Because the only thing I can think about is Lucky Vale in my living room, laughing with my family like she belonged there, looking at me like she saw straight through every wall I’ve built. And the feeling—unwanted, reckless, bone-deep—that I wanted to kiss her more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.
I lean back in the seat, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
I’m attracted to her. There’s no point pretending otherwise now.
And I hate it.
The more I sit here, the more everything inside me winds tight. Like something’s been knocked out of place and I can’t force it back where it belongs.
The quarry air is cool and damp. My breath fogs faintly on the windscreen.
This shouldn’t be happening.
Not over a woman I barely know.
Not over someone like Lucky—chaotic, bright, unpredictable, the exact opposite of the quiet, controlled life I’ve built.
But I can’t deny it anymore: something in me reacted to her.
Something I thought had died.
My chest aches. A slow, dull throb.
It’s been a long time since I let myself feel anything this sharp.
And as soon as that door cracks open—Mara slips through.
Not the romanticised version.
The real one.
We were way too young. Nineteen and twenty. She laughed too loud, and I took everything too seriously. She wanted roots; I wantedthe bloody world. It was touch-and-go for a few years. And then she got pregnant. And suddenly, everything became about stability, mortgages, and sensible choices instead of long-term deployments and adventure.
I cared for her. I loved her in the way I understood love back then.
But not in the way she needed.
Not in the way she deserved.
The guilt settles heavy on my shoulders—familiar as an old bruise.
After Lily was born, I tried to be what she needed. Tried to be present, to be steady. But the truth is, some part of me was terrified of becoming a man I didn’t recognise—locked down, resentful. I even had a vasectomy at twenty-five just to make sure we didn’t bring another child into the mess I was already making. Told myself it was temporary, that I could reverse it when life “settled.” Really, it was just another escape hatch. One more selfish attempt at control.
Mara never knew.
Thank God.
I remember the arguments when I’d return home on leave.
Her standing in the kitchen, hair escaping its clip, eyes bright with frustration.
“Ethan, I can’t do this alone anymore.”
“You’re not alone. I’m right here.”
“No, you’re not. You’re always halfway out the door.”
And she wasn’t wrong.
