Guilty Pleasures

After an accident, Skila finds love while uncovering her past and confronting deception.

                                  Guilt



The rain had started before sunset—a low, steady hiss that pressed against the windows and softened the edges of everything. When he stepped out, the first blast of wet wind hit him.

He caught her scent first—warm coconut—just as garlic, pepper, and rosemary filled the room.

Not the burnt-coffee-and-oatmeal limbo that haunted their weekday evenings.

But proper food. Something homemade. Lights on in every room.

The porch was swept clean.

A strange, brittle hope took hold.

Maybe things would be normal tonight.

Maybe she’d let him in again—just enough. Maybe tonight could be the reset they both needed.

B dropped his keys on the counter; the metal rang against stone and echoed through the house. He pictured her there—hair up, apron knotted, laughing at some strange concoction he’d convinced her to try. Sometimes she forgot to hold herself together, forgot to resist whatever idea had seized him, and simply went along with it.

Those were the moments when she was almost giddy. A flash of the woman he’d fallen in love with.

Maybe he’d finally be brave enough to tell her what had been eating at him for months: that he hated the distance, that he hated who he was when they were both pretending not to care.

He’d rather fight with her every night than become the kind of couple that dissolved quietly, without a scene.

“Amelia?” he called, hopeful.

For a moment, only the hush of the storm answered. Then a pan clattered deeper in the house, followed by the clean, bright hum of a playlist that made him cock his head. Not her usual classic rock—something more pop. He frowned and followed the sound to the kitchen.

He flicked on the light, already reaching for her.

The woman by the stove was stirring something in a pot.

She didn’t look around as she reached for the salt—her hand went straight to the back corner of the counter, like she’d done it a hundred times.

His gaze drifted across the room.

The table was set for two.

The candles—not real ones, the battery-powered jokes they kept for emergencies.

The wine—not theirs. Not the one from their wedding. This one smelled too floral. Amelia would’ve turned her nose up at it.

By the coat rack, a suitcase sat half-zipped.

He looked back at the stove.

The woman stirred the sauce one-handed; a takeout container was half-hidden in the trash.

She turned.

“Raven?”

His coworker stood there—very much not his wife.

Barely dressed. Smiling.

“Hey,” she said lightly. “I thought you might like a surprise.”

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” The words came out like gravel.

Raven nudged the trash lid closed with her foot, hiding the containers she’d just emptied into the pot.

“You looked like you needed a home-cooked meal. It’s just pasta.”

She tilted her head, all innocence.

“This isn’t your home,” he said. His voice had gone flat.

She smiled as if that weren’t a problem.

“You’re welcome. After the week you’ve had, I thought it would be nice.”

She stepped closer. Wine, perfume, that artificial coconut—too sweet, too sharp, nothing like Amelia. She tucked her hair behind her ear, then grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him forward, backing him into the wall.

Something dangerous flickered in her eyes. Needy.

“Stop,” he breathed.

“You don’t have to pretend, B. You told me how lonely you are. How Amelia never makes time anymore.”

She said the name with careful cruelty.

“You said you missed being seen.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

He never finished. She kissed him.

Not gentle. Not questioning.

A hard, claiming kiss—meant to be seen, meant to be remembered.

He froze. Every muscle locked.

Too stunned to push her away.

It lasted a second.

He jerked back, trying to block Raven from view, but the oven door caught it all: the candles, the glasses, the smear of lipstick on his mouth.

“Raven, leave.”

Hoarse now. Final.

“Dinner will get cold,” Raven said lightly. “Amelia just needs a moment.”

Maybe less.

But it was enough.

“B?”

Amelia’s voice—soft, hopeful, exhausted—cut through the room.

He turned.

Amelia stood in the doorway, rain plastering her hair to her forehead, her coat dripping onto the tile. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, her face drained of colour.

Her gaze snagged on the suitcase.

Then it moved—

the table,

the candles,

the wine—

and finally, his mouth.

He reached for her.

She stepped back, striking the doorframe.

The candles flickered in the draft.

No one spoke.

Raven’s hand hovered, frozen mid-gesture.

Amelia opened her mouth—

like she might say his name—

but nothing came.

She turned and walked away, each step wet and deliberate.

The front door slammed hard enough to knock a candle to the floor.

Silence.

The world tilted—as if the floor had turned to ice and he was the only one left standing.

Raven spoke first.

“I… I didn’t know she’d be home so early.” Her voice shook. She tried to smile, and something in it broke. “Maybe we could—”

“Get out.”

A whisper at first. Then heat—clean, bright anger.

“Get out of my house!”

She hesitated, wounded, then grabbed her coat.

He expected a fight.

There wasn’t one.

She slipped out into the storm. Gone.

He stood in the empty kitchen, chest heaving, as the rain grew louder.

He scrubbed at his mouth until the skin burned.

Then he grabbed his keys and ran—nearly slipping on the tile as he bolted for the truck.

He drove blind. Wipers flailing—losing ground. Past midnight. Storm at its worst. The road unspooling ahead like the edge of a nightmare.

“Amelia!”

He called her name like she might still answer.

Louder—sharper—breaking apart.

By the time he was screaming, it wasn’t even her name anymore.

He saw her—

a shape turning the corner—

gone.

There—by the park gate—

no.

Just rain. Just shadows.

She wouldn’t take the bridge.

She hated it—the groan under trucks, the flex of the boards. The warnings posted for years. Never fixed. Not after the last flood.

It had become an unspoken dare:

Cross at your own risk.

If she went anywhere, it would be their spot.

Miller’s Hill.

Where he proposed.

Where she said yes through tears.

Where they once made love in the bed of his father’s pickup, laughing at mosquitoes and lightning bugs.

That’s where he went.

The dirt road had turned to slurry, more river than road, tires slipping in every rut.

Lightning split the sky—

for a second, everything sharpened—

and then it was gone again.

Empty.

No car.

No Amelia.

Just wind. Rain. The raw drop of the valley.

“Amelia!”

The storm swallowed it whole.

Panic hit—cold and physical, a hand closing around his spine.

He ran to the edge—

and the mud shifted under his weight, soft and treacherous, like the bridge she refused to cross.







Aftermath





Three days.

I counted them in coffee spoons.

In unanswered calls.

In thumbprint smudges on the front window—

checking for headlights that never came.

The house ran on routines.

Laundry on Saturdays.

Movies on Fridays.

Leftovers.

Late emails.

The quiet that settles into walls that remember laughter.

Now everything was off.

Clocks out of sync.

Minutes stretching.

Snapping.

Waiting for her voice to smooth it out.

I called her voicemail until it was full.

Then called again—

just to hear her voice.

Tinny.

Hollow.

Still mine.

I searched.

Her socials.

Her bank accounts.

Hospitals.

Left messages.

Checked the door.

Again.

Again.

Maybe she’d walk in.

Apology in one hand.

Groceries in the other.

But nobody forgets home for three days.

Not unless they mean to.

The rain never stopped.

Neither did I.

I mapped the house into pieces.

Every hair on the pillow.

Every mug out of place.

A mausoleum for the living.

I catalogued her absence like wounds.

And in the quiet—

something started filling the space.

Possibilities.

Ghosts.

By the second night—

I started seeing her.

Not really.

But enough.

The back of her head.

A hand on the door.

An eye at the window—

watching me.

Like I was the one locked out.

That’s when Raven showed up.

No text.

No call.

Just boots on the mat.

Water trailing behind her.

I should’ve been annoyed.

Instead—

relief.

Someone else could see it.

How empty it was.

She said she was worried.

Said I shouldn’t be alone.

But her worry smelled like tropical coconut—

And cheaper wine.

She moved through the kitchen like she owned it.

Straightening photos.

Making coffee.

Humming something familiar.

Touching everything that wasn’t hers.

When she caught me watching—

she smiled.

Like we shared something.

“You need rest.”

“I need answers.”

“You’ll get them.”

The way she said it—

wrong.

But I drank the coffee anyway.

Pretended this was normal.

That she belonged here.

That nothing had shifted.



That evening, we went out.

Posters.

Rain needling down.

Her heater blasting.

Windows fogging—

wiped clean with her sleeve.

Every red light—

waiting.

Every empty street—

punishment.

At first, silence.

Then Raven filled it.

Her car.

Anything but Amelia.

“There’s the B I remember,” she said.

I hated that.

Hated that it worked.

We taped her face up.

Poles.

Walls.

Rain blurred the ink.

Her eyes floating.

Detached from the smile.

Once—

I thought I saw her across the street.

Watching.

But it wasn’t her.

Just my imagination.



On the way back, Raven made me pull over by the river.

We stood under an awning.

Shared a cigarette.

City lights trembling on black water.

“You think she left?” Raven asked.

I didn’t answer.

“Everyone leaves.”

I flicked the cigarette into the river.

Watched it spiral out.

“Not everyone,” I said.

Too quiet to matter.



I couldn’t stay in that house another minute.



The windshield wipers flailed—losing ground.

Past midnight.

Storm at its worst.

The road stretched ahead like the edge of a nightmare.

I should have taken the detour.

But I’d been up since three.

Coffee.

Stubbornness.

The river rising behind me—

pushing me home

before it could take the cabin with it.

No one else was out.

Except one set of taillights.

A small red sedan hugging the shoulder.

Lightning split the sky—

for a second, everything sharpened—

tires slipping,

water slick on blacktop,

trees bending—

then—

impact.

Metal screamed.

The sedan fishtailed—

missed me by inches—

and tore through the guardrail.

I was already braking.

Too hard.

Truck slewing sideways.

Gravel hammering the undercarriage.

Then—

stillness.

Except the rain.

And my pulse.

Below the road—

fire.

Quick.

Hungry.

Wrong.

I didn’t think.

I moved.

Parking brake.

Engine dead.

Door open.

Wind tearing at it.

Boots hit mud—

sinking,

sliding.

Down the embankment.

Heat—

immediate.

The driver—

woman—

slumped forward.

Blood across the windshield.

Flames licking under the hood.

Spreading.

Fast.

Locked.

Elbow—glass—

crack—

reach—

latch—

open.

Heat.

Smoke swallowing the space between us.

I pulled her free—

dead weight,

limp—

but—

breathing.

Faint against my cheek.

Up the hill.

Step.

Slip.

Step.

She smelled of chemicals and wet wool—

and beneath it—

warm coconut.

No.

Not right.

Truck.

Running board.

Pulse—

wrist—

nothing—

throat—

there.

Weak.

Blanket.

Pressure—steady.

Back down.

Extinguisher up.

Pin—

pull—

foam—

hiss—

into flame.

Not saving the car.

Just stopping it from spreading.

Back up.

Still breathing.

Inside the truck.

Door—slam.

“Hey.”

Nothing.

Hands shaking.

Airway.

Breathing.

Circulation.

Check.

Check.

Check.

Engine on.

Heat blasting.

I drove.

Blind.

