Chapter 15
I miss them...I miss you
Coleman
Low music hums overhead, just enough to fill the silences but never enough to drown them.
The lighting’s warm, the glassware polished, and the whiskey top-shelf.
It’s not a place for chaos. It’s a place for men like us—tired, well-dressed, and trying to pretend we aren’t worn thin by the weight of things no one sees.
Langston is nursing a scotch across from me, tossing out stories from his last board meeting like they’re war tales. Dean is pretending to listen while skimming his phone under the table, probably tracking player stats during Mustang training camp.
I swirl the bourbon in my glass, but I haven’t taken a sip. “Man, at least pretend to laugh,” Dean nudges me with his elbow. “Or we’ll know you’re still thinking about it.”
I glance up. “Thinking about what?”
Langston levels me with a look. “The girls. Stella. Or maybe the other girl who isn’t Stella.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
Because they know me too well.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
“Bullshit,” Dean says, tossing back his drink. “You’ve looked like you were chewing glass since we got here.”
“I just…” I sigh and rake a hand through my hair. “I hate it when they’re gone. The house is too quiet.”
“They’re only gone for the weekend,” Langston offers gently.
“Yeah, and that’s the problem.” I pause. “It used to feel like relief. Like a break. But now? I walk into that house and it’s like someone flipped the lights off inside me.”
Langston leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “And that has nothing to do with the nanny who somehow got the girls to laugh for the first time in months?”
I open my mouth to argue when my phone buzzes on the table.
I flip it over.
Remi:
Have you talked to the girls?
That’s all it takes. My pulse skips.
Dean catches the shift in my expression instantly. “What’s wrong? One of the girls text you?”
Langston leans in. “Everything okay?”
I shake my head. “It’s Remi.”
Both of them go still.
I don’t wait—I reply quickly.
Me:
Not yet. Why?
A few seconds pass. Then:
Remi:
I miss them.
I miss you.
My heart drops into my stomach.
Remi doesn’t say things like that—she jokes, she teases, she sidesteps. But this? This feels like something cracking wide open.
Langston whistles low when he sees my face. “That bad?”
“No,” I whisper. “That real.”
Dean shifts in his seat. “You’re going to her.”
“I haven’t even asked where she is yet.”
But I already know I’m not staying here.
My fingers move before I can think.
Me:
Remi…
Where are you?
She answers:
Remi:
Out with my brothers.
That doesn’t calm the tension in my chest. It only makes it worse.
Me:
That’s not what I meant. Where are you?
I wait. One second. Two. My knee bounces. My fingers tighten around my glass.
Then—
Remi:
Harrigan’s. Why?
I don’t reply.
I’m already standing. Already pulling on my coat.
Because I told myself I wasn’t going to care.
And all it took was one message to prove that was a lie.
Harrigan’s isn’t my kind of place. Not anymore.
It’s loud. Packed. Dimly lit with neon signs and sticky floors. Twenty-somethings in tight clothes laugh too loudly, and some guy is butchering an acoustic cover of Mr. Brightside near the back.
But none of that registers.
Because the second I step through the door, I see her.
Remi.
She’s seated in a booth near the back, wedged between two guys who clearly share her eyes and her energy. Her brothers, no doubt. One is waving his arms dramatically while telling some story, and she’s laughing.
Or trying to.
She tosses her head back, mouth open wide like she means it—but her eyes never join in. Her shoulders are tight. Her fingers toy with the edge of her glass. She’s surrounded by people who love her, and still... she looks alone.
My chest pulls tight.
She’s hurting.
And I should’ve known.
When she said she missed the girls, I felt that. But when she said she missed me—it knocked the air out of me. I couldn’t sit still after that. Couldn’t pretend I didn’t want to see her. That I didn’t need to.
So I came.
And now I’m standing here like some idiot in dress shoes, watching her from across a bar filled with people half my age.
But I don’t care.
Because when she finally looks up—like she feels me there—everything changes.
Her gaze locks on mine.
And that fake smile falls right off her face… replaced by something real.
Something undeniable.
It’s soft and slow, blooming across her features like dawn cracking through the dark. Her whole body shifts. Like the sight of me lets her breathe easier. Like I’m the thing she’s been waiting for all night without knowing it.
And just like that, I’m done.
That smile?
It rewrites everything.
I want to be the reason she lights up like that for the rest of my life.
I want every day to start with her looking at me like this.
I want her.
Not just for the girls. Not just because she brought laughter back into our house. But for me.
Because no one’s ever looked at me the way Remi just did.
And I never want to go another day without seeing that look again.
I don’t look away from her.
Not once.
Not even when the crowd shifts in front of me, when someone bumps into my shoulder with a slurred apology, or when a glass shatters at the bar. None of it matters. Because all I can see is her.
Remi.
Still watching me like I just gave her back a piece of herself she didn’t know she lost.
I take a step forward. Then another. Slow. Intentional.
Her brothers glance up when they see me coming, their conversation halting, laughter fading. I don’t blame them. I’m older. Dressed like I just left a business meeting. And I’m staring at their sister like she’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Because right now, she is.
She doesn’t look away, either.
She shifts in her seat, fingertips curling around her glass as I stop in front of the booth. That smile still lingers at the corners of her mouth, softer now, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I do a quick scan of the table—half-eaten food, empty glasses, and one water.
One of the brothers—taller, darker hair—clears his throat like he’s preparing for war. “Can we help you?”
I slide my eyes to him, extend a hand across the table. “Coleman.”
His posture straightens.
“This is Matthew. My brother.” Remi gets a grin on her face like she is in on some joke.
Ah Matthew…
He gives a stiff nod.
