Walking away was the right call. I know it was.
I sit up and rub both hands over my face, then glance at the clock on my bedside table. 4:43 AM. Early enough that sleep should still be possible, but I know it’s not happening. Not with how wound up I am, not when my cock is half-hard again just from thinking about her.
Fuck it.
I throw the covers off and head downstairs, willing my body to calm down. The kitchen is dark, and I flip on the light over the stove and start the coffee maker. Chloe’s at Olivia’s for a sleepover. Mary texted around ten saying the girls were still wide awake making friendship bracelets, which means they probably crashed hard around eleven.
The house is always too quiet without her. Even when the occasional breaks are good for recharging, I miss her every single time. She’s an early riser, would normally be walking downstairs around six in her favorite pajamas, asking about pancakes and whatever adventure we have planned for the day.
Our cat, Nala, appears from wherever she was sleeping—probably Chloe’s bed—and winds between my ankles, meowing her complaint about the early hour.
“I know,” I tell her, reaching down to scratch behind her ears. “I’m sorry. It’s too early for both of us.”
She purrs anyway, butting her head against my palm. I pick her up and she settles against my chest, her warm weight grounding me slightly. The coffee maker gurgles and hisses, filling the kitchen with the smell of dark roast.
I keep scratching behind her ears, focusing on the simple comfort of it and trying not to think about red hair and green eyes. The coffee finishes brewing and I pour a cup with one hand, and take a sip. The warmth spreads down my throat and settles something in me. Not enough, but something.
Nala starts wriggling, apparently deciding she’s had her fill of companionship and I’ve crossed into annoying territory, so I let her hop to the counter before she claws her way free. She struts back down the hallway toward Chloe’s room, tail swishing, apparently deciding the hour is too early for her after all.
Now I have nothing to distract me. No daughter to take care of, no opening shift at the restaurant, no cat demanding attention. Just me and my thoughts and this restless energy crawling under my skin like something trying to claw its way out.
I lean against the counter and sip my coffee, looking around for a project like a smoker desperate for a cigarette. I need something to do with my hands, something to occupy my brain before it drives me insane.
I could go into work, but it’s my day off and that would raise questions from Alex. Questions I don’t want to answer, not when my face would give everything away. Alex has known me too long. He’d take one look at me and know something happened, and then he wouldn’t let it go until I told him what.
My mind keeps drifting back to Emma. I can’t seem to stop it.
I want her. She’s like some kind of siren, this gravitational pull I’ve never experienced before, and I almost lost complete control tonight. Ineverlose control. I’m the responsible one. The dependable one. The one who pays his bills on time, makes sure his daughter is taken care of, helps anyone in town who needs it. I do what I’m supposed to do, always.
Except tonight I had a woman pressed against her door with my hands in her hair and my tongue in her mouth, and I would have fucked her right there on that landing if I hadn’t somehow found the willpower to stop.
I haven’t seriously dated since my marriage fell apart. A brief fling here or there over the past six years, but nothing real, nothing that lasted. Quick and easy arrangements that scratched an itch without any risk of getting attached.
I never wanted to risk disrupting Chloe’s world. Victoria blows in and out of her life like a summer storm, canceling weekends at the last minute, making promises she doesn’t keep, showing up with extravagant gifts when guilt finally catches up with her.
Chloe never knows what to expect from her mother, so she needs to know exactly what to expect from me. Our life together is steady. Routines she can count on. Saturdays that belong to her no matter what. A dad who’s always there whenhe says he’ll be there, who never makes promises he can’t keep, who shows up every single time. I’ve never given her a reason to wonder if I’m going to stick around, and I’ve never brought someone into her life who might not.
And now, in the span of a month, I’ve gone from perfectly fine being alone to completely wrecked over a twenty-four-year-old teacher with red hair and a Swedish candy addiction who looks at me like she can see right through every wall I’ve built. Like she knows exactly what I’m hiding and isn’t scared of it.
I don’t even recognize myself anymore. Every rule I made has started to feel like something I wrote for a different person. Someone who hadn’t met her yet. Someone who didn’t know what it felt like to have her look at him like he was the only person in the room.
I drain the last of my coffee and set the mug in the sink harder than necessary, then head upstairs to grab a sweatshirt and running shoes. Maybe an early morning jog will burn off some of this restless energy. Maybe if I move fast enough, I can outrun my own thoughts.
The path behind my house is dark and cold, the grass still damp from last night’s rain. The chill seeps through my sweatshirt immediately, biting at my skin, but I welcome it. I need something to shock me out of this spiral. I take off down the road with my feet pounding against the pavement and my breath fogging in front of me, trying to move faster than my thoughts can follow.
Douglas firs rise dark on either side of the road, their branches reaching toward each other overhead like a cathedral ceiling. For a few minutes I manage to think about nothing but the rhythm. Foot strike, exhale. The burn building in my calves as the road slopes gently upward. Just my body doing what it knows how to do.
I live about two miles outside town proper, close enough to be convenient but far enough to have space and quiet and roomfor Chloe to run around. The route I’m running now will take me past a few neighboring properties, then open up as it approaches Main Street.
I realize too late that I’m heading toward Emma’s apartment, like my feet know where they want to go even when my brain is trying to steer them somewhere else. I veer left before I can do something stupid like end up standing beneath her window at five in the morning like a stalker.
I cut down Birch instead and loop toward the waterfront, picking up the pace until my lungs burn. I wind through the empty streets, past the post office with Marjorie’s autumn display still glowing in the window, past the little jewelry store where my dad bought my mom’s engagement ring forty years ago, past the antique shop that’s had the same rocking chair out front since I was in elementary school.
The town is still asleep, streetlights casting yellow pools on empty sidewalks, and there’s something comforting about running through it like this. Like I have Dark River all to myself for a few stolen minutes. Like I can pretend I’m the only person in the world with problems.
I round the corner onto Pacific Avenue and spot Dom’s gym. The lights are already on, which means my brother is inside. Dom opens at 4:30 sharp every morning and he’s usually there right on the dot, lifting weights that would crush a normal human, running through whatever punishing routine he’s designed for himself this week. The man treats his body like a machine that needs constant maintenance, and I’ve never once seen him take a day off. Even on Christmas.
For a second I consider going in. I could use the weight room, burn off some of this energy with something heavier than a morning jog. Lift until my muscles shake and my mind goes quiet. Maybe even talk to someone who isn’t the voice in my own head. But going in carries the same risk as showing up at the restaurant. Dom would see straight through me in about thirty seconds.