One hand on the wheel.

One on her pulse.

Hold it there.

Don’t lose her.

The cabin showed through rain—

dark,

waiting.

Inside.

No power.

Stove—embers.

Lamp—light.

Couch.

Wet clothes—off.

Towel at her head.

I paused at the buttons—

then kept going.

Ribs—

intact.

Bruising.

Nothing worse.

“Sorry,” I said.

“First aid.”

Water—by her hand

Pulse again—

there.

Still fighting.

Rain on the roof.

Silence inside.

I sat.

Watched her breathe.

In.

Out.

Alive.

Against everything—alive.

Hands finally steady.

Then—

not anymore.

I wasn’t on duty.

Just out for supplies.

Fifteen minutes.

Power surge.

Oxygen machine.

Fire.

By the time I got back—

lights,

smoke,

people—

Sara gone.

Some smells don’t leave.

Burnt plastic.

Ozone.

Her perfume.

I left that life.

The city.

The badge.

All of it.

But it follows.

Always.

I looked at her again.

Something familiar in her face.

Not Amelia.

But close enough to hurt.

I couldn’t place it.

Not yet.

I stayed there—

watching her chest rise and fall—

until the storm softened into distant thunder.





The Fallout



Raven



I tried sending a text to comfort him—probably pacing the house by now—but everything I typed sounded too desperate. Or worse, guilty.



So I decided it was better in person.I’d bring him food, maybe something warm.Offer to spend the night on the couch if he needed me.Yes, that’s what I’d do.



I packed an overnight bag… maybe just in case it turned into more than one night.A folded sweater. Toothbrush. Mascara. Wine.Comfort. Sympathy. Proof I cared.



A woman who didn’t care wouldn’t pack snacks and a corkscrew, right?



Rain beat against the windows, dull and steady.I stared at my reflection on the laptop screen—sad eyes, soft mouth.I practiced the tone, low and trembling: “You shouldn’t be alone, B. I’ll stay on the couch.”



Perfect.



I closed the laptop, slung the bag over my shoulder, and headed for the door.



By the time I pulled into his driveway, the rain had dulled to a mist.Lights off. Curtains drawn.He hadn’t slept; I could feel it.



I practiced the expression one last time in the rear-view mirror—concerned, not eager—and stepped into the storm.



I didn’t need to send the message.I was the message.



B



I didn’t know which hurt worse—my wife gone without a trace or Raven standing in my kitchen like she belonged here.She draped herself against the counter, her hair loose, every inch of her radiating false concern.Coconut perfume rolled off her skin in thick, sticky waves.Like the scent of sunscreen, not the sweet coconut smell of—Amelia.My wife was sunlight and warm skin, not some cheap souvenir in a spray bottle.The artificial sweetness knotted my gut into barbed wire.



“I know you loved her,” she whispered. “But sometimes people just… leave.”



“B, you need rest,” Raven cooed, voice dripping with a concern she didn’t deserve. “You’ve been calling nonstop.”



I spun on her, jaw tight. “Because she’s missing,” I snapped. “Because she’s out there somewhere, and everyone’s acting like it’s not their problem.”



Raven sighed, pity curling her lips. “I know you loved her,” she murmured softly. “But people sometimes… just leave.”



“I know my wife,” I growled. “She doesn’t just vanish.”



My reflection in the window barely looked human anymore—eyes red, jaw shadowed, grey threading through my stubble like ash.Three days of no sleep had turned me into something older, smaller.The type of man who begged machines for answers, leaving voicemails that echoed back like prayers.



Her eyes flicked to the stack of missing posters—Amelia’s face staring back—then to me.“I’ll help,” she offered, voice too bright.



“You don’t have to,” I snarled.



“I want to.” Her hand brushed my arm, casual, too intimate. “I feel responsible.”



A lie scraped against my teeth. It was your fault.I nearly said it, but I swallowed the words, folded them tight inside me.



By dawn the downpour had shrunk to a knifing drizzle.I stuffed the passenger seat with flyers—Missing: Amelia Bennet.The ink still clung tackily to my fingertips.Outside, Raven waited, leaning on her new car like a prize she’d hunted to the finish line.



“New ride?” I said, voice rough as gravel.



She flicked damp hair from her face. “Old one flooded in the storm. If I hadn’t chased your wife, I’d still have it.”



That line hit me like a punch to the jaw.If I hadn’t chased your wife.My skin turned to ice.“You wouldn’t have needed to chase her if you hadn’t kissed me,” I wanted to spit.But I held it in, teeth clenched so tight my jaw ached.



She gave me a slow, innocent smile as if she hadn’t just detonated my calm.“Well,” she murmured, “we both lost something that night.”



My fingers curled around the flyers. I lost my wife. You lost your conscience.



I slipped into the driver’s seat and started the engine.Raven’s door popped open, and she slid in beside me, as if invited.Her thigh pressed against the stack of posters.



“Raven—watch the flyers,” I snapped.



Her cheeks flushed. She yanked them free, edges bent, Amelia’s face already marred by creases.



“Sorry,” she mumbled, smoothing the papers as if she could iron out reality itself.



I stared at the smudged ink, the way Amelia’s smile now drooped into a crease.Raven’s panicked breaths puffed between us.



I needed silence.The road stretched ahead like a ribbon of possibilities—each stoplight a potential witness, each streetlamp a stage for hope.But Raven jammed an upbeat pop song into the stereo, fingers drumming on the dash, humming off-key.The beat rattled in my skull.



“Turn it off,” I grated without looking.



She blinked—hurt or guilt, I couldn’t tell. “What?”



“The music.”



“Oh.” She dialled down the volume but left a ghost of the melody haunting the speakers.



I gripped the wheel. I couldn’t bear her light-hearted soundtrack while I hunted for my wife.She jabbered on about her car’s heated seats, Bluetooth, “that new-car smell.”My teeth ground together.



“Can you stop?” I bellowed, rain sluicing off my jacket brim into my collar.



Raven froze, toast in the toaster. “I’m just trying to take your mind off this.”



My laugh was hollow. “We’re plastering missing posters, Raven. How is your chitchat supposed to fix that?”



She opened her mouth, then closed it. The rain tapped a brutal rhythm on the roof.



Finally, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I just thought—”



“You never think,” I cut her off. “You never stop to consider anything but yourself.”



She stared down at Amelia’s face in her hands—the bright, hopeful eyes now folded under her fingertips.My vision blurred with anger and grief.I wanted to yank her out of the car, tell her to get lost, to drive until she was nothing but a taillight in the rearview.But I didn’t.I needed her here, stuck with me in this nightmare, because every other second alone felt like an eternity of emptiness.



I set the gear to drive and didn’t bother to look at her again.Rain-slicked road ahead, broken promises behind, and Amelia’s face—crease and all—tucked beside me.



Raven



He told me to go home. Said he needed rest.Rest. As if anyone could sleep through this kind of silence.



The storm had thinned to a mist, soft enough to swallow sound.The street was empty—just puddles reflecting the glow from his porch light.He didn’t come after me.



I slipped into my car, heart thudding in my throat.The posters were everywhere—clinging to poles, stop signs, storefront glass.Her smile followed me: bright, forgiving, wrong.



Looking at me like a wife who cared about her husband.



But I knew the truth.She was never there for him—not like I am.



One by one, I peeled them down.The wet paper tore against my fingers, printing her name in reverse across my skin.



By the time I reached the corner, my arms were full of ruined faces.I stuffed them into a trash can and kept walking.



Back home, I kicked off my shoes and opened my laptop.The browser was already waiting—local news, police reports, obituaries.



No updates.Nobody.



Relief pulsed once, sharp and guilty.



I cleared the search history, closed the lid, and sat there in the blue hush of the screen’s fading light.



Outside, the wind hissed through the trees.A single poster—Missing: Amelia Bennet—tore loose from a pole and drifted onto my windshield, the paper slapping wet against the glass.It fluttered there, half-soaked, Amelia’s smile smeared but still visible—like a whisper that refused to stay buried.



I shut the blinds.



But the smell of smoke still lingered.





After The Storm







I woke up — not from sleep, something heavier.

Sleep fades. This felt like clawing my way out of the dark.



My body didn’t feel right. My ribs ached with every breath; my arm throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I tried to move, and pain ripped through me so sharp it forced a cry out of my throat.



A chair scraped the floor.

Footsteps crossed the room.



“Hey—easy,” a man’s voice said, close and low.



I froze. My eyes darted toward the sound — a man moving out of the shadows, kneeling beside me. His face blurred in the firelight.



“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You’re safe now.”



Safe. The word didn’t mean anything yet.



He reached for a glass on the table, offered it carefully. “Here. Drink slow.”



The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of tin, but it grounded me enough to speak.

“Where…” My voice cracked. “Where am I?”



“My cabin,” he said. “You were in an accident. Bridge washed out — couldn’t get you to town.”



The words floated past me, slow and heavy. Accident. Bridge. Cabin. None of it felt real.



He studied me a moment, then asked gently, “What’s your name?”



“My…” I stopped.

I tried again, slower. “I’m…”



The rest wouldn’t come.

It was just gone. Blank.



“I don’t—” My breath hitched. “I don’t remember my name.”



His expression softened, brows drawing together.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Don’t push it. You took a pretty big blow to the head.”



He meant it to calm me, but the words made it worse.

My pulse quickened. My hands started to shake under the blanket.



Because if I didn’t know my own name… what else didn’t I know?



He must’ve noticed my panic because he reached out, resting a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Just breathe, okay? In and out.”



His voice had that calm weight people use when they’ve seen panic before.

I focused on it — the low, rough edge of it, the warmth under the worry.



“In… and out,” he repeated.



I did.

The air hurt coming in but helped going out.



“That’s it,” he said quietly, thumb brushing once against the blanket before he pulled his hand back. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”



Tears burned the corners of my eyes, and I blinked them away, embarrassed by how exposed I felt — shaking, nameless, in a stranger’s bed.



He stood slowly, running a hand through his hair, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath too.

“You probably haven’t eaten in days,” he said after a pause. “How about I make you something? Just a little food. It might help.”



I frowned, the words snagging somewhere in my fogged mind.

“Days?” My voice was small. “What… what do you mean, days?”



He glanced over his shoulder at me, the firelight cutting across his face.

“You’ve been out almost three,” he said gently. “Since the accident.”



Three.



The number didn’t feel real. My heart started to pound again, faster this time.

Three days I didn’t exist.

Three days I couldn’t remember.



My stomach twisted, a strange mix of nausea and hunger.



He must’ve seen it hit me because his tone softened even more.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “You’re okay now. You’re here.”



I nodded, but the motion made the room tilt. He was already moving before I could protest, steadying the edge of the blanket with one hand, his other hovering near my shoulder like he wasn’t sure if he should touch me again.



“Don’t try to move yet,” he said quietly. “I’ll bring it to you.”