The rest of the guys don’t say anything, just continue to stare.
I look back to her, more relieved than I want to admit. “How much have you had to drink?”
Her eyes twinkle. “I switched to water after the third round.”
I raise a brow.
She shrugs, unbothered. “I'm good. I promise.”
I nod slowly, then extend my hand toward her.
Palm up. Waiting.
“Let’s go home.”
The words are quiet.
But final.
Her lips part. Just barely. Not in surprise—but something closer to reverence. Like she’s been waiting for me to say it. Like it was the invitation she didn’t know she needed.
Matthew tenses beside her, but she touches his arm gently before standing. “I’m okay,” she whispers to him. “Really.”
She slides her hand into mine.
Warm. Certain.
And for a moment, the bar fades away.
Because she’s coming with me.
Because she chose home.
And this time… home isn’t just a place.
It’s her.
She doesn’t let go of my hand the whole walk to the car.
And once we’re inside—windows up, night quiet around us—she shifts in the passenger seat like she belongs there. Like she’s done this a thousand times before.
But she hasn’t.
We haven’t.
And that’s what makes everything worse.
Because her knees are pulled up slightly. Her makeup’s worn down from the night, and her hair is a little messy from laughing too hard and living too freely.
She looks perfect.
She looks like every second I’ve ever wanted back.
And she’s just… here.
Tapping her fingers to the quiet rhythm of the radio. Glancing over at me like she’s trying not to study me too closely.
And I can’t stop studying her.
I grip the wheel tighter than I should. My jaw’s locked. My pulse is racing like I’m some teenager bringing a girl home for the first time—and not a thirty-five-year-old man with two daughters and a heart stitched back together by sheer will.
“You okay?” she asks softly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” I lie.
She doesn’t call me on it.
Just watches me with that all-knowing gaze like she already sees through me.
When we pull up to the house, she doesn’t wait for me to open her door.
She just gets out.
Walks around to my side and waits for me to follow. Like she knows I will.
And she’s right.
Because the second I catch up to her at the front door, the air shifts.
She looks up at me, keys in hand, hesitation flickering across her face. “Do you… want something to drink?”
No.
Yes.
I want you.
I clear my throat. “Sure.”
She unlocks the door. We step inside.
The silence isn’t heavy. Not like it used to be. Now it just… waits.
She drops her keys in the bowl. Toes off her shoes. Glances back at me like she can feel the energy building between us, but doesn’t know how to survive it.
She stands in the middle of my kitchen like a goddamn temptation I don’t deserve.
Hair falling around her shoulders, cheeks flushed from the night.
I tell myself to look away.
I don’t.
Instead, I follow her into the living room like I can pretend this is casual. Like I didn’t come tearing across town the second she texted me that she missed me.
She curls onto the couch, pulling her legs up under her. I sit across from her, like distance is going to do a damn thing to stop what’s unraveling between us.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
She looks at me. I look back.
And the air thickens.
“Coleman,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I can do this.”
My stomach drops. “Do what?”
“This…” Her voice trembles. “This thing where you look at me like you want to tear my clothes off, and then shut down like you’ve never thought about it again.”
I drag a hand down my face. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is for me.”
I stand. I shouldn’t. I should walk away, go upstairs, lock the door, do anything but this.
But I can’t.
I cross the room and stop a few feet in front of her.
She looks up at me, chin tilted, like she’s daring me to keep pretending this isn’t happening. “Just tell me the truth. Do you want me?”
My mouth parts.
I shouldn’t answer.
Because the second I say yes, I won’t stop myself.
But then I see it—the fear under her fire. The softness behind the sharp tongue. The way she’s shaking even though she’s doing everything she can to hide it.
And I want to make it stop.
I want to make everything stop except the way I feel when I look at her.
“I think about you every second I’m not looking at you,” I admit, voice hoarse. “And most of the time when I am.”
Her breath hitches.
“I think about the way you laugh. The way you look when you talk to my girls. The way you smell like vanilla and bad decisions. I think about your mouth, your hands, your hair…” I shake my head like I’m trying to fight it off, but it’s no use.
“I think about what it would be like if I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t want you. ”
I step closer.
Close enough to see the freckles on her cheekbones and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Close enough to fall.
“But I’m trying not to,” I whisper. “Because once I touch you, Remi… I won’t be able to stop.”
Her voice is just as quiet. “Then don’t stop.”
I clench my jaw. My hands fist at my sides. I should walk away.
I don’t.
“I don’t want to want you,” I tell her. “Because if I do, I won’t know how to want anyone else.”
“Good,” she says.
That single word wrecks me.
And I break.
I reach for her—one hand sliding into her hair, the other cupping her cheek. I hesitate for half a breath. But she leans in. She wants this.
“Fuck it,” I mutter—maybe to her, maybe to myself, or maybe just to whatever higher power’s watching me lose control.
And then I kiss her.
Hard. Desperate. Home.
Everything I thought I knew about women—the cold calculation of Stella’s love, the transactional nature of what I used to believe marriage was—vanishes the moment Remi’s mouth opens for mine.
She clutches the front of my shirt like she’s drowning and I’m the only breath she’ll ever need.
And I can’t stop. I won’t stop. I drag her against me and feel her softness, her warmth, her chaos—everything I never knew I wanted until it was standing in my kitchen baking cookies and stealing my daughters' hearts.
She moans softly against my lips and that sound ruins me.
I pull back just long enough to stare into her eyes.
She’s flushed. Breathless.
But not afraid.
“Tell me to stop,” I whisper, even though I’m already leaning back in. “Please… tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t.
She pulls me in.
And my whole goddamn world shifts.