Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mara
I wake to a dull ache behind my eyes. The kind that warns me I cried longer and harder than I meant to—longer than I’ve allowed myself to in . . . honestly, I can’t remember when.
I come back slowly, letting the quiet hold me as the memories shift into place. Alec’s arms around me. The hush of his breath by my ear. The low rumble of his voice threading through my meltdown like he had all the time in the world just to sit there and keep me from unraveling completely.
He didn’t retreat when I broke open. He didn’t shift or excuse himself or treat my grief like it was too much.
He just . . . held me long enough that at some point, my body surrendered to sleep.
And now the memory of it settles under my ribs, warm and uninvited, loosening parts of me I swore would never move again. It stirs thoughts I’m not ready for—thoughts I don’t want anywhere near the light.
In his arms, there was a calm I didn’t know I needed, a sense of being gathered close for once instead of holding myself together alone.
I felt seen, sheltered, almost treasured.
And that fear curls deeper than last night’s tears, because if I let myself think about it too long, I’ll start longing for it.
Wanting.
And wanting it is a line I’m not supposed to cross.
I reach for the clock, blinking until the numbers stop swimming.
It’s late. Late enough that Mila should’ve burst into my room because I’m not in the kitchen making pancakes or reminding her to brush her hair.
She should be here asking for breakfast or delivering a very serious eight-year-old update about frogs on the balcony.
Then, I find a glass of water and two pills sitting on my nightstand with a note:
Take this and hydrate all day.
—AH
My pulse stutters—a small, involuntary skip that has no business being as swoony as it is.
I take the pills. Drink the water.
Then, I remember that it’s late, and my daughter is nowhere in sight.
A prickle of worry crawls up the back of my neck.
“Mila?” I call, pushing the blanket aside and swinging my legs out of bed.
No answer.
Her bed is made. Messy-made—the way she yanks the comforter up without smoothing the wrinkles—but empty.
My pulse spikes.
“Don’t panic,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
But parental instinct already snaps tight inside me.
“Mila?”
Still nothing.
I check the bathroom.
Her reading corner.
Behind the armchair where she likes to hide with the snacks, she thinks I don’t notice.
Empty.
Okay. She’s smart. She’s responsible. She knows the rules. She knows not to leave the place by herself. She knows to wait for me.
I grip the handrail, hurrying down the stairs.
The kitchen comes into view—and I freeze.
There’s a note waiting on the counter:
The umbrella gremlin is with me across the hall. I will return her fed, unless you come over to have breakfast with us. The door’s unlocked.
—AH
I let out a breath I’d been choking back—relief sweeping through me with enough force to weaken my knees.
And then another emotion slides in right behind it.
One I really shouldn’t feel.
One I’m definitely not ready to unpack.
He took care of her.
He took care of us.
I don’t waste another second. Mila is almost certainly charming or terrorizing Alec Hovarth—who doesn’t care much about children, yet, he’s been gentle and understanding with Mila.
I rush across the hall and push the door open.
And there she is—my child, absolutely covered in flour, staring into a frying pan like she’s attempting surgery with a spatula.
“What are you doing?” I manage, my voice wobbling between panic and disbelief.
“We’re making pancakes,” she announces proudly. “They’re supposed to look like animals, but right now they look like . . . blobs that won’t even make it to circles.”
“You’re not using enough imagination,” Alec says beside her.
He looks up at me then—tired, rumpled, wearing a shirt that probably belongs in a laundry basket—and that quiet tug in my chest from last night returns, harder this time.
And for one terrifying second . . . I don’t know how to protect myself from it.
Before I can process this, a second male voice rises from the kitchen island. “Music. That’s his only talent. That’s why I had to come save breakfast.”
I blink.
There is another man in Alec’s kitchen.
“Liar,” Alec fires back. “You came here to drag me to the gym and decided to cook instead. I’m telling Roderick you’re still taking lessons.”
Alec looks over at me again, and there it is—a small smile that feels far too knowing, too gentle, too aware of every fragile thing that unraveled between us last night.
It hits low and slow, a tug I’m not prepared for, leaving me slightly off-balance, as he brushes against a feeling I didn’t give permission to surface.
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I have to look away before it shows.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I need movement—distance, air, anything—so I step farther into the kitchen, aiming for the island.
That’s when I see him.
The owner of that second voice, sitting beside the spread of pans, mixing bowls, and what appears to be every pot Alec owns. Dark hair, an easy smile, and a face that looks very familiar.
