready to address the elephant ghost in the room. instead she focuses on the heat of him beneath her palms, and for a moment it distracts her from their reality. the feeling of his hands against her skin, the way their grasp tightens with each passing second - anchoring her. the steady rise and fall of the chest she’d fallen asleep atop of most nights of her adult life. after weeks of his absence gnawing at her, she feels her rigid shoulders finally begin to relax, and the ache that’d festered behind ribs starts to subside. “But have you even tried, darling?” it’s mumbled against the fabric of his sweater, and followed by a soft lingering kiss there. when her head lifts again, in no rush, it’s so that an attempt can be made to press her nose directly into the skin of his neck. the smell of him is overwhelming: sandalwood, bergamot and lavender, clean linen and whiskey. “I missed you.” those raw words slip from her trembling lips without permission   …   she wonders if this will have been a mistake – if coming to him will play a part in his quiet torment instead of offering him solace – it’s too late now to go back, it would be cruel to taunt him like that. a hand frees itself from the mooring he’d created, and delicately do fingers pry the aid he’d been turning to lately from his grasp, setting it haphazardly on the end table. tipper finds herself ill prepared to handle the weight of their emotions, unable to pull her shoulders back, even her legs are unsteady. “I’m tired,” so she does the next logical thing … she surrenders to the instinct she cannot resist, turning to what’d kept her sane for decades … she redirects. “will you take me to bed?”

* 𝓗.𝓢. , ❝   no, my love, i have not.   ❞ he says simply. the same way he would answer her all the time, with a distinct honesty he's only ever attached to her name. his chest bloats something wild and fierce. a love so deeply dipped and dried in grief. it moves through his body like an invader, like the way he moves around clairmont now— the feeling alone large enough to uproot the finely laid infrastructure from the very ground he built it on ... FOR HER. and it untethered him. maybe it's still untethering him, pulling him apart at the very seams, and that's why she's come to him ... why he doesn't want to let go of her hand ... can he be blamed for wanting to stand in her arms and allow his feverish sorrow to be cooled? —FOOLED. besides, why sleep when he can stare out at the last place he had seen her alive? he catches her reflection in the glass of the window and has to remind himself to breathe. all at once, harris sees the place she took her final breath AND the very woman who did and he's altogether too exhausted to question the rest of it. she's here. that's all he cares to know. by morning, after a whiskey addled sleep, he thinks she'll be gone. all that rehearsal seems to make sense now. the curtain is closing, BUT HE HAS TO PLAY THE ROLE OF DOTING HUSBAND ONE LAST FINAL TIME. a bow has never been more bittersweet. he finally turns to face her. wild and fierce and hot, the tears burn in his eyes when they meet hers. ❝   there are not enough words to convey what missing you feels like.   ❞ yet, those do, he thinks. he then leads her to their sacred space. ❝   your wish is my command.   ❞ it always was. when they reach the bed he encourages her to sit down, but doesn't immediately retreat to his designated side, no, instead: he takes her face in the palm of his hands like a clam holds its precious pearl. his eyes enamored and wistful and heartbroken. ❝   my tipper.   ❞ HE KNOWS HER IN THEIR LIFE AS HE KNOWS HER IN THIS AND EVERY ONE AFTER.

he feels like he's stuck in an endless rehearsal—      like the ticket he bought at some charity gala many moons ago was for a three hundred thousand night tour on the woes of losing your wife and he didn't realize when he placed a large sum on the bid.      a delayed win he would've really rather done without.      STILL,   HE IS STUCK:   the props all the same,   the faces all the same,   the punishment,   however,   shifts from day to day.      one day it's guilt waiting for him in the mirror.      the next it's a grief he doesn't know what to do with in the bottom of a fancy,   aged bottle.      he sips a glass now.      facing the lawn of clairmont through his office window sure is easier than facing tipper's bed stand.      the bed itself,   actually.      tipper-less,   tipper-less,   tipper-less ...      everything in this house smells like her,   is here in some part because of her.      it brings comfort to the gaping wound that has been left in the place where his beating organ rests.      but it also devours him whole.      like her arms wrap around him whole      —      her arms.      harris freezes with an uncertainty he's never experienced before.      warmth spreads.      equally confusing as it is,   once again,   comforting ...      and that feeling of being stuck begins to fade in an instant and in a way that he could only ever contribute to her name.     maybe he should ask how.      maybe he should ask why.      maybe he should call a doctor.      his sanity might just be spilling out all over the expensive carpet.      he doesn't do any of those things though;      merely fills his lungs with air,   feels his body expand back into her familiarly,   and takes what he believes is his first real breath since he heard penny scream for help.      his own hands stutter in the path to finding her own.      they lay flat atop of hers where they rest against the smooth cashmere he's yet to change out for the night despite daylight dwindling away hours ago.     scared that if he doesn't tether her,   she will slip away and leave him standing here all by his lonesome once again.      CORRECTION:   HE'LL BE A MAD MAN MADE OF GRIEF.          ❝   you know i never really could sleep without you.   ❞