He turned back to the stove — every movement unhurried, deliberate. The kind of calm that only comes from someone who’s seen chaos before.



The smell of something warm drifted through the air — eggs, maybe. Butter.

It was simple, comforting, and painfully human.



I watched him in silence, still clutching the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering me to this world.



Three days.

Gone.



I didn’t even know who I’d been before them.



The smell of food filled the air — eggs and something buttery, warm enough to make my stomach ache.



He set a plate on the small table beside the bed, then hesitated, studying me.

“You think you can manage?”



I nodded before I really thought about it. When I tried to lift the fork, my right hand barely moved. My left trembled, weak and useless. Pain flared sharp through my arm.



I tried again — stubbornness or pride, I wasn’t sure which — but the fork clattered back against the plate.



He stepped closer. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.”



“I can do it,” I muttered, though my voice shook.



He crouched beside me, taking the plate in one hand. “Your arm’s broken,” he said gently. “And the other’s badly sprained. You need rest more than anything.”



Before I could argue, he blew softly across the food and lifted the fork toward me. “Here,” he said quietly. “Just one bite.”



I stared at him — at the patience in his eyes, at the ridiculousness of it — and before I could stop myself, the words slipped out fast and sharp:

“I may not know my name, but I can blow on my own food.”



He froze, the fork still midair.



Then—he smiled. Just barely.

“Fair enough,” he said softly, setting the fork down. “Guess that answers one question.”



“What question?”



“If you’re stubborn,” he said.



A reluctant laugh slipped out of me, quick and shaky. It hurt to laugh — but it also helped.

For a second, I wasn’t just the girl who didn’t remember her name. I was someone else. Someone real.



The first few bites went down slow. The food was simple — eggs, toast, nothing fancy — but it tasted like something solid, something alive. My body remembered what hunger felt like even if my mind didn’t.



When I’d eaten all I could, I leaned back against the pillow, breathing through the dull ache in my ribs. Eli watched from the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or give me space.



I looked at him. “You said I was in an accident.”



He nodded once.



“Was… anyone else injured?”



His gaze flicked to the fire, the shadows playing across his face. “No one else was there when I found you.”



That answer didn’t sit right.

“You sure?” I pressed. “Maybe someone got out before you came? Maybe they—”



He shook his head slowly. “I checked. You were alone.”



The words hit harder than I expected.

Alone.

The way he said it — quiet, final — made something twist in my stomach.



I stared down at the blanket, tracing the edge with my good hand.

“Was it… my fault?”



His head lifted. “What?”



“The accident.” My throat tightened. “Did I cause it?”



He leaned forward, the firelight catching in his eyes. “Hey. Look at me.”



I did.



“You were run off the road,” he said carefully. “I saw the tracks before the rain washed them out. Whoever hit you didn’t stop.”



A chill spread through me, deeper than the pain.

“Run off the road?” I whispered.



He nodded once. “You’re lucky I was behind you.”



I tried to swallow, but my throat felt dry again.

Lucky.

It didn’t feel like luck.



I shifted under the blanket, pushing myself upright with my good arm. My ribs protested, but I managed to sit halfway before the room tilted.



“Whoa—hey.” He was on his feet instantly, hands out before me. “Don’t push it.”



“I’ve been lying here for—what did you say—three days?” I rasped, forcing a weak smile. “You’ve probably been sleeping in that chair the whole time. The bed’s big enough, you know. I could scoot over.”



His mouth twitched, the ghost of a laugh escaping him. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”



“Why not?” I asked, settling back onto the pillow. “I’ve been hogging it long enough.”



“Because,” he said, tugging the blanket higher around me, “you can barely sit up. And I’m not taking your bed.”



“My bed?” I murmured. “Pretty sure it’s yours.”



That earned a real smile—small, crooked, tired. “You’ve got me there.”



I let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “You’re stubborn.”



He arched a brow. “Takes one to know one.”



The fire popped, sparks briefly lighting his face. The exhaustion was still there—etched deep—but so was something else. Relief.



For the first time since waking, I felt safe enough to close my eyes again.



That Gut Feeling





Eli heard there was a makeshift clinic and insisted we go.“You clearly have broken bones and can’t remember your name,” he said, and before I could argue, I was in his truck.The walls were too white, the light too flat, and everything smelled like bleach and rain-soaked wool. People came and went—volunteers, nurses, someone who might’ve been a doctor—but none of them looked at me like a person. Just a patient. A puzzle to solve.They said I was lucky. No spinal injury, no internal bleeding. Just bruises, a sprain, and a mild concussion. Lucky.I didn’t feel lucky.They told me my memory would come back “eventually.”When I asked what that meant, the answer went slippery as a rain puddle. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe never.



The only certainty was that the present was a blank and the future was a question mark.Eli wheeled me outside anyway, saying maybe the fresh air would help. The soles of his boots squeaked against the tile, and when the automatic doors swept open, the city hit me in the face—wind-sharp, sodden, metallic.The storm had melted into a damp, sullen drizzle. The sidewalks glistened, reflecting the long, bruised haze of the sky. I squinted into the grey light, half-blinded by the sudden expanse. Every parked car felt like a rumour. Every person passing looked like a clue. I tried to recognize something—my own hands, the shape of my shadow—but every detail felt foreign and flattened, like a photocopy of myself.We found a bench beneath a maple tree, its black limbs cupped around us like fingers. Eli helped me from the chair to the seat—gentle, but not patronizing—and we sat together in silence, watching the rain stipple the sidewalk. He kept his hands folded, as if uncertain whether I wanted to be touched or left alone.



“You keep calling me Skila,” I said after a while, pulling the hospital blanket tighter around my shoulders. My voice sounded oddly round in my mouth, like someone else speaking through my lips.He smiled, faint and lopsided. “You needed a name. Something to hold on to.”“But why, Skila?” I pressed. “Is that a real name, or did you just invent it?”“I heard it once, in a story,” he said. “It sounded like hope. And I figured you could use a little hope.”I let the word settle in me, tasting it. “I like it,” I admitted. “Skila.” I tried saying it again, quietly, like a magic spell. Hope. The name felt fragile and borrowed, but it was better than nothing.We sat for another few more minutes, the only sound being the drizzle and the faint hum of the city. It was—despite everything—almost peaceful. The kind of calm that might break if I moved too fast or breathed too loudly.



Then a voice cut through the quiet:“There you are!”It wasn’t angry or relieved—just impatient, like I’d wandered off from a dinner party instead of a hospital waiting room. I turned.A man stood at the edge of the path, his black overcoat glossy with rain, his hair slicked and perfect. He looked as if he’d been carved from money—sharp jaw, straight nose, expensive discomfort. His eyes were so wide and blue they looked painted on.“Amelia,” he said, striding toward me. The name hit like a slap—not because it was familiar, but because it wasn’t. Eli’s grip on the wheelchair handles went rigid. I could see his shoulders bunch, the way a dog tenses before a thunderclap.



The stranger didn’t slow down. He dropped to his knees in front of me and seized my chin with a cold, practiced hand. I recoiled, but he was already leaning in, mouth crashing onto mine.It wasn’t a kiss. It was an invasion. His tongue was a trespasser; his lips pressed until my teeth hurt. I jerked away, gasping. The taste lingered—bitter, unfamiliar, wrong.He frowned as if I were the one who’d done something wrong.“Coconut?” he said, his voice curling into a sneer. “You've never worn that before.”He turned to Eli, ignoring me entirely. “What is that? Some cheap hospital lotion?”Eli’s reply was slow and deliberate. “It’s just how she smells,” he said. “Some people are born with different pheromones. It’s science.”



Eli heard there was a makeshift clinic and insisted we go.



“You clearly have broken bones and can’t remember your name,” he said, and before I could argue, I was in his truck.



The walls were too white, the light too flat, and everything smelled like bleach and rain-soaked wool. People came and went—volunteers, nurses, someone who might’ve been a doctor—but none of them looked at me like a person. Just a patient. A puzzle to solve.



They said I was lucky. No spinal injury, no internal bleeding. Just bruises, a sprain, and a mild concussion.



Lucky.



I didn’t feel lucky.



They told me my memory would come back “eventually.” When I asked what that meant, the answer went slippery as a rain puddle.



Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe never.



The only certainty was that the present was a blank, and the future was a question mark.



Eli wheeled me outside anyway, saying maybe the fresh air would help. The soles of his boots squeaked against the tile, and when the automatic doors swept open, the city hit me in the face—wind-sharp, sodden, metallic.



The storm had melted into a damp, sullen drizzle. The sidewalks glistened, reflecting the long, bruised haze of the sky. I squinted into the grey light, half-blinded by the sudden expanse. Every parked car felt like a rumour. Every person passing looked like a clue. I tried to recognize something—my own hands, the shape of my shadow—but every detail felt foreign and flattened, like a photocopy of myself.



We found a bench beneath a maple tree, its black limbs cupped around us like fingers. Eli helped me from the chair to the seat—gentle, but not patronizing—and we sat together in silence, watching the rain stipple the sidewalk. He kept his hands folded, as if uncertain whether I wanted to be touched or left alone.



“You keep calling me Skila,” I said after a while, pulling the hospital blanket tighter around my shoulders. My voice sounded oddly round in my mouth, like someone else speaking through my lips.



He smiled, faint and lopsided. “You needed a name. Something to hold on to.”



“But why Skila?” I pressed. “Is that a real name, or did you just invent it?”



“I heard it once, in a story,” he said. “It sounded like hope. And I figured you could use a little hope.”



I let the word settle in me, tasting it. “I like it,” I admitted. “Skila.” I tried saying it again, quietly, like a magic spell.



Hope.



The name felt fragile and borrowed, but it was better than nothing.



We sat for a few more minutes, the only sound the drizzle and the faint hum of the city. It was—despite everything—almost peaceful. The kind of calm that might break if I moved too fast or breathed too loudly.



Then a voice cut through the quiet.



“There you are.”



It wasn’t angry or relieved—just impatient, like I’d wandered off from a dinner party instead of a hospital waiting room.



I turned.



A man stood at the edge of the path, his black overcoat glossy with rain, his hair slicked and perfect. He looked as if he’d been carved from money—sharp jaw, straight nose, expensive discomfort. His eyes were so wide and blue they looked painted on.



“Amelia,” he said, striding toward me.



The name hit like a slap—not because it was familiar, but because it wasn’t.



Eli’s grip on the wheelchair handles went rigid. I could see his shoulders bunch, the way a dog tenses before a thunderclap.



The stranger didn’t slow down.



He dropped to his knees in front of me and seized my chin with a cold, practiced hand. I recoiled, but he was already leaning in, his mouth crashing onto mine.



It wasn’t a kiss.



It was an invasion.



His tongue was a trespasser; his lips pressed until my teeth hurt. I jerked away, gasping. The taste lingered—bitter, unfamiliar, wrong.



He frowned, as if I were the one who’d done something wrong.



