The man who'd vanished like smoke from a family that needed him.
Dead, I'd told myself. Gone. Better that way.
But alive? Standing there in that room like he had a right to breathe the same air?
I shoved it down. Buried it under the feel of Joy's fingers moving on my abdomen, her touch light as if she knew exactly how to tether me without pulling too hard.
She was a drug, this woman—soft where I was jagged, open where I was locked tight. I could get drunk on her, numb the roar in my head with her scent, her sighs, the way her body yielded and demanded all at once.
Forget the betrayal burning in my chest, the rage simmering like a live wire. Go somewhere else entirely, where fathers didn't rise from the grave and sons didn't have to face the rot they'd built their lives on.
But contradictions clawed at me.
I wanted to lose myself in her, but every brush of her skin reminded me I didn't deserve the escape. She was light, clean, untouched by the shadows that clung to me.
And here I was, dragging her into the dark—literally, on this forgotten pier where the water could swallow secrets whole.
Part of me reveled in it, the possession, the claim.
Another part hated myself for tainting her.
She lifted her head, her eyes searching mine in the dimming light. "Micah?"
I forced a nod, my hand sliding up her back to cup her nape. "Yeah."
"You okay?"
No. Far from it.
But her concern wrapped around me like a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge. I kissed her forehead, tasting salt and sweetness. "Better now."
She didn't push. Didn't demand answers I wasn't ready to give.
Instead, she nestled closer, her body fitting against mine like it had been shaped for exactly that purpose. We lay there a while longer, the night creeping in, stars pricking the sky one by one.
The contradictions warred—peace in her arms, chaos in my skull. Father's voice echoing:Make it quick, son. Clean kills are merciful kills.
But nothing about this was clean.
Finally, I shifted, sitting up and pulling her with me. The pier creaked under our weight, a reminder we couldn't stay here forever.
"I want to take you back to the hotel."
She blinked, surprise flickering across her face. "Now?"
"Yeah." I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, my thumb lingering. "If that's okay."
She searched my eyes, then nodded. "Okay."
We dressed in silence, the air between us charged but not tense. Her skirt whispered as she smoothed it down, and I caught myself watching, memorizing the way her hands moved—graceful, unhurried.
When we stood, she slipped her hand into mine without a word. I squeezed, holding on like she was the only solid thing left.
She drove.
Her car was small, practical, smelling faintly of flowers and earth—like her shop had seeped into the upholstery. I slid into the passenger seat, feeling oversized and out of place, but when she reached over and laced her fingers with mine again, it settled something.
Her hand was warm, small in mine, but steady. A lifeline.
