Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Alec
I should be okay.
She’s out of my system by the time I’m dressed and ready to start my day.
After I got dressed, I convinced myself I’m rational again.
I even looked myself in the mirror and seemed normal.
But all that confidence starts to crack the second I’m standing outside her door, palms sweaty, heart hammering like I’m about to do something unforgivable.
My body buzzes with warning signs I don’t have the vocabulary for. Old alarms. New heat. Muscles pulled tight like I’m wired wrong just by being near her again.
And then she opens the door.
And, fuck.
She looks at me like she knew I wouldn’t stay away.
The sight of her unwinds something in my chest and coils everything else lower. But it’s less urgent, which in a way, feels a lot more dangerous.
I walk through the threshold before I can talk myself out of it, barely keeping my breath in check.
The air inside hits me first. It’s different. It’s nothing like when her aunt lived here. It smells like tea—earthy and herbal—and rain. But there’s something else underneath it, too.
Sandalwood? Lavender?
Something warm, soft, a little mystical. Like a place owned by a woman who charges extra for crystal alignment and believes in moon water. And somehow it suits her.
God, it suits her.
It wraps around me before I can shake it off, soft and grounding and intimate in a way that makes my throat tighten.
It smells like a space I shouldn’t be in.
A space that makes me want to stay.
The moment I see the living room filled with half-unpacked boxes, I kind of go back to a closer version of myself.
The place is too messy. There are blankets draped that look like a fort that’s been dismantled.
Then, books stacked in wobbly piles waiting for a home.
A stuffed unicorn sits on the couch, its beady eyes fixed on me like it’s evaluating my moral character. Honestly, I’m judging myself too.
Mara moves through the kitchen with an ease that shouldn’t be possible for someone who’s only been here less than a week.
She opens a cabinet, makes a thoughtful little noise, closes it, opens another.
She laughs softly when she finds what she’s looking for, the sound light and warm enough to pull my gaze without permission.
There’s something about the way she moves—unhurried but full of life, grounded but somehow floating—that draws my attention before I can stop it. Even tired, even damp from the rain, she radiates this strange mix of calm and resilience that makes everything else in the room fade a little.
And I hate that I notice it.
And I can’t seem to look away.
She grabs two mugs. One plain. One with a cartoon cat.
“Sit,” she says over her shoulder as if I’m a skittish guest or a stray animal she’s decided to adopt. “Coffee will be ready in a second.”
“I don’t sit,” I grumble, stepping further inside anyway.
“Like ever?” She arches an eyebrow like that seems impossible. “How do you ride in a car if you never sit?”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what you said,” she cuts in, turning just enough to raise an eyebrow. “You follow the rules when you’re in my house.”
“I didn’t agree to any rules.”
“Too late,” she sings. “You crossed to the other side.”
I sigh, refusing to tumble into this childish banter she clearly enjoys. She likes flustering me—I can see it in her eyes—and I’m not giving her the satisfaction. Still, I lower myself onto the barstool at the island, pretending it’s entirely my choice.
Mara moves around the kitchen with easy familiarity, as if she’s lived here for months instead of days, her attention shifting from cabinet to cabinet without any hesitation.
I rub my palms against my knees, trying to ground myself.
“So,” she says gently, “what pulled you out onto the balcony this early? You usually hide until the morning is half over.”
“I don’t hide.”
She smiles like she knows better. “Right. So what were you doing? Thinking? Avoiding me? Talking to the rain?”
“None of your business.”
“That’s a yes to all of them then.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Scowl, because she’s not wrong, and I hate that she knows it.
She steps closer, holding two mugs. She hands me the cat one without comment. Her fingers graze mine—barely a whisper of contact—but it shocks me. Something deep in me draws inward, a tight, involuntary clench, like some invisible thread between us just got tugged.
I look down at our hands. Then at her.
And I want to kiss her. Not because I should, but because I shouldn’t.
Because something about the way she moves, the way she looks at me like she’s not afraid of any of it—makes my restraint feel like the most fragile thing in the room.
I hate it.
I hate that the warmth of her touch still lingers, subtle and unwanted, like it’s seeped beneath my skin.
I hate that I want to lean in just to feel more of it.
