Page 16

I t was late that night, close to midnight, when we finally made our way to bed.

Sloane and I tried to watch a show together; a small, simple gesture that felt like a rickety bridge between us.

Despite the show's ominous nature, it was a chance to share something again, something that didn’t carry the weight of everything else.

She chose one of her favorite true crime series she loved to binge late at night, long after the kids were in bed.

Because watching a documentary about a scorned wife nearly getting away with murdering her husband isn't foreboding as fuck.

I never understood why so many women were fascinated by stories about murder, betrayal, and survival. There seemed to be a special draw to the ones where wives killed their husbands. It used to make me uncomfortable in a way I couldn’t explain, this flirtation with the macabre for entertainment.

But that night, sitting beside Sloane while the screen flashed with blood-stained headlines and cold forensic narration, I understood it in a way I hadn’t before.

It wasn’t about entertainment. It was about safety and about learning .

It felt like it was about giving her control in a world that had taken it from her.

When the show ended, we both realized how late it was and there was a quiet pause between us as we measured what came next. Sloane gave me a look, and without much more than a nod, she motioned toward the guest room.

“You can stay,” she said.

I blinked. I hadn’t expected that. Honestly, I didn’t think she’d want me there. The idea that she could tolerate me under the same roof, even if it was in the guest room for one night, felt both strange and impossibly tender.

“Hell, I’m kind of afraid now after that episode,” I said with a half-smile.

Her laugh filled the room like a song. “Well, it would be too obvious if I did it tonight.”

“But it is on the table. Noted.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched again like she was trying not to smile. "I know you weren't planning to stay, but you do have some old clothes bagged up in the garage."

"The garage?" I asked. "Seems like an odd place to put them, since that's where we keep our sentimentals."

"It's also where we keep the trashcan," she said with a wry smile as she stood.

We padded into the kitchen, our footsteps barely making a sound against the floor.

"Goodnight," I said.

"Night." She veered toward her room - what had once been our room - without another word .

After I'd rummaged through a bag of my old clothes and found gym shorts and a t-shirt, I headed up to the guest room.

I grabbed a quick shower and crawled into bed.

I expected that I'd be too on edge for sleep, too bursting with everything that had happened throughout the day, but I must have drifted off at some point; I awoke to the unmistakable creak of the hallway floor outside the guest room.

I jumped out of bed to find Liam standing there in his faded band shirt and pajama pants, eyes rimmed red behind his shaggy bangs.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You were talking in your sleep. Kinda loud. I could hear it next door.”

I tensed. “I'm sorry, bud. What did I say?”

“Something about not letting us die this time?”

Fuck. Mental note: I needed to ball gag myself. Maybe Sloane would be into that?

Focusing on Liam, I stepped back and opened the door wider. “Wanna sit?”

He hesitated, then shuffled in. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees up, arms hugging them as if he was bracing for bad news.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I dunno,” he muttered. “You’re acting... different.”

“Yeah," I said with a feeble laugh. "Your Mom said the same thing."

He shrugged.

"Well," I asked, "Is it good different or bad different?”

“Weird different. Like... old man wisdom and sensitivity crammed into a guy who forgets my birthday.”

“Old man wisdom?" I asked. "I guess that's a compliment, right?" I did my best to sound amused, but fuck me this kid was a lot more perceptive than I'd ever realized.

The smallest smile flashed across his face before he turned solemn and said, “I don’t get you, Dad. I don’t get why you left.”

Ah, there it was. The festering wound beneath all the others. I felt his words slam into my stomach, harsh gut punches of honesty.

He looked down at the floor and his voice wavered as he continued. “Mom, she… she’s hurt. I’m hurt, too, but I don’t know how to tell her that. Or how to feel about you anymore.” His words were loaded with suppressed anger and confusion.

He was just a boy of thirteen. Yet, he was being torn apart by a storm he didn’t know how to weather. I knew he was desperate to keep his mom safe, but also trying to find a way to connect with me despite everything I had put them all through.