“And you are . . .?” I ask, my voice wobbling between polite and overwhelmed.
“Regretting coming in today,” he says dryly.
Alec gestures. “That’s Julian Wilder. He’s a better musician than he is a waffle-maker.”
“I’m pretty sure you never owned a waffle maker,” Julian states, then stands and holds out his hand. “Julian. And I assume you’re Mara, the mom.”
My hand goes into his automatically.
“Nice to meet you,” I say—or attempt to speak.
It comes out as a high, humiliating squeak that could shatter glass. But no one should blame me. Julian Wilder is standing in Alec’s kitchen.
The Julian Wilder.
My teenage backbone dissolves on the spot. Every heartbreak mixtape I ever made, every angsty line I scribbled in margins, rises from the dead like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment to embarrass me.
I am painfully aware of my T-shirt, my messy sleep hair, and the fact that flour is now migrating from the floor to my socks like it’s forming a new continent. Note to self: don’t forget shoes the next time.
Alec groans. “Please don’t encourage her,” he mutters, sounding way to put out for a man who supposedly doesn’t care. “I already deal with enough of this when people realize who I am.”
The tone is unmistakable—irritation with a hint of “why is she looking at him like that” buried underneath.
“You deal with nothing,” Julian fires back. “You hide in your penthouse like a feral recluse.”
“It’s called privacy,” Alec snaps.
“It’s called denial,” Julian corrects without missing a beat.
Mila raises her hand like she’s in class, completely unfazed that a world-famous musician is standing three feet from her.
“Can someone help me flip this? It looks like a turtle without a head.”
Alec moves toward her instantly, guiding her wrist with that quiet precision he uses when he’s trying not to take over but can’t help wanting to help.
He slips the spatula beneath the lopsided pancake and plays along like Mila’s steering the whole operation.
She leans forward, fully invested, and he murmurs encouragement like they’ve been doing this together for years—like this is their shared morning routine, not a moment he’s stepping into for the first time.
It’s sweet in a way I’m not even close to prepared for.
A ripple runs through my chest as I watch them—my tiny girl in her flour-streaked pajamas, and Alec lowering himself to her height, letting her feel brave and capable. The tenderness of it hits before I can brace for it, disarming me completely.
And then the truth cuts through all of it: Mila will never get to do this with her father.
Never stand at a stove while Sam guides her hand.
Never hear him laugh when her pancake falls apart.
Never see him cheer when she flips one perfectly.
Sam should’ve been here. For flour fights. For burnt edges. For breakfasts that turn into memories.
He should’ve been here for mornings like this—the small ones that become the story of a childhood.
Instead, all she’ll have are the outlines of a future that ended before it ever had a chance.
And the guilt rushes in so fiercely it steals my breath, because no matter how much I love her, I can’t give her that.
I can’t give her a father who shows her how to flip pancakes, trace constellations, or ride a bike.
And watching Alec slip into this little moment—so quietly, so naturally—opens yet another crack in one of those places I’ve held shut for so long.
It isn’t that I want him to replace Sam. He couldn’t, and he shouldn’t.
But their hands moving together in easy sync unleashes gratitude twisted with grief, pulling me in opposite ways until I have to hold the chair to steady myself.
A memory rises—the letters Lina wrote to Tommy, clutching a future that slipped out of her reach. The ache of losing someone too soon. The hollow left behind in all the small, ordinary moments afterward.
Loss roots itself, and grief never disappears. It rearranges your entire world, fills the quiet places where you think you’re finally safe.
My eyes prick, and I blink hard, breathing through the swell rather than stuffing it down again.
Mila giggles as Alec “fixes the turtle’s missing head,” and the sound is so bright, so alive, it clashes against the grief swirling through me.
Moments like this shouldn’t hurt, but they do—because they shine a light on everything she’ll never have.
Alec glances at me then, catching my gaze long enough to send a jolt through me. There’s no pity in his eyes—just a recognition that feels too intimate. As if he sees the ache and understands it.
And that makes this moment feel breakable, because I’m not used to anyone noticing the pieces of myself I’m missing. Though there’s a part of me that wants to lean toward him anyway.
Wants to believe that closeness like this could exist.
Wants . . . him.
And that is exactly why I need to get a grip. Because I cannot fall for the man who just helped my daughter flip a pancake. Not when the guilt tied to Sam sits so deep, I can barely breathe around it.
Not when wanting Alec feels like a betrayal I can’t allow myself to make.