And I hate that I want to want more.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
It’s the same question she asked on the balcony. But in here—with the scent of her home in the air, a warm mug in my hands, and her standing close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her skin—it hits differently.
More intimate.
More charged.
Like she’s not just asking if I’m okay—she’s asking if I’ll let her in.
If I’ll fall apart in her hands and pretend it’s healing.
The easy thing would be to say I’m fine.
But nothing about this feels easy anymore.
I could say I’m fucking fine and maybe live.
I’ve said it a thousand times because, honestly, I had no idea what I was.
But now . . . it’s all different. I’m working on being in touch with my emotions.
I could lie but that’s another problem. Recovery drilled one truth into me—through therapy, meetings, rehab, all of it: lying keeps you stuck.
Avoidance keeps you looping the same pain.
And pretending you’re okay when you’re barely holding yourself together just drags the fall-out longer.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Her eyes soften—with this genuine, focused interest I’m not used to.
Most people ask, “Are you okay?” the same way they ask, “Did you find parking?”—out of habit, out of politeness, hoping you’ll give them the fast version: I’m fine, I’m good, let’s change the subject. Nobody actually wants the real answer.
But she does. Or she seems to. And that throws me off more than anything else.
“Then you can sit here for a few minutes,” she says. “Drink your coffee. Breathe. Let the rain do whatever rain does for you.”
“Rain doesn’t do anything for me.”
She smiles, amused and a little exasperated. “Oh, so you don’t let the elements help your soul, huh?”
I blink at her because it sounds ridiculous—but she’s already shaking her head, stepping closer like she’s about to let me in on some universal secret.
“You know,” she continues, “Mila and I have traveled a lot. We’ve met a lot of people who believe the elements could shift something inside you.
Not fix you. Not magically heal you. Just .
. . shift things.” She gestures toward the balcony.
“One woman in Bali told me water resets the mind. Another in Portugal swore rain clears emotional static. Someone in Iceland said the wind helps you let go of what you’ve been carrying too long. ”
I stare at her, unsure whether to scoff or listen.
Probably both.
She lifts her cup and inhales the steam, eyes drifting toward the balcony as if she can feel the morning more deeply than I ever will.
“I don’t know if any of them were right,” she says softly.
“But I do know this—sometimes letting yourself feel anything outside your own thoughts helps. Even if it’s just rain. ”
I look down at my mug, the warmth seeping into my fingers, then back at her.
And for a brief second, I wonder if she’s talking about me or herself. She pretends everything rolls off her, but there’s a depth beneath her calm—layers she doesn’t let anyone see unless they earn it. I don’t think she realizes how visible it is to someone like me.
“How often do you travel?” I ask, partly because she’s opened a door I’m not sure she meant to, partly because I’m trying to absorb that thing she said about feeling something beyond my own thoughts.
“It depends on the assignment,” she says casually, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes—there and gone. “Some jobs keep us in one place for a couple of months. Others are touch-and-go. In and out, new city the next week.”
“You enjoy that?” I ask, frowning without meaning to.
While in the band, I hated touring—the exhaustion, the noise, the constant motion.
One venue, one roar, one backstage exit, and then the next morning you’re shoved onto a plane, half-conscious, barely remembering what country you’re in.
Too tired, too high. Definitely too wired on whatever poison you convinced yourself you needed back then.
“I do,” she says, and her whole face lights. “You meet new people. See new places. You learn so much just by showing up. It’s an experience that I hope Mila enjoys.”
“Are you some kind of reporter?” I ask.
“Photographer,” she corrects me with a small smile. “I studied journalism, but my minor was film. I ended up blending both, and . . . well, I do all right.”
She says it lightly, but there’s pride there too.
“If you need work in town, I know a few people,” I offer, trying to sound casual. Eddie knows half of Seattle’s creative scene, which is ridiculous for a man who believes that everything should be done online without getting out of his house.
He could also find her something in Los Angeles. It wouldn’t be a problem if she flies down there for a couple of weeks with Mila. I would even go with them. Then I stop myself, because where the fuck did that come from?
“Magazine people?” she asks, interest sparking. “That’s usually what I do. Some books too. You know—articles about Machu Picchu written by people who can’t take a decent picture to save their lives. I fix their disasters and make the readers think they’re geniuses. It’s fun.”
