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JD

I must’ve been high. That’s the only thing that made any damn sense.

I don’t even remember taking more than a couple hits from Tarak’s blunt, but knowing him? That shit was probably laced with his latest homegrown, or worse—his infamous peyote crossbreed he called “the fourth dimension.” The man didn’t just roll joints, he engineered experiences.

Because nothing else explained what the hell happened out there.

One second I was by the fire contemplating re-filling my beer. The next, Skye was under me—soft and wild and real—and I was coming inside her like I’d never heard of consequences. Like we were eighteen again with zero baggage and a blanket of stars giving us permission to rewrite the past.

Like none of the pain had ever happened.

But it had.

And it still fucking hurt.

That’s why I didn’t say anything the next morning. Didn’t look at her too long. Didn’t ask if she wanted bacon with her pancakes as I added extra syrup to Jackson’s. The perfect little family unit.

Funny how easy it was to slip into that mask when I’d spent the whole night falling apart in the backseat.

She tried to talk later. Of course she did.

She waited until Jackson was at the barn helping Cal bottle-feed a newborn foal, and then she cornered me with that look—the one that makes grown men forget what language is.

“JD,” she said softly. “Can we talk?”

I looked down at my phone like it had just buzzed. It hadn’t. But I tapped the screen anyway, faked a frown, and muttered, “Gotta jump on a business call in five.”

Her jaw tightened, and her shoulders dropped.

That little reaction nearly killed me.

I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I wasn’t trying to ghost her either. I just... couldn’t do it. Not yet.

Not when every time I looked at her, my heart felt like ground beef. Raw and run through.

She didn’t press me. She never does when she knows I’m close to the edge. Instead, she just nodded and walked off toward the house, arms folded tight, hair catching sunlight like fire trailing behind her.

God, she was beautiful.

God, I hated that she still had that power over me.

So I focused on Jackson.

Threw myself into being the best damn dad I could be. Took him to the batting cages, made pancakes shaped like motorcycles, built a treehouse with Cal that I insisted was “weatherproof” even though the roof leaked during the last storm.

I smiled more. Laughed louder.

Played the role of the man who had everything together .

But inside? I was wrecked.

Every time I passed her in the kitchen or saw her laugh with Regan on the porch, it gutted me. Because the truth is, it wasn’t the blunt that made me lose control that night.

It was her.

The curve of her cheek when she smiled. The way she looked up at me with hope like maybe, just maybe, we had another shot.

And yeah, I felt it too.

I felt it in every fucking cell of my body when I slid inside her and she gasped my name like it still meant something.

But feelings don’t fix what’s broken.

I needed time. Space. A chance to put myself back together before I even considered letting her back in.

Because if I opened that door again—and she walked through it only to shatter me a second time?

I wouldn’t survive it.

Not this time.

So yeah. I played polite. Played calm.

Every time she started with “Can we talk about us?” I had a meeting to run or a club update from River or Tarak or Edge—or some excuse lined up that let me delay the inevitable.

I saw her frustration. Felt it radiating off her like heat.

But better her frustration now than another heart-shattering disaster later.

Right?

That’s what I told myself when I lay awake at night thinking about the taste of her skin and how I didn’t even think to pull out. About the curve of her stomach and the look in her eyes when she whispered my name like a prayer.

That’s what I told myself when I caught her crying in the laundry room and walked away before she saw me standing there.

Because even though she still had my body—hell, she owned it—my heart was still shredded from the blender she’d put it in.

And I wasn’t ready to hand her the pieces just to see if she’d crush them again.

I rolled over in bed with a groan, throwing a hand over my forehead… my cock throbbing and needing relief as I relived the memories of that night. Tomorrow was gonna be a challenge. Jackson has his first baseball game here in New Mexico with his new team and I of course signed up to head coach.

Skye was probably going to show in skin tight jeans and cowgirl boots.

“I’m fucked,” I groaned, my hand cupping my own cock, wishing it was her. “Gonna be a long ass lonely night,” I muttered giving in to the temptation to seek relief.