I sat across from him on the floor. “Those feelings make perfect sense. I was disgustingly selfish, Liam. For a long time, for far too long, I thought everything revolved around me. My work, my success, my image.” He sniffled while I spoke, but he didn’t look up.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, son. But I want you to know that I see it all now.

I see all the pain I caused. I see all the weight your mother carried.

I see all the times you and Violet hurt while I wasn’t there. ”

Liam whispered, “I hated you.”

I nodded, my voice patient with understanding. “And you had every right to.”

“So why now?”

Because I’ve seen the world end once already, and I know what a lifetime of regret tastes like …

But I obviously couldn’t say that, so I told him the truth that made the most sense. “Because I wasted so many chances. I don't want to waste anymore.”

Liam finally looked up. He stared at me for a long while. Then, slowly, he shifted and crawled forward. He leaned in and rested his small, shaggy head against my shoulder. “You still have a lot to prove.”

My throat closed around the swell of emotion that threatened to break free as I rested my hand on his back. “I know. And trust me buddy, I will.”

I felt his tears soak into my shirt and heard my son sniffle.

Pride swelled beneath my guilt, strange and unexpected.

My son had stood his ground, called me out, and defended his mother without flinching.

He had every right to hate me, and yet all I could feel in that moment was a twisted kind of awe.

He was strong. Stronger than I had been at his age.

Stronger than I had raised him to be and as much as it hurt to hear the truth from his mouth, a part of me was so very proud of him.

I patted his back. “It's okay son. Let it out.”

I had not held Liam while he cried since he was a toddler.

The Old Me would have told him to toughen up, that real men don't cry, and all of that other toxic masculinity bullshit he'd espoused.

I knew this one night, this single moment, would not reverse all of that, but I also knew it was a step in the direction he needed to heal.

I wanted him to feel safe. I wanted him to feel safe with me .

After Liam had cried himself dry, I walked him to his room and sat on the edge of his bed. I promised I’d leave once he fell asleep. He gave me this sheepish roll of his eyes, the kind only a thirteen-year-old could pull off; equal parts Dad, you’re embarrassing me and please don’t go .

The truth was, I didn’t care if he thought I was being silly. I wanted to be with him. After everything that had been breaking and bending in our lives lately, sitting with my son felt like the only solid thing I could do right in that moment.

He eventually turned over, curled into the blankets, and within minutes his breathing deepened.

I watched him sleep. Even in rest, his face carried the weight of everything he’d been forced to shoulder. His brow twitched every so often, some invisible worry still lingering in his dreams.

I leaned down and kissed his forehead, brushing a curl from his temple like I used to when he was small…

back when the worst thing in his life was a scraped knee or a forgotten math test. I knew full well he would groan or roll his eyes if he caught me being so sentimental, but I didn’t care.

He’d grown taller and sharper around the edges, but he was still my boy.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered, though he was already far from hearing.

The hallway was dim as I slipped out and pulled the door closed behind me. I nearly collided into Sloane.

“Christ, Sloane… hey.”

She gave me a smile. “Hey.”

"I know you said you weren't planning to kill me tonight, but you very nearly gave me a heart attack just now."

She didn't miss a beat. “I heard what you said in there."

The tone of her voice set my heart to fluttering. Heat rushed to my face and I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah… I meant every word.”

“I know.” Her voice cracked.

And then she looked at me, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say she looked into me. I stopped breathing as I watched my wife decide my fate .

Hell, this was not a casual look done in passing, nor in the detached, cautious way she had studied me over the past two weeks. She was weighing my soul like Anubis.

Her hazel eyes locked onto mine and they still held that fire that drew me like a moth to flame.

Even in the dimness of the hallway, there was a golden flicker in her hazel eyes as her gaze drifted lower and scoured over me in a way that drove me wild.

It wasn’t lust. It was grief, longing, and the rawness of everything.

The moment we shared earlier that night still burned through me and left me painfully desperate. Despite how much I wanted to ravage her right now, I meant what I'd said: she was in control.

During her inspection, my treacherous body betrayed me and made it undeniably clear how much I desired her. I saw those predatory eyes narrow and her breathing quicken when her gaze settled on my hardened cock straining beneath the gym shorts.