I picture her as one of those fearless photographers from National Geographic—the ones who climb cliffs and wander deserts just to catch a single shot worth printing. She’d fit right in, camera in hand, hair in the wind, probably talking to strangers like they’ve known her all their lives.
“You ever show your work in galleries?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She shakes her head, rolling her eyes a little. “My agent keeps bringing it up. Says it’s a way to keep me in one place while she hunts for something family-friendly and easy to travel to. Like I’m asking for too much by wanting to take pictures and feed my kid.”
“You don’t like staying in one place, do you?”
“You don’t like people,” she shoots back, “and you don’t see me interrogating you about it.”
My mouth opens, ready to defend myself, maybe ask what happened to her that she avoids the word “stay,” but before I get the chance—
“Morning, Mom,” Mila announces, appearing with a small, stuffed dog tucked under her arm like a furry loaf of bread. “It’s seven-ten. Can I come out of my bedroom now?”
“That’s not seven-thirty,” Mara says, not turning around.
“It’s close.” Mila turns to me. “Hi, Mr. Grump-Next-Door.”
“Morning, Mila.”
She squints at me like she’s trying to determine if I’m real. “Are you here for my next assignment? I need to interview someone important and write an essay.”
“I’m not important,” I tell her.
“What do you do for a living?” she fires back.
“I’m retired,” I say satisfied that this will be done and over with.
Her eyes widen. “Are you like a hundred years old?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I retired early. I live off my royalties.”
Mila gasps. “Are you a royal?”
I laugh despite myself—but it dies instantly when Mara snaps her fingers as recognition hits. “Of course. That’s why you look familiar. You’re Alec Horvath. The drummer from Dead Moth Parade.”
I press my lips together, because I honestly didn’t expect her to recognize me . . . or to recognize me so late. I don’t know if I should be relieved or offended.
“You look better with short hair,” she adds, like she’s commenting on a weather forecast.
“You’re a drummer?” Mila demands. “Where are your drums? Do you practice here? Are you loud? Why don’t you drum now? What’s your favorite song to drum? Do you hit them hard? Do you have a band still? Do the drums have names? Do drummers name their drums?”
I blink.
Mara sighs. “Mila, sweetheart, breathe.”
“I am breathing,” she insists, deeply offended. “I just have questions.”
I’m starting to sweat.
Actual sweat. From a child with a stuffed dog under her arm and zero hesitation about interrogating a grown man. I’ve had reporters hound me, but this is the scariest.
“Thank you for the coffee,” I manage, my voice doing something humiliatingly close to cracking. “I . . . I have to go.”
Mara bites her lip, trying—and failing—not to laugh. “Run fast before she catches you.”
She says it lightly, amused, but she also watches me with this sharp little glint in her eye—the I see you kind.
Which only makes me more flustered.
“I won’t chase him,” Mila declares, already taking a step closer. “I just need to know how he retired before you, Mom. Are you rich, Mr. Drummer?”
I take a full step back.
Mara presses a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Okay, Mila—pause. Give the man a five-minute grace period before you grill him about his life savings.”
“But—”
“Nope,” Mara cuts in, pointing her spoon like she’s conducting a symphony and Mila’s the lone violinist refusing to follow tempo. “He’ll come back another day.”
My brain short-circuits at He’ll come back.
I don’t think so. Never again. I’m moving somewhere else, like Tasmania.
“I . . . should really go,” I repeat, because apparently, my vocabulary has shrunk to four words and one exit strategy.
Mara leans her hip against the counter, all sunshine and trouble and softness I don’t know how to deal with. “It’s okay, Alec. She does this with everyone. You’re just her newest victim.”
“Comforting,” I mutter.
“It should be,” she teases. “She only interrogates people she likes.”
I freeze.
I swallow and nod once like an idiot before backing toward the door.
“Bye, Mr. Grump.” Mila waves her dog’s paw at me. “Don’t forget I have more questions.”
“Terrifying,” I whisper.
And Mara laughs—bright and real—and somehow that sound stays with me long after I slip back onto my own balcony and close the door behind me.