“Coconut?” he said, his voice curling into a sneer. “You’ve never worn that before.”



He turned to Eli, ignoring me entirely. “What is that? Some cheap hospital lotion?”



Eli’s reply was slow and deliberate. “It’s just how she smells,” he said. “Some people are born with different pheromones. It’s science.”



The man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.



“Well, I don’t like it. I miss her in watermelon.”



He said it like a correction. A restoration of order.



“Come home,” he added smoothly. “We’ll get you that watermelon bath scrub. The one I love.”



The way he said I love you made my skin crawl. It wasn’t affection.



It was ownership.



Eli’s voice cut through the tension, calm but absolute. “She’s not going anywhere until she’s ready.”



The man—Daniel, apparently—looked Eli up and down, calculating. Then, as if flipping a switch, he softened his features.



“I’m her husband,” he said, too loudly. “We’ve been looking for her for days. There’s been a misunderstanding. I can explain everything.”



He reached for my arm again, but I flinched so hard I nearly fell off the bench.



“I don’t remember you,” I said, fingers gripping Eli’s sleeve tight. “I remember nothing. Shouldn’t that matter?”



He knelt again, eyes glinting. “It’s just trauma. You’ll remember me. I promise.”



He smiled, all teeth.



“Let’s go home, Amelia. I’ll take care of you.”



I turned to Eli. I suddenly wanted—needed—his voice, his steadiness.



“I want to go home,” I said, meaning the word in the broadest sense: home as safety, sanctuary, the opposite of this man’s grip.



Daniel’s jaw flexed. “Come with me,” he said again, softer this time.



“That’s enough,” Eli said, stepping between us. He wasn’t taller, but he felt unmovable.



“You heard her.”



Daniel’s eyes darted between us, calculating again. Then he straightened, smoothed his tie, and stalked off, leaving a trace of expensive cologne and bad weather.



When he was gone, I finally exhaled. My hands were shaking. Eli didn’t say anything—just offered his shoulder, and I took it.



The drive back to his apartment was silent, except for the clatter of rain and the sighing wipers. I watched the city blur past, streetlights smearing into comet trails. The hospital bracelet was still tight on my wrist; I twisted it until the skin bunched white beneath.



After a few blocks, I spoke.



“You think he was the one chasing me?”



Eli hesitated. “It’s highly possible. He’s got that… off energy.”



“Off?”



“The kind that smiles too wide when he’s lying.”



I shivered, but it didn’t feel like cold. It felt like a fracture running through me—a splinter of fear I couldn’t shake.



“Do you really think he could’ve done it?” I asked.



Eli stared straight ahead. “I don’t know. But if someone wanted to erase your memory—keep you from leaving—that’s exactly what they’d do. Hold you down and make you forget.”



The rest of the ride was taut silence.



By the time we reached his building, the rain had eased to a mist. He helped me out of the car and up the stairs, careful not to look like he was helping.



His apartment was small but warm—more books than furniture, more plants than light.



I wandered through the living room, fingers trailing the spines of novels and the curled leaves of his pothos vines. The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and toast.



I tried to imagine myself belonging to a life like this—a life of simple things, not expensive coats or watermelon bath scrubs.



Hope, I thought, testing the name again.



Maybe I could be Skila for a while.



Maybe that was enough.



The next few days blurred together. Eli refused to leave me alone, and I didn’t mind. He made me eggs, told me dumb jokes, and let me pick what to watch on his ancient TV.



Sometimes he left for work, but never for long.



The only time I felt truly alone was at night, when the dark pressed in and my mind tried to remember.



I’d stare at the ceiling, trying to reconstruct the man who claimed to be my husband—to prove or disprove the feeling in my gut.



The memory wouldn’t come.



Only the taste of that kiss lingered, sour and inescapable.



Now and then, I’d catch Eli watching me—when he thought I was asleep or lost in thought.



I wondered what he saw: a mystery to solve, a burden, or just a person trying to find her way back to herself.



One morning, he set a mug of coffee in front of me.



“They found your purse.”



I blinked. “Where?”



“Some kid turned it in at the precinct. Had your wallet, your phone, everything. Even a sticky note with your name—Amelia Bennet.”



The word crackled through me.



“Guess that means it’s real, then,” I said.



“That’s who I…”



I paused, looking down at the bracelet still circling my wrist.



“…was,” I whispered.



And the difference between the two felt enormous.







Aftershock





Eli’s POV



The cabin was quiet again.



Too quiet.



It had been days since the clinic, and the rain hadn’t really stopped—just softened, trading thunder for a steady, endless hiss that settled into the wood and bones of everything.



She’d started moving around more, trying to help—folding blankets with one hand, rinsing dishes, brushing her hair into something that half behaved. She was restless, and I couldn’t blame her.



The walls were closing in, even on me.



“Amelia, can you—”



She turned fast, sharper than I’d ever heard her.



“Don’t call me that.”



The air snapped between us.



“Sorry,” I said quickly. “Force of habit.”



Her expression softened a little, but her voice didn’t.



“I’m not her,” she whispered. “Not yet.”



That line stuck in my chest long after she walked away.



She hadn’t just forgotten her life—she was rejecting it, like the name itself was poison.



Maybe she didn’t want it back.



Maybe she shouldn’t.



That night, I couldn’t sleep.



The laptop’s glow painted the walls a tired blue, the only light in the room.



I typed Daniel Cross into the search bar and wished I hadn’t.



On paper the guy looked clean—charity work, business awards, that practiced, tooth-white grin that said he’d never heard the word no.



But behind that smile, things didn’t line up.



Sealed court records.



Anonymous forums whispering about NDAs.



“Unsubstantiated claims” of assault and coercion.



I dug deeper—cached pages, EMT networks, police bulletins that hadn’t made the public feed.



The same pattern everywhere.



Power. Silence. Money.



Men like that don’t get caught.



They just rewrote the story until it sounded right.



I sat back, rubbing my eyes. The glow still burned behind my lids.



If she ever remembered him—if someone found out she was alive—the system would hand her right back.



Not while I was breathing.



If I’m wrong, I’m a fool.



If I’m right, she’s better off never remembering.



Sara would’ve hated this.



She used to say I took too much on—that every stranger’s pain was another brick in my chest.



The night she died, I wasn’t home.



I’d gone to town for supplies. The nurse said she’d be fine for a few hours.



The oxygen line sparked.



By the time I made it back, the flames were already through the roof.



I never got to say goodbye.



I left emergency work after that.



Told myself I couldn’t save people anymore.



Couldn’t even save her.



But now there was Skila—breathing, broken, alive.



And I was doing it again.



Trying to rewrite fate.



Sara once told me that saving someone isn’t always love.



Maybe this time I just wasn’t ready to lose again.



“Take me there,” she said the next morning.



“To the crash site?”



She nodded, holding the sling tighter.



“I keep seeing water, headlights, metal. I don’t know if it’s memory or imagination, but I need to know.”



I hesitated.



“It’s not safe.”



“I’m not asking for safe,” she said softly.



“I’m asking for real.”



I almost called her Amelia again, but caught myself.



“Alright, Skila. We’ll go.”



If I didn’t take her, she’d take herself.



So I agreed.



When we got there, the wind was mean, carrying the smell of burnt rubber and wet dirt.



She moved slowly but steadily, boots sinking into the mud.



Before I could ask what she was doing, she crouched near the guardrail and started digging through the puddles.



“Careful,” I said.



She didn’t stop.



A second later she held something up—small, gold, caked in grime.



A ring.



Possibly a wedding ring.



It was too filthy to tell for sure, but my gut already knew.



Didn’t mean it was hers.



Didn’t mean she was married to that Daniel creep.



So help me God, I thought, if she was, I’ll still find a way to undo it.



The bridge was still blocked off with police tape, but a narrow dirt path along the side hadn’t washed out completely.



The truck bounced and groaned the whole way.



When we finally stopped, she sat staring through the windshield like the world had turned to static.



The crash site looked worse than I remembered.



Twisted guardrails.



A charred patch of grass.



Broken glass glittering like salt in the mud.



The air still smelled faintly of gasoline and wet metal.



Skila knelt near the shoulder, brushing gravel aside, tracing shapes in the mud as if she could summon the past if she wanted it badly enough.



She looked at me and managed a faint smile.



“I don’t remember loving anyone,” she murmured.



“But someone must have.”



I crouched beside her, took the ring from her shaking hand, and slipped it into my pocket.



“We’ll clean it later.”



She didn’t argue.



But she saw me do it.



We both pretended she hadn’t.



On the way back, I noticed it.



Tire tracks.



Fresh.



Too deep to be from rain.



At the ridge above us, a black SUV sat idling, headlights cutting through the mist.



I blinked.



It was gone.



But the hair on the back of my neck stayed up.



I told myself it was nothing.



Just another ghost of this place.



But my gut had been right before.



That night, after she fell asleep on the couch, I sat watching her.



She looked peaceful for once.



The tension gone from her brow.



Sara used to look like that after chemo—like she was finally somewhere pain couldn’t touch her.



“Eli?” she’d asked earlier, half asleep.



“You really think he’s my husband?”



I hesitated too long.



“I don’t know,” I lied.



But I do know men like Daniel Cross didn’t marry.



They possessed.



I reached into my pocket, pulled out the ring, and turned it under the lamplight.



Inside the band, an engraving caught my eye.



To my always — D.C.



I closed my fist around it, then dropped it into the drawer beside me.



The sound was small.



It felt final.



I lost one woman to fire.



I won’t lose another to a man who burns everything he touches.







The Wish to be Forgotten





Pounding on the door.



Hard.



Relentless.



Once.



Twice.



Three times.



Each hit—closer.



I grabbed my phone.



Come quick.



Daniel’s here.



He’s pissed.



Sent.



Rain hammered the roof.



Louder than my breathing.



I grabbed the nearest thing—



a can of hairspray.



Cold.



Slick in my hand.



Then—



nothing.



Silence.



Worse.



A single knock.



Soft.



“Amelia…”



Too soft.



“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s talk.”



“Adults?” I called back.



“I’m coming, Daniel.”



I wasn’t.



His shadow stretched under the door.



Long.



Wrong.



Then—



his hand on my wrist.



Tight.



Too tight.



Whiskey.



Hot breath.



“Do you think anyone else would put up with you?”



The memory snapped.



Glass somewhere—



sharp.



I flinched.



The can hit the floor.



“Stay back!”



Silence again.



Rain.



Then—



a sigh.



“Did you fall?”



Too gentle.



“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”



There he was.



Twisting it.



Making it mine.



Headlights cut the window.



Bright.



Real.



Engine.



Eli.



Relief—



sharp.



Immediate.



Outside—



his shadow shifted.



Recalculating.



“STEP AWAY FROM THE DOOR!”



Boots thumped on the stairs.



Fast.



Close.



“She fell,” Daniel called.



Smooth.



