Chapter 17 #2
Michael calls at seven with final prep notes. We put him on speaker, sitting side by side on the couch like we're bracing for impact.
"Your witnesses are ready," Michael says, voice calm and professional.
"Documentation is organized. Sarah's harassment pattern is well-documented—the fake reviews, the surveillance photos, all of it.
Tyler's credibility is questionable given the timing and his connection to Sarah. We have a strong case."
"But?" Adam asks, because there's always a but.
"But nothing's guaranteed. The judge has discretion. Family court is unpredictable. We present our case, they present theirs, and Judge Murphy makes the call."
My stomach twists. "What if we lose?"
"We won't," Adam says immediately, but his hand tightens on mine.
Michael's quiet for a beat. "If the judge rules in Sarah's favor, we appeal. But I don't think it'll come to that. You're a good parent, Adam. Emma's happy and doing well. Sarah's track record speaks for itself. And June—you've proven yourself to be a vital part of this family."
"She told Emma she'd win her in court," Adam says, voice tight. "I overheard it when Sarah called. Is that even allowed?"
"No. It's manipulative and inappropriate. I'll note it for the record." A pause. "Get some rest tonight. Tomorrow, we show them the truth."
Silence falls heavy between us.
“What if we lose?” I ask again, quieter this time.
Adam turns to me, eyes fierce. “Then I appeal. I never stop fighting for Emma.”
“And us?”
His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek. “There is no ‘what if’ for us. You’re mine, June. That doesn’t change. No matter what happens in that courtroom.”
I lean into him, let his certainty ground me. “I’m scared.”
“Me too.” He presses his forehead to mine. “But we’re scared together. And tomorrow, we fight like hell.”
I nod, breathing him in—coffee and cedar and home.
Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow, we face Sarah and her lawyer and a judge who holds our future in their hands.
But tonight, we have each other.
After a halfhearted attempt at dinner—neither of us can eat—we go through everything one more time. Questions we might face. How to stay calm. What to wear. Professional but approachable, Michael said.
“I hate that I have to perform for a judge,” I say, folding and refolding a kitchen towel just to give my hands something to do.
Adam leans against the counter, arms crossed. “It’s not performing. It’s showing them who you really are.”
“What if who I really am isn’t enough?”
His eyes flash. “It’s more than enough. You’re everything, June.”
The words land warm in my chest, but they don’t quiet the fear gnawing at my gut.
We try to sleep. Can’t.
At one a.m. we end up in the kitchen—me stress-baking because it’s the only thing that makes sense when the world feels like it’s spinning out of control, Adam wiping down counters that are already clean just to stay close.
I knead dough fiercely, flour dusting my forearms, the repetitive motion grounding me. Cinnamon rolls. One of Emma’s favorites. For when she comes home tomorrow—after. When this is all over and we know what our future looks like.
Adam moves behind me, hands settling on my hips, chin resting on my shoulder.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he says quietly, “I love you.”
I pause, press back into him. “I love you too.”
“And when this is over—"
I turn and kiss him before he can finish—slow at first, then deeper, more urgent. My flour-covered hands grip his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately, hands sliding into my hair.
The kiss shifts fast—from comfort to need, from reassurance to desperation. His mouth is hot and demanding, and I give as good as I get, pouring everything into it—fear and love and the desperate need to feel something other than this gnawing dread.
When he pulls back, breathless, his eyes are dark and hungry.
“You’ve got flour everywhere,” he murmurs, thumb tracing a dusted streak across my collarbone.
I glance down. My forearms, my shirt, probably my hair. A mess.
“So clean me off,” I say, voice low, challenging.
His eyes flash—and then his hand is in mine, pulling me toward the stairs.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind us. Adam starts the shower, steam beginning to curl into the air as he turns back to me.
He doesn’t rush. His hands find the hem of my shirt, lifting it slowly, fingers tracing the white streaks on my skin as he goes. His mouth follows—soft kisses along my shoulder, my collarbone, tasting flour and skin and me.
“Adam,” I breathe, and it comes out desperate.
“I know,” he says against my neck. “Me too.”
By the time we step under the spray, we’re both bare, the water almost too hot—but not hotter than the way he looks at me.
He backs me against the tile. I gasp at the cold shock against my shoulder blades—and then his body is pressed against mine, hot and solid and everywhere, and I forget about the cold entirely.
His mouth finds mine again, hungrier now, hands sliding down my sides, gripping my hips, pulling me against him. I can feel how much he wants me, and it sends heat pooling low, sharp and aching.
“June,” he groans against my lips, and I love the way my name sounds in his mouth—rough and needy.
“I need you,” I whisper, hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, nails digging in.
“You have me.” His hand slides between my legs and I gasp, head falling back against the tile. “You’ve always had me.”
The water streams over us, hot and relentless, as his fingers work me with maddening precision. I’m already trembling, already so close, but I don’t care. I need this—need him, need to fall apart, need to feel.
“Adam, please—"
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, mouth hot against my throat. “Let go, angel. Let me feel you come for me.”
And I do—shaking and gasping his name as pleasure crashes through me in waves. He holds me through it, one arm banded around my waist, keeping me upright as my knees threaten to give out.
When I can breathe again, I push him back against the opposite wall, hands sliding down his body with clear intent.
His breath hitches.
I take my time, even though my hands are shaking, even though I want to rush. I want to watch his handsome face while I make him fall apart—want to see him lose control, want to know I can do this to him.
I wrap my hand around him, finding the rhythm that makes his hips roll, his breath ragged. The want coursing through me is almost unbearable—it’s all I can do not to lift myself onto him and let him take me completely.
“June—" His voice is strained, hand fisting in my wet hair. “I won't last—"
“Good,” I murmur—and push him over the edge.
He comes with a choked gasp, body shuddering against the tile. I slow my pace, pressing kisses to his chest, his jaw, anywhere I can reach.
After, we stay under the spray, foreheads pressed together, catching our breath.
“I want all of you,” I whisper. “After tomorrow—"
“After tomorrow,” he agrees, hands gentle now, cupping my face. “When this is over, I’m making you mine. Completely.”
“I’m already yours.”
“Not yet.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip. “But soon. I’ll claim all of you.”
He washes my hair—slow, careful, fingers massaging my scalp until I’m boneless and half-asleep on my feet. Tender and intimate in a way I never thought possible.
We dry off in silence, exhaustion finally catching up. I pull on one of his t-shirts and we stumble to bed, curling into each other like we can hold off the morning if we just stay close enough.
I’m almost asleep, his heartbeat steady under my ear, when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
We both freeze.
He reaches for it, and I watch his face go hard.
“What is it?”
He turns the phone toward me. Unknown number. The message is short and vicious:
Good luck tomorrow. You’ll need it.
The warmth drains out of me instantly. “Sarah?”
“Or Tyler.” His jaw clenches. “Does it matter?”
It doesn’t. One last attempt to rattle us, to make us doubt, to throw us off balance.
I take the phone from his hand, screenshot the message, and forward it to Michael.
“Evidence,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Let them keep digging their own grave.”
Adam stares at me for a moment, then pulls me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You’re amazing.”
The room is warm and dark, our bodies still humming from what we just shared. Tomorrow, this ends. Tomorrow, we walk into that courtroom and fight for our family.
But right now, we’re ready.
And we’re not backing down.