Page 25 of Second Sin

Noah grins up at me, sticky fingers and all. “Hi.”

“Hi, Noah,” I say gently, crouching to his level.

“I’m three,” he tells me proudly. “And a half.”

“Wow. That’s a very serious age.”

Kane chuckles, and I catch the way he glances at Brynne—like she hung the stars. That kind of love you don’t need words for.

“Join us?” Brynne offers.

I shake my head, smiling. “Thanks, but I’m just grabbing something to go.”

They nod, and I walk toward the counter. I scan the chalkboard menu, pretending like I haven’t already decided. Rosemary turkey on sourdough, the same thing I always get when I come here. I place the order, voice quiet, and hand over my card.

While I wait, I glance back just once more at them. The laughter. The way Kane leans in to wipe Noah’s chin, then glances at his daughter like he’s keeping mental tabs on her breathing between bites. The easy rhythm of a family that loves each other.Their laughter rises over the clink of plates and soft café jazz, wrapping around the room.

And God—my heart aches for a life like that.

For the babies I'd never have.

I wanted them—so badly it almost broke something in me. But Ethan didn’t. Said he couldn’t be a father while he was still in service. Said he’d seen too much to bring a child into the world. Maybe he was right. But I still wonder what it would’ve been like.

There were cracks in our marriage. Not shattering ones, but small, sharp fractures that never fully healed. The long deployments. The silences. The way he’d flinch in his sleep and never tell me what the dreams were about. I loved him. With everything I had. But some nights I slept with my back to him, wishing he would just turn around and reach for me.

And then he got sick. And everything became about survival. His, and mine.

The last few months before he died were brutal. His body wasting. His voice fading. But he never stopped apologizing.

I’m sorry I didn’t give you more.

I’m sorry I left you alone so many times.

I told him it was okay. That I understood. But some nights I still don’t know if that was the truth or just mercy.

The grief has dulled lately. Not gone, but softer at the edges. Blurred. Like a photograph left out in the sun too long. I don’t know why.

That's a lie.

I know exactly why, and it terrifies me.

Because it’s taken everything I have not to think about the gorgeous, 6’4” defenseman with too much pain behind his eyes that held me like he didn’t know how to let go.

Too close.

Too intimate.

Too raw.

And for one breathless moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to sink into him.To lean into the heat of his chest, feel his mouth brush against the side of my neck. To feelthescrape of his stubble against my skin. To forget where the lines are drawn and let him blur every one of them.

It’s wrong.Wildly inappropriate.Unprofessional in every possible way.He’s not mine to want. Not now. Not ever. Not unless I want to lose my job.

But, hell, logic doesn’t stand a chance against the memory of how his body felt against mine—solid and grounding, like safety and danger tangled into one.

So I’ve done everything I can to avoid him since. Taken the long way through the arena. Pretended not to hear his voice in the hallway. Ignored the shift in the air when he’s near.

But I can’t avoid him forever.

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