“She’s confused.”



The door jerked.



Daniel’s hand gone—



just as Eli came through.



Rain-soaked.



Mud on his boots.



Eyes sweeping—



me.



the can on the floor.



Daniel.



His jaw set.



“Eli, can we talk privately?”



He nodded.



Didn’t look away from Daniel.



“You don’t trust your husband,” Daniel said,



“but you trust the help?”



Eli didn’t react.



Just touched my elbow.



Light.



Guided me back.



Bedroom.



Door between us.



My hands shook.



“E— I remember.”



A breath.



“Some of it.”



“Don’t let him near me.”



He nodded once.



“He won’t.”



Something rose in me.



Sharp.



Hot.



The ring burned against my skin.



“Daniel,” I called.



“Who’s B?”



A pause.



Too long.



“B?”



Light.



Forced.



“Need more than a letter, A.”



It fell flat.



“If I’m your wife—



what does my ring say?”



Silence.



“Your ring?”



“You didn’t see it at the clinic.”



“No.”



“Then how do you know it’s mine?”



Another pause.



“Why wouldn’t it be?”



“You should go,” Eli said.



Calm.



Certain.



“Leave.”



“Remind me,” I said.



Cold now.



“What does it say?”



“Does it say—



you’re nothing without me,



you gold digger?”



Daniel went still.



Not confused.



Not offended.



Caught.



The softness dropped.



Something flat underneath.



“I think Eli’s right,” he said.



“You should rest.”



The lie sat there.



Heavy.



Eli stepped forward.



Between us.



“Now.”



Daniel looked at him.



Then me.



Measuring.



“You two look cozy,” he said.



“Don’t get too comfortable.”



A small smile.



Wrong.



Then he was gone.



The door shut.



The cabin went still.



Rain on the roof.



My legs gave out.



Eli caught me.



I held on.



“I know,” I whispered.



“Do you think he ran me off the road?”



He didn’t answer right away.



“Do you?”



“I don’t know.”



But the lies—



too fast.



Too smooth.



“Maybe whoever B is—”



I stopped.



“has the answers.”



Thunder rolled.



Distant.



Not gone.



The warning stayed.



Deep.









Heartbeat

The morning looked ordinary.

It wasn’t.

I told myself I was imagining it.

The flinch when something dropped.

Parking facing the exit.

Freezing when her phone lit up—

never answering.

Normal people didn’t live like that.

Amelia wasn’t normal anymore.

Not after Daniel.

She kept her head high.

Laughed at my terrible puns.

Pretended the fear wasn’t there.

I let myself believe it.

For a while.

That she was okay.

That I helped.

Built something close to peace.

Until the night she didn’t come home.

Years later—

her name still tasted like regret.

And Daniel still knew where to find me.



The knock hit hard.

Three times.

Sharp.

Deliberate.

I was up before I thought.

Hope showed up anyway.

Uninvited.

News.

Police.

Something.

I opened the door.

Daniel.

Amelia’s ghost—

wearing a man’s grin.

Too clean.

Too sure.

Eyes already searching.

“I’ve been up since three,” I said.

“Last thing I need right now is you.”

He smiled wider.

“Oh, you’ll want this.”

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Cologne—

sharp.

Wrong.

I stepped outside.

Closed the door behind me.

“Make it quick.”

“It’s about Amelia.”

My gut tightened.

“She’s alive.”

“Better than alive.”

“With someone.”

A pause.

“An EMT.”

“Eli.”

The world narrowed.

Rain.

Buzzing light.

Nothing else.

“At a clinic?”

“She’s fine.”

A hollow laugh.

“Better than fine.”

“She’s got everyone orbiting her.”

A tilt of his head.

“You know how she is.”

“Girl could sell you your own heartbeat—

if she smiled right.”

I didn’t react.

Didn’t give him that.

“She remembers everything,” he said.

Soft.

Careful.

“Especially me.”

My hands curled.

He saw it.

Enjoyed it.

“Why would she pretend?”

He shrugged.

“She runs.”

Always has.

“This time she just ran smarter.”

He stepped back.

“You should call her.”

“Before she forgets you too.”

Then he was gone.

Rain swallowing him whole.



“B?”

Raven.

Soft voice.

Sharp edge.

She stood in the doorway.

Barefoot.

Hair tangled.

Sweater slipping.

Coconut—

sweet.

Artificial.

Wrong.

“Who was that?”

“Nobody.”

She stepped closer.

Too easy.

Too familiar.

“You sure?”

Her hand found me.

Stayed.

Warm.

Possessive.

“He likes hearing himself talk.”

She smiled.

Slow.

Certain.

“You don’t need him.”

Not tonight.

Not ever.

I watched the rain.

Daniel’s voice—still there.

She remembers everything.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

Because part of me believed it.

Amelia always ran.

But she came back.

Until now.

“Come inside,” Raven said.

I let her pull me in.



The air felt wrong.

Too warm.

close.

Coconut lingering.

She settled beside me.

Like she belonged there.

I stared at the ceiling.

Same cracks.

Same silence.

“You think people can just… stop being themselves?”

She tilted her head.

“Only if they want to.”

A pause.

“Or if they’re made to.”

A smile.

“I like you broken.”

The words stayed.

Heavy.

Between us.

Alive.

Lingering—

like smoke.











The Spiral

Daniel

The lights were too bright.

Too clean.

Everything in this place trying too hard to look untouched.

She reached for the bottle at the same time I did.

Her fingers brushed mine.

She flinched.

Quick.

Sharp.

There it was.

Not confidence.

Not control.

Reaction.

She looked up.

Trying to recover it.

Too late.

Raven froze—

just for a second—

then smiled.

Adjusted.

Good.

She was learning.

“Shh,” she murmured—

and kissed him harder.

He didn’t stop her.

Of course he didn’t.

Her body pressed in.

Close enough to borrow warmth.

Close enough to pretend.

His hands found her hips.

Familiar.

Automatic.

For a moment—

it almost worked.

Not love.

Not even desire.

Something easier.

Something weaker.

Relief.

The sound she made—

small,

soft—

wrong.

Not hers.

Close.

Not enough.

“Daniel?”

Her voice cut it clean.

Glass through water.

“Amelia’s replacement,” I said.

She blinked.

Didn’t like that.

Good.

“Replacement?”

A laugh.

Too quick.

“Try upgrade.”

I smiled.

Let her have that.

“For now.”

I took a bottle from the shelf.

Didn’t check the label.

Didn’t need to.

Dropped it into her cart.

Beside strawberries.

Whipped cream.

Predictable.

“This one,” I said.

“Trust me.”

“B will enjoy it.”

She hesitated.

A crack.

Then nodded.

Of course she did.

As she moved away—

the scent followed.

Coconut.

Sweet.

Artificial.

Trying.

I watched her go.

Same haircut.

Shorter.

Sharper.

Like she’d studied a photograph

and missed the point.

Careful, B.

I almost laughed.

Not stealing.

Replacing.

The bottle caught the light.

Dark glass.

Familiar shape.

Same vintage.

Wedding night.

I remembered.

He would too.



Rain hit the windows like nails when B opened the door.

Coconut.

Candlewax.

Wine.

He froze.

“Amelia?”

Hope—

still there.

Still stupid.

Raven turned.

Hair curled.

Robe slipping.

Glass in hand.

Trying to be something she wasn’t.

“What the fuck, Raven?”

Good.

There it was.

“You left your phone,” she said.

Light.

Easy.

Practiced.

He didn’t answer.

Just stared.

Past her.

At the room.

At the setup.

Recognition landing in pieces.

“Where did you get that?”

She smiled.

Didn’t know.

Didn’t need to.

He took the bottle.

Drank.

Too much.

Too fast.

The room shifted.

Of course it did.

“B,” she whispered.

Closer now.

Testing.

Adjusting.

Her hand found him.

Waited.

Then moved.

Up.

Under.

Learning.

Fast.

Her breath against his neck.

The scent thick in the air.

Too much.

Always too much.

Her lips found it.

That spot.

Precise.

He went still.

Not because of the touch.

Because of the accuracy.

That wasn’t taught.

Wasn’t shown.

It just… existed.

Between two people.

And now—

here.

A thought surfaced.

Small.

Sharp.

How—

It slipped.

Gone.

Buried under heat.

Memory.

Need.

He let it go.

Easier that way.

Ghosts always were.



Eli

I wore a path into the floor.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Like it might burn something out of me.

The rain eased.

Didn’t matter.

The pressure stayed.

I turned the radio on.

Static.

Off.

On again.

Anything but silence.

Doorway.

That’s where I ended up.

Back against the frame.

Holding the line.

Like it still meant something.

Sleep came wrong.

Fast.

Pulled under.



Sara on the bed.

Like nothing had changed.

“Eli.”

Soft.

Easy.

“Come lay down.”

“I need to watch.”

Always that.

Always waiting.

She smiled.

Not mocking.

Never that.

“Something already happened.”

Closer now.

“You can’t wait it out.”

Her hand found mine.

Cool.

Familiar.

Wrong.

The smell—

hospital soap.

Cheap orange.

Clinging.

I hated it.

“You couldn’t save me.”

Quiet.

Kind.

“That wasn’t the test.”

My throat closed.

“Then what?”

She looked at me.

Clear.

Certain.

“The living.”

A breath.

“Always the living.”

She let go.

Just like that.



“E?”

I woke hard.

Heart racing.

Not Sara.

Skila.

Real.

Watching me.

“You okay?”

I nodded.

Didn’t trust my voice.

She shifted.

Made space.

Then didn’t keep it.

Closed the distance.

Slow.

Careful.

Until she was there.

Close enough.

Warm.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For staying.”

Simple.

Honest.

That was worse.



Morning came soft.

Quieter.

She moved closer in her sleep.

I didn’t pull away.

Didn’t want to.

“E,” she murmured.

A pause.

“Kiss me.”

No joke this time.

No deflection.

I moved slow.

Gave her time to stop me.

She didn’t.

The first touch—

tentative.

The second—

not.

She leaned in.

Closed the space.

Warm.

Real.

Her hand under my shirt.

I flinched.

Not pain.

Memory.

A hand that knew.

Exactly where.

I waited for her to stop.

She didn’t.

She smiled.

Found the same place.

Close.

Too close.

I said her name.

She said mine.

Like it meant something.

Maybe it did.

We slowed.

Eventually.

Her hand in mine.

Breathing steady.

“We should talk,” I said.

“Not yet.”

A smile.

The cabin held it all.

Quiet.

Rain fading.

Two people.

Still choosing.

Still here.











The Risk

Raven

Cross-legged on the bed.

Robe slipping.

Candles low.

The sonogram under the pillow.

The phone buzzing against it.

Daniel.

Twice—

then she answered.

“I didn’t think you’d call.”

His voice—rough.

Whiskey.

“I’ve been thinking.”

A pause.

About the right length.

