Mallory softened. “Sav, it’s been a year. And he’s still checking in on you.”
Savannah looked away. “Is that all you guys talked about?”
Mallory hesitated again. Then—
“Oh, and one more thing.”
Savannah lifted her head, pulse hammering. “What?”
Mallory inhaled deeply. “He’s coming to Asheville next month.”
Savannah’s entire body locked up. Her stomach dropped. Her hands went cold.
"What?" she whispered, eyes wide in surprise mixed with panic.
"Work trip. He’ll be in town. I may or may not have suggested we grab drinks."
Savannah’s breath came fast. "Mallory—"
"Relax, I didn’t set anything up. But, Sav…” Mallory’s voice softened. "He’s not over you. And if you’re not over him either—" She tilted her head, watching her. “—maybe it’s time to figure out what you want.”
Savannah stared at her wine glass, pretending she wasn’t already thinking about what it would be like to see him again.
Because maybe—
Maybe it was time.
48
Unspoken Loss
ChaseMontgomeryhadlosta lot in his life.
Lost games. Lost fights. Lost bets with his friends over the dumbest shit imaginable. Lost time chasing dreams that never quite took shape, hours slipping through his fingers like sand, leaving nothing behind but the weight of failure. Lost money on investments that seemed foolproof until they weren’t. Lost sleep over decisions he couldn’t take back. Lost parts of himself in the process, pieces chipped away by the relentless cycle of trying, failing, and forcing himself to keep going.
But none of it—none of it—came close to losing her.
Losing Savannah Monroe wasn’t a single moment, wasn’t a neatly contained tragedy with a beginning and an end. It wasn’t just the night she stood on his porch, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she was holding in all the things she couldn’t say. It wasn’t just the way her eyes shimmered in the porchlight, the way her voice wavered when she whispered words that shattered him. No, losing her was a slow, agonizing process, a cut that bled out over time, leaving him hollow long before she ever walked away. It was a wound that never quite healed, an ache that settled deep into his chest, constant and unrelenting.
Some days, he could almost fool himself into thinking he was okay. That he had moved on, that he had learned to live with the absence of her, with the spaces she used to fill. But then something small—a scent, a song, a laugh from across the room that sounded too much like hers—would unravel him all over again.
Now, he sat on the edge of the dock, elbows resting on his knees, fingers wrapped around a whiskey glass that he hadn’t actually taken a sip from. The water stretched out before him, dark and endless, reflecting the fading light of the setting sun. It should have been calming. It used to be. The dock had always been his refuge—the one place where the world made sense, where the weight of everything could roll off his shoulders and disappear into the steady rhythm ofthe waves. But not anymore.
Now, it only reminded him of her.
Of the way she used to sit between his legs, back resting against his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arms. Of the way she used to tilt her head back, letting the wind tangle in her hair, eyes closed, lips curling in quiet contentment. Of the way she used to laugh, that soft, unguarded sound that made him feel like maybe—just maybe—there was something good in this world meant just for him.
But she was gone.
And the dock was just wood and nails again.
The night was settling in now, the sky shifting from deep orange to navy, and the first hints of stars peeked through the darkness. The sound of crickets filled the silence, blending with the rhythmic lapping of water against the dock posts. He exhaled sharply, dragging a rough hand over the stubble on his jaw as if the motion could wipe away the thoughts that clung to him.
It had been a few days since Mallory called, and yet, her words still echoed in his mind. He hadn’t expected it to matter. Hadn’t expected her voice to stir up anything more than a mild irritation at hearing from someone who knew him too well. But it had been good to talk to her—better than he wanted to admit.
He had forgotten what it was like to have an easy conversation, to talk to someone who didn’t need him to explain himself. Mallory had always been blunt, never one to dance around the truth, and maybe that was exactly what he needed. She didn’t bullshit him. Didn’t coddle him. And when she mentioned Savannah—when she said her name like it was just another name, like it wasn’t a grenade tossed straight into his chest—he had asked about her before he could stop himself. The words slipped out, unintentional, instinctual.
And the second they left his mouth, he knew.