“The part about making it look real?”

A breath on the line.

“You still want to play house, sweetheart?”

“Not house.”

A small shift.

“Proof.”

“Proof you slept with me?”

“Proof it could’ve happened.”

Tighter now.

“B already suspects.”

“I just need something to tip it.”

A low chuckle.

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe.”

Light.

Easy.

“But you like it.”

Silence.

Hot.

Taut.

She set the phone down.

Speaker.

Leaning back—

letting the robe slip further.

Didn’t matter if he couldn’t see.

He would picture it anyway.

“You think this sells it?”

“I know it does.”

A tilt of her head.

“Close your eyes.”

A scoff.

“You sure?”

“I’ve handled worse.”

What followed—

not words.

Something wrapped in them.

Soft.

Sharp.

Suggestive enough to blur.

The pauses did the work.

More than anything said.

On the nightstand—

the red light blinked.

Recording.



Silence when it ended.

Ringing.

She replayed it.

His voice.

Her breath.

Ambiguous.

Guilt.

Desire.

Either would work.

Perfect.

She stood.

Built the rest.

Wine—half gone.

Sheets—pulled loose.

Robe—discarded.

Hair—undone.

Lipstick—smeared.

Photos.

Angles.

Chaos.

Controlled.

To anyone else—

morning after.

To her—

evidence.



Two nights later—

his door.

Rain clinging to the glass behind her.

His aftershave first.

Sharp.

Calculated.

The door opened.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

“You called.”

She stepped past him.

Inside—

perfect.

Too perfect.

Aligned.

Clean.

Cold.

No softness.

No accidents.

“I said I’d think about it.”

The door shut.

Quiet.

“You showing up says more.”

“I need it to feel real.”

He circled her.

Slow.

Inspecting.

“You smell different.”

“New soap.”

A shrug.

Thin.

He frowned.

“Too tropical.”

Cabinet open.

Something tossed.

She caught it.

Watermelon.

Sweet.

Sickly.

“I’m not Amelia.”

“I know.”

A flicker—

gone.

“But it’s the only way I can stand to touch you.”

The wrapper crinkled in her grip.

She didn’t drop it.

“You think that fixes anything?”

“I think it sells your story.”

Calm.

Flat.

“B’s baby.

Poor, confused Amelia.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Make it easy.”

“Make it familiar.”

The shower turned on.

Water—

loud.

Steam spilling out.

He unbuttoned his shirt.

Like it meant nothing.

“Come on.”

Lower now.

“You wanted proof.”

She stood there.

Threshold.

Steam at her feet.

Soap in her hand.

Cold.

Slick.

His shape—

blurred behind glass.

She stepped forward.

Or he reached.

No one to say which.

Just water.

Steam.

And that scent—

thick in the air.



Skila

“Take me out.”

Morning.

Doorway.

Chin lifted.

Defiant.

“Out?”

Eli blinked.

“That’s what people do.”

Dating.

The word hovered.

“I don’t need fancy.”

Softer now.

“Just… out.”



The bar—

dim.

Sticky wood.

Lights strung loose overhead.

Eli’s beer sweating.

Her glass untouched.

Her attention—

behind them.

The woman.

Hair too careful.

Makeup too precise.

Something in the way she moved.

Familiar.

I know her.

She shifted.

Listening.

“Looks good for Photoshop.”

A man’s voice.

“It’s not photoshopped.”

Sharp.

Controlled.

Raven.

The name hit.

Hard.

She didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

“Skila?”

Eli nudged her knee.

“I know her.”

The words came out thin.

Then—

something broke.



Rain.

A doorway.

Raven—

kissing someone.

Broad shoulders.

Familiar hands.

“How could you?”

Her voice—

not hers.

Running.

Keys.

Engine.

A bridge.

Headlights.

Another car.

Raven inside.



She gasped.

Back in the booth.

Air sharp.

Wrong.



The cabin—

later.

Garlic.

Tomato.

Something steady.

Something normal.

A candle lit.

Then—

headlights.

Another set.

Too fast.

Screech.

Impact.

She ran.

Barefoot.

Rain cold against her skin.

Then—

coconut.

Synthetic.

Sharp.

Unmistakable.

Everything aligned.

“Oh my god.”

Quiet.

Real.

Amelia—

wasn’t a stranger anymore.









Up in Smoke

B stood in front of the wedding photo.

Staring.

Not at them—

at the glass.

The man in the reflection—

thinner.

Tired.

Hollow around the eyes.

Someone else.

A ghost.

Something moved—

behind him.

He froze.

Turned slow.

“Amelia?”

Quiet.

Careful.

Like saying it louder

might break it.

She stood in the doorway.

Hesitant.

Familiar—

but distant.

For a second—

she almost looked behind her.

Then remembered.

Right.

She stepped forward.

Slow.

Careful.

Like she was the one

walking into something

that already existed without her.

B stared.

Trying to catch up.

But failed.

He reached out.

Fingers to her cheek.

Light.

Testing.

“You’re real.”

She leaned in.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t choose.

Muscle memory.

“I had amnesia,” she said.

Too fast.

“After the accident.”

“I didn’t remember anything.

Not you.

Not this.”

“Shh.”

He pulled her in.

Light at first.

Then tighter.

Holding.

Grounding.

“You’re here.”

She winced.

“B… too tight.”

“I’m still healing.”

He let go immediately.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes moved.

Her arm.

The way she held it.

“What happened?”

Short.

Sharp.

The truth—

right there.

Raven.

The road.

Headlights.

She swallowed it.

“I was in an accident.”

Soft.

“Hit my head.”

“That’s why… I don’t remember.”

He exhaled.

Like surfacing.

“You’re here.”

Still not believing it.

She studied him.

Every line.

Every mark left behind.

Her hand lifted.

To his jaw.

Rough stubble.

Real.

“I think I can get used to this.”

A small attempt at humour.

Her fingers traced again.

“But the haunted man thing?”

“Not so much.”

He laughed.

Fragile.

Thin.

Almost broke on the way out.

Eyes closing.

Breathing her in.

Warm coconut.

And something else.

Off.

Doubt sparked.

Faint.

Fast.

Gone when she smiled.

He leaned into it anyway.

Needed to.

Then pulled her close again.

Anchoring.

Holding.

He leaned in.

Slow.

Careful.

She stilled.

Warmth.

Familiar.

Expected.

And something in her—

went quiet.

Oh.

She waited.

For something sharper.

Louder.

It didn’t come.

Instead—

something else.

Sunlight.

Quiet mornings.

Eli.

The feeling tangled.

Wouldn’t separate.

Her hand moved.

Caught the edge of his ring.

Solid.

Real.

This life.

These vows.

Then—

Eli.

The cabin.

Warm sheets.

Familiar hands.

Guilt twisted.

Tight.

I didn’t know.

She closed the distance.

The kiss—

soft.

Tentative.

Then steadier.

Remembered.

Not felt.

Slightly—

off.

They pulled apart.

He searched her face.

Like he was trying to keep it.

“B… are you okay?”

Quiet.

He exhaled.

Almost a laugh.

“I should ask you that.”

“I’m fine.”

Careful.

“It’s just… a lot.”

“Yeah.”

His jaw tightened.

“Me too.”

Something rose.

Stopped.

“You should sit.”

“You’ve had a journey.”

She lowered herself onto the couch.

Careful.

He saw it.

“Are you okay?”

Softer now.

“Just trying to catch up to my own life.”

A small smile.

Tired.

He sat beside her.

Close.

Not touching.

“Amelia…”

Still testing it.

She felt it echo.

Wrong.

Right.

Both.

“Amelia, I—”

It caught.

His jaw tightened.

His hand dropped.

Thumb brushing the ring.

Again.

Again.

She waited.

Silence stretched.

He shook his head.

“Not tonight.”

Quiet.

“You just got home.”

But it stayed.

Unsaid.

Heavy.

Between them.

She felt it.

Her fingers rested against his ring.

The weight of it—

more than it should be.

They sat there.

Close.

Careful.

Home again.

Or something like it.









Heavy

Morning came pale.

Unforgiving.

She hadn’t slept.

Not really.

Just turned.

Twisted.

A bed that wasn’t hers—

or didn’t feel like it.

B in the other room.

Distance.

Necessary.

Still heavy.

She moved to the kitchen.

Drawn.

Not thinking.

Dawn pressed against the windows.

Everything inside—

full.

Too full.

Memory.

She reached the counter.

Hands moving before thought caught up.

Cooking.

Simple.

Safe.

Eggs.

Butter.

No questions.

Drawers opened.

Closed.

Metal.

Wood.

Familiar shapes.

Her hand stilled.

The ring caught

the light.

Held it.

A second too long.

Then—

movement again.

“I was going to make pancakes.”

She didn’t turn.

Voice low.

Almost a challenge.

B appeared behind her.

Sleep still on him.

Hair out of place.

Shoulders tight.

“But I couldn’t find anything.”

A drawer shut.

“At least the eggs are still where they belong.”

A quiet laugh.

He leaned in.

Watched her move.

The rhythm coming back.

Almost.

Butter hit the pan.

Sizzle.

Warmth.

Filling the space between them.

Neither said it.

The fracture.

Right there.

Waiting.

She plated the eggs.

Set them in front of him.

“Careful.”

“They’re hot.”

He leaned over.

Breath across the surface.

Holding the moment.

Then—

the door slammed.

Raven.

Too fast.

Too bright.

Phone raised.

“I got my ultrasound this morning—”

She stepped in.

Talking.

Still moving.

Then—

she saw her.

Everything paused.

B stood fast.

“Amelia came home last night.”

Too quick.

Raven’s hand steadied.

The phone held up—presented.

“Say something.”

Amelia lifted a hand.

Small.

A wave.

“How did you get here?”

“I borrowed a truck.”

Calm.

Flat.

She bit into bacon.

Loud in the quiet.

Raven pushed the phone forward.

“Ultrasound.”

Amelia tilted her head.

“Oh.”

A moment.

“A baby.”

A smile.

Polite.

“Congratulations.”

Raven held her breath.

Measured.

“It’s B’s.”

“A baby,” B cut in.

Too fast.

“That’s… great.”

He gestured.

“The printed copy?”

“Something to frame?”

Amelia set the bacon down.

“Oh—we have the perfect frame.”

Light.

Easy.

She walked away.

Before either could stop her.

The moment she was gone—

Raven turned.

Quick.

“What are you doing?”

B grabbed her arm.

“Enough.”

Low.

Tight.

“Give me time with my wife.”

She twisted.

“Why?

So you can tell her I’m faking it?

That you didn’t want to—”

His hand covered her mouth.

Footsteps.

Close.

He let go.

Amelia returned.

A frame in her hands.

Silver.

Simple.

She held it out.

“Baby’s first gift.”

Raven frowned.

Took it.

Tight.

Amelia’s smile didn’t shift.

“Congratulations.”

She slipped her arm through B’s.

He stilled.

Watching her.

Trying to read what she knew.

Raven stood there.

Recalculating.

Control slipping.

Then she left.

The door shut.

Silence again.

Heavy.

B pushed her out after.

Something about printing it.

Making it real.

When he turned back—

Amelia stood at the trash.

Scraping eggs into it.

Cold now.







Moment of Awe



B shut the door.

Fast.

Back against it.

Fingers fumbling—

lock.

Missed.

Again.

Got it.

He turned.

Shoulders rigid.

Back to the kitchen.



Amelia at the sink.

Over the trash.

Scraping cold yolk from plates.

Slow.

Composed.

Too composed.

It pulled something tight in his chest.



They didn’t speak.

Silence stretched.

Thin.

Unsteady.



Water ran.

She rinsed the plates.

Each motion deliberate.

Like it mattered.

Like it didn’t.



She set them aside.

Straightened.

Looked around.



Daylight filled the room.

Flat.

Unforgiving.



Her eyes moved—

cataloguing.

The house.

Returned to.

Not hers.

Not yet.



The suitcase.

By the door.

Raven’s.

Same one.

From that night.



Her jaw tightened.



The wine bottle on the table.

Empty.

Their wine.



A flicker.

Gone.



“I know I was gone.”

A nod toward the bottle.

“But… geez, B.”

“Couldn’t you at least pick something halfway decent?”



He flushed.

Looked away.

“That wasn’t mine.”

“Raven brought it.”



“Oh.”



He nodded.

Memory catching up.

“I was already gone.”

“She showed up with it.”

“A peace offering.”

“Said I’d like it.”



Amelia crossed her arms.

Leaned back.

“Our wine?”



A shrug.

Eyes still not on her.

“She must’ve seen it.”

“The wedding photo.”



“That’s not something you just pick.”



“No kidding.”



Then—

a shift.



“She just stared.”



Amelia frowned.

“What do you mean?”



“I laughed.”

“Told her she wouldn’t try to poison me again.”



His eyes dropped.



“She just stared.”



Silence.



“She didn’t know it was bad.”



Amelia stepped closer.

Careful.



“And?”



“If she didn’t know…”

His voice thinned.

“…then she doesn’t know the story.”



“I thought it was you.”



Her breath caught.

“What?”



“I missed you.”

Rough.

“More than I thought I could.”



He looked at her.

“Raven used that.”



“Used it how?”



His eyes flicked to the bottle.

Stayed there.



“I kept thinking it was you.”



Stillness.



Her fingers found his arm.

Light.



“She’s telling people the baby is yours.”

Steady.



He nodded.

“She says it is.”



Amelia watched him.

Measured.



“She can’t be sure.”

“Eli and I saw her with someone else.”



His brow lifted.

“Eli?”



“I’ll explain later.”

“But right now—”

“I don’t think that baby is yours.”



He exhaled.

Something loosened.

Not gone.

But less.



“I didn’t believe it.”

Quiet.

“Not really.”



They stood there.

Something shifting.

Not fixed.

Moving.



“You smell different,” he said.



She frowned.

“What?”



“When I thought Raven was you…”

“…it was wrong.”



“Too tropical.”



“Like sunscreen.”



Something moved behind her eyes.



“I saw her.”

“Didn’t remember her yet.”



“All I could smell—sunscreen.”



“And Eli said the guy she was with smelled like cheap cologne.”



Now she looked at him.

Direct.



“Who else do you know—”

“…that smells like cheap cologne?”



Silence.



B sat back.

The thought turned.

Once.

Locked.



“Daniel.”



The corner of her mouth lifted.

Not quite a smile.



“Bingo.”



It hung there.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.



Then—

movement.



B moved.

Opened the door.



“Deadbolt.”

“First thing tomorrow.”



A glance back.



“We need to stop her.”



Amelia already moving.

Halfway across the room.







After Eggs

When he turned back—

Amelia at the trash.

Scraping eggs from the plate.

Cold.

Unfinished.

Like the moment.

He stepped toward her.

Didn’t know what this was.

The fork scraped.

Thin.

Dragging.

Too long.

She tipped the plate.

Eggs fell.

Uneven.

She scraped again.

Once.

Twice.

A third—

nothing left.

Just metal on ceramic.

Catching in the quiet.

Behind her—

B swallowed.

“I don’t think she’s pregnant.”

Too fast.

“And I believe it even less that it’s mine.”

Her head snapped up.

“Yours?”

Her hand found the counter.

Marble.

Cold.

Fingers curling.

The ring caught

the light.

For better or worse.

“So when I left—”

“you were with her.”

The thought had been there.

Before.

The night she came back.

she pushed it out.

Chose him instead.

Even with the suitcase by the door.

“I trusted you.”

“No—no, it’s not like that.”

Her grip tightened.

“Don’t make me stand here like a fool.”

“Amelia, listen—”

“I am listening.”

Her hand slipped.

Caught again.

Tighter.

“So talk fast.”

He didn’t hesitate.

Eyes still on her hand.

“I was drunk.”

“You—”

He swallowed.

“Amelia.”

“I thought you were dead.”

His eyes lifted.

Found hers.

“She was wearing your clothes.”

“I thought it was you.”

A quiet scoff.

“That sounds like her.”

He frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A shake of her head.

“Later.”

She moved past him.

Out of reach.

Already ahead.

“So—”

“You were drunk.”

“She poured you a glass.”

“Yeah.”

“B… how does she know about our wine?”

He paused.

“I don’t—”

“I don’t know.”

Amelia didn’t move.

That wasn’t a guess.

That was learned.

Her eyes sharpened.

“So…”

She let it sit.

“She seduced you.”

Her fingers curled.

Fists.

“And now she says it’s yours.”

“Right.”

Too fast.

Amelia moved.

Hand to the counter.

The bottle.

Her fingers traced the rim.

“Why this one?”

He looked.

Then away.

“Our wine.”

A small tilt of her head.

“In that moment?”

He pulled in a breath.

Held it.

“It just…”

A shake of his head.

“Felt like you.”

She didn’t answer.

Reached for his hand.

instead.

A light pat.

“B… we both know when you’re drunk…”

“…things don’t exactly work.”

He flushed.

“Especially after our wine.”

A quiet huff.

Almost a laugh.

Hers followed.

Automatic.

It lingered—

longer than it should.









Cracked

House silent.

Not peaceful.

—

Amelia—

stone.

Eyes burning

on the suitcase

by the door.

Enough.

Her hand found it.

Yanked.

“Amelia… what are you doing?”

“Taking this back.”

“To Raven.”

He moved fast.

At her side.

“Now?”

“No time like

the present.”

A smile.

Sharp.

—

They march.

—

Up the drive.

—

“New car?”

—

Her eyes caught it.

Didn’t leave.

—

B shrugged.

—

“Her old one

died.”

—

She halted at the door.

Hand lifted.

Then—

she slammed it open.

—

“Amelia—”

—

His hand gripped her arm.

Too late.

—

“Raven?”

—

She called it inside.

Already stepping in.

—

Air—stale.

—

Laundry spilling over a chair.

—

Unsorted.

—

Cobwebs in the corners.

—

Old.

—

A glass on the table.

—

Half-finished.

—

Sticky at the rim.

—

The table—

sharp corners.

—

B’s eyes—

moved.

—

Past the mess.

—

To the wall.

—

Paper.

—

Stacked.

—

Edges—

torn.

—

A flyer—

his flyer.

—

Amelia’s face.

—

His gaze—

stuck.

—

Too long.

—

“Did you take these down?”

—

Raven didn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t think

you’d want

reminders up.”

—

“Knock much?”

—

Raven.

—

“Do you.”

—

Amelia.

—

“Girls—”

—

B.

Too quick.

—

“We came to give you this back.”

—

The suitcase crashed.

—

“Thanks for looking after B.”

—

“Anytime.”

—

Raven.

—

Eyes flicking—

not to Amelia.

To B.

—

“Don’t plan on another.”

—

“By the way—

nice car.”

—

“Where’s the baby

going to ride.”

—

B’s head snapped—

toward Amelia.

—

Raven waved it off.

Too quick.

—

Her jaw tightened.

Just enough.

—

B looked

between them.

—

His weight—

shifted.

—

“Raven.”

—

“After Amelia—

what happened?”

—

Amelia—

—

A smile—

suppressed.

Watching.

Waiting.

—

“I told you.”

—

Raven.

—

“She abandoned you.”

—

“For her… lover.”

—

“Eli.”

—

A smile.

Thin.

—

“I don’t

have amnesia

anymore.”

—

Raven paused.

—

B cracked.

—

“What the hell is going on?”

—

“Both of you—

stop.”

—

His hand through his hair.

Pacing once.

Back.

—

“Someone tell me the truth.”

—

“Don’t.”

—

Raven.

—

“Don’t what.”

—

Amelia.

Stepping closer.

Not loud.

Worse.

—

“Expose you.”

—

Silence.

Thick.

—

Raven didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

—

Amelia turned.

Like it was over.

Like she’d already won.

—

A step.

—

Another.

—

Then—

she stopped.

—

Didn’t turn fully.

Didn’t need to.

—

“How do you know Daniel.”

—

Nothing.

—

Then—

—

Raven stilled.

Completely.

—

Too still.

—

Too exact.

—

Frozen.









United Front



We march—

back.

Up the drive.

—

Together.

—

A united front.

—

Gravel snaps underfoot.

Sharp.

Unforgiving.

—

I don’t look at her.

Don’t need to.

—

She’s there—

in the pressure.

In the way the air holds.

—

Tight.

Suffocating.

—

“Not here.”

Low.

Cracking.

—

For her.

For the house behind us.

For me.

—

She doesn’t answer.

Keeps pace.

—

The door—

fast.

—

I open it.

She goes in.

I follow.

—

The lock clicks.

—

Inside—

different.

—

I turn.

Slow.

—

“What was that.”

—

Flat.

Precise.

—

Amelia moves past me.

Space.

Distance.

—

“Amelia.”

—

Nothing.

—

“Look at me.”

—

She doesn’t.

—

Something shifts.

Lower.

Colder.

—

She stops.

Back to me.

—

“If we’re a united front…”

—

Careful.

Measured.

—

“I need to know if you still trust her.”

—

That lands.

Hard.

—

My jaw tightens.

—

“That’s not what this is.”

—

A step closer.

—

“What happened.”

—

She crosses the room.

Controlled.

Contained.

—

“You should sit.”

—

I watch her.

Long enough to understand—

this isn’t small.

—

I move.

Slow.

—

Sit—

upright.

Back straight.

Hands braced on my thighs.

—

“Say it.”

—

“She was driving.”

—

My stomach drops.

—

“That night.”

—

Then—

“She hit me.”

—

Silence.

—

Everything—

rearranging.

—

Flyers.

Her voice—

she left you.

Too clean.

Too easy.

—

The way Raven filled space that wasn’t hers.

The way I let her.

—

The word—

lover.

—

It snaps.

—

“What lover.”

—

Sharp.

—

Amelia falters.

—

“Eli.”

—

I still.

—

“He saved me.”

—

My gaze flicks—

window.

Drive.

Truck.

—

Back to her.

—

“And Raven knows about him.”

—

Not a question.

—

Amelia shrugs.

Small.

—

“Probably Daniel.”

—

“How.”

—

She bites her lip.

—

“Daniel saw us.

At the clinic.”

—

“He pretended to be my husband.”

—

A sigh.

Heavy.

—

“…fucking Daniel.”

Low.

—

Silence presses in.

—

Something shifts.

—

Not just Raven.

—

Something wider.

Messier.

—

Pieces—

locking into something I don’t like.

—

At all.

—

I stand.

—

Not fast.

—

Certain.

—

Amelia watches me now.

—

Too late.

—

The space between us—

different.

—

I move for the door.

—

Hand on the knob.

Cold.

—

Behind me—

nothing.

—

No footsteps.

No voice.

—

I turn it.

—

“Stay here.”

—

Not loud.

Not a request.

—

I don’t look back.

—

The door opens.

—

Night rushes in.







Proof



“Daniel—I need you.

Right now.”







Breathless.

Low.







“Now?”







“Wait—”







Movement in the background.







“I just—I need my pants.”







“Fine. But hurry.”







“I’m coming.”







—







Gravel underfoot.

Crunchy.







—







They cross the street.







—







Silence sits between them.

Not empty.

Heavy.







—







“Just tell me.”







—







Amelia exhales.

Shakes her head.







“Not here.”







—







“Why?”







—







“Because I’m not doing this in the middle of the street.”







—







A bright white car rolls past.

Slow.

Wrong.







—







Dark glass.







—







Nothing visible.







—







“It’s about the—”







—







The car stops.

Slow.

Deliberate.







—







Behind them.







—







A door opens.

Closes.







—







She turns.







—







A figure—







—







Eli.







—







Stepping away from the car.

A quick wave back.







The car pulls off.







—







He doesn’t see them yet.







—







Eli pauses.

Hand through his hair.







One long breath—

steadying himself.







—







He looks up.







—







Finds her.







—







“Skila?”







—







Everything—

stops.







—







Cold.

Fast.







—







“Eli?”







Barely a sound.







—







He moves to her.

Doesn’t stop until he’s close.

Too close.







—







“I came for my truck.”

His eyes only on her.







—







Nobody moves.







—







B goes very still.







—







Something pulled taut between them.







—







B looks him up and down.







—







“B.”

Her voice careful now.

“This is Eli.”







—







She doesn’t look away from him.

Can’t.







—







“He’s the one who saved me.”







—







her expression flickers—

raw—

gone before she can catch it.







—







B’s arm wraps tight around her.







—







“Thanks for saving my wife.”







—







The word sits…off







Wife.







—







The street holds its breath.

Doesn’t let it go.







—







Amelia moves first.







“Inside.”







—







She pulls them off the street.

Away from anyone who might hear.







—







The door shuts behind them.

Too loud.







—







The room—

too bright.







—







“Are you okay?”







Eli—already closer again.







“Skila—”







—







“I’m fine.”







Too quick.







“I just—I remembered.”







“Amelia.”







—







She turns to B.







“I had to tell you.”







—







Amelia’s eyes flick to him.

A look.







—







Back to Eli.







“About the accident.”







—







“What about it?”







—







Both of them.







—







She swallows.

Too hard.







—







“Sit.”







—







They do.







—







“Raven.”







—







“The girl from the restaurant.”







—







She turns to Eli.







“The one who smelled like sunscreen.”







—







Back to B.







—







“She ran me off the road that night.”



The air stills.



—







No one speaks.







—







“What?”







—







B is already on his feet.

Too fast.







—







“That’s not—”







He stops.







—







Because it could be.







—







And that’s worse.







—







“I saw it.”







Eli.







A black car—







ran your wife







off the road.







No headlights.







In a storm.







At night.



—







“Raven—”







Amelia cuts in.







“She doesn’t have the car anymore.”







—







Raven.

The car.







It fits.







—







“She thought you were dead.”







—







His voice shifts.







“That’s why she—”







He stops.







—







Blinds shift.







—







The street below.







Two figures.

Too close.







—







She leans closer to the glass.



A reflection—movement—across the street.



—







“Daniel—”

“Daniel.”







—







“She’s with Eli.”







—







“B’s there too.”







—







“Hurry.”





A Dagger for a Dagger





Amelia caught B’s sleeve.







“Let him go.”







B’s eyes stayed on Eli.







“He’s not part of this.”







The cologne hit first.







Sharp.







Synthetic.







Too much.







She knew it before she heard the engine, before the sleek black car rolled to the curb,







before Eli’s expression shifted into something colder.







Daniel.







Daniel stepped out.







Polished black shoes first.







Raven was already off her porch.







“Daniel.”







Breathless.







Perfect.







“Thank God you’re here.”







Daniel looked at Eli first.







If he was here,







then it was the accident.







Raven reached for his arm.







“Daniel.”







He slipped free.







Easy.







Like she had not just touched him.







His eyes flicked to Amelia.







“What’s going on?”







A small smile.







“Street party?”







Amelia sighed.







Annoyed.







“Cut the crap, Daniel.”







“What’s the deal with you and Raven?”







Daniel smiled.







Innocent.







“What do you mean?”







B moved for Daniel’s throat.







Amelia caught him.







Faster.







“Stop.”







Her grip tightened.







“We need answers before you kill him.”







B’s arms lowered.







Slow.







Daniel smoothed his cuffs.







Still smiling.







“Answers to what?”







Even Eli let out a frustrated sigh.







Amelia focused on Eli.







For half a second,







she had almost forgotten







he was still standing in the wreckage.







“Raven,” Amelia said.







Pulling herself back to the only questions that mattered.







Daniel shrugged.







“Small town.”







“Not that small.”







For once,







the truth came from Raven’s mouth.







Sweetly.







Too sweet.







“We met at the grocery store.”







Her attention drifted to B.







Almost batting her eyelashes.







“He helped me pick out your favourite wine.”







Proudly.







Amelia balled her hands into fists.







B caught it.







“Don’t,” B’s voice was low, his hand covering her fist. “Not yet. She’s the only one who knows what Daniel was really planning.”







B’s hand stayed on Amelia’s arm.







“Keep talking.”







Raven looked at him.







Hope flickered.







“It was sweet.”







Almost tender.







“I understood why it meant so much to you.”







Amelia laughed.







Warm.







Harder than she meant to.







“It’s actually terrible.”







A small smile pulled at her mouth.







“But it’s ours.”







They both laughed.







The memory hit.







Stupid.







Familiar.







The kind that hurt worse because it still belonged to them.







The warmth vanished.







Her eyes turned cold.







The next words came out like daggers.







“Unlike you.”







Daniel lifted a hand.







Smooth.







“Ladies.”







B bit back something close to a smile.







“So, about that night…”







His focus stayed on Daniel.







“And the baby?”







Daniel’s confidence settled back into place.







Almost believable.







“Oh, right.”







His attention drifted to B.







“Congratulations.”







B let out a short laugh.







No humour in it.







“Maybe I should congratulate you.”







Daniel’s eyes darted sideways.







To Raven.







Raven flinched.







Amelia smiled.







Bitterly.







“Let’s catch you up, Daniel.”







His eyes settled back on her.







“Shall we?”







“We don’t believe Raven is really pregnant.”







Her attention cut to B.







“We both know why.”







A breath.







Like she had forgotten to take one.







“I know Raven caused my accident.”







Raven went still.







“Now they know.”







Her focus moved to Eli.







“And Eli can back me up.”







Eli stayed quiet.







“Eli and I saw you with Raven at the restaurant.”







Amelia looked back at Daniel.







“During my amnesia.”







“The night







I got my memory back.”







Her voice sharpened.







“I knew you were involved in this train wreck.”







She turned to B.







“Your turn.”







Raven’s hand touched her stomach.







“Of course there was a baby.”







She laughed.







Thin.







Wrong.







Amelia rolled her eyes,







suddenly exhausted by the performance.







Raven looked at B.







Trying to form tears.







“I lost it.”







“I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t put you through that again.”







B’s hands closed.







Hard.







Amelia saw it.







Saw where Raven had aimed.







This time,







she let him.







For one second,







she wanted him to.







B’s voice dropped.







“You called Daniel.”







Raven blinked.







“What?”







“To do what?”







His voice dropped.







“Hold your hand?”







Daniel’s smile slipped.







“Raven.”







“Shut up.”







The words snapped out of her.







Too quick.







Too sharp.







B looked between them.







Slowly.







“What did you call him for?”







Raven’s mouth opened.







Nothing came.







Daniel looked at her.







Careful now.







Almost warning.







“She called me because there wasn’t a baby.”







Silence.







Rage climbed up Raven’s throat.







She turned to Daniel.







“And you couldn’t even give me one.”







Daniel’s mouth tightened.







Raven looked back at B.







Cruel now.







“He couldn’t get it up.”







Amelia laughed.







Bitter.







She shook her head.







“That’s embarrassing, Raven.”







B’s head snapped toward Amelia.







She didn’t look at him.







“B was too drunk.”







Her eyes stayed on Raven.







“Daniel just couldn’t.”







Raven’s face went pale.







Finally.







Eli had enough.







He moved into the middle of them.







“I’m not here to take sides.”







His eyes went to Raven.







“He has every right to hit you.”







He sighed.







“Hell, I want to hit you.”







Then B.







“And I don’t want to hit you.”







He looked away.







“But I will.”







He looked at Amelia.







“Skila.”







Stopped.







“Amelia.”







Softer.







“You’ve got enough on your plate without me.”







He held out his hand.







“I need my keys now.”







He bowed his head.







“Before I decide to walk back.”







Amelia looked toward the house.







“They’re inside.”







“I’ll get them.”







The street stayed behind her.







Still breathing.







Still waiting.







Gravel shifted outside.







Someone spoke.







Low.







Angry.







B’s voice rose once, muffled by the door.







Then cut off.







The door swallowed the rest.







Inside,







the house felt too bright.







Too quiet.







Wrong after all that noise.







The keys sat on the table.







Small.







Ordinary.







Like they hadn’t dragged him into all of this.







Amelia picked them up.







Eli waited near the door.







Not fully inside.







Not fully gone.







She held them out.







He took them.







Careful.







His eyes lifted.







“For the keys?”







Her throat tightened.







“For not leaving me there.”







Eli huffed a quiet laugh.







“I needed my keys.”







A small shrug.







“I was leaving either way.”







Amelia laughed softly.







“Not now.”







Eli chuckled.







“I know.”







Then something in him shifted.







Serious now.







“I couldn’t.”