Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
DK
Seeing Luna again wasn’t the shock. That was inevitable. It’s how hard she hits me every time. Nothing diluted. Nothing faded.
When she gets up from the table, I debate it for all of ten seconds before following like a moth to a flame. One step closer than was safe. One decision past smart.
I’m standing against the wall when the single washroom door swings open, and Luna steps out into the hallway, dimly lit by two seashell sconces. Her painted mouth forms a startled O, her eyes going wide.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s… I’m fine.”
“Luna—”
“Don’t make this any harder.” Her gaze flicks down the empty hall. “I’m already hanging on by a thread.”
Her admission clamps around my chest. “I’m going out of my fucking mind. I don’t know how to do this. See you… and not touch you. Not kiss you. Pretend I don’t know you.”
“I hate pretending too.”
“I can be discreet.”
She hesitates, her breath quickening… considering it. Then, “No. We can’t,” she stammers, “I—I can’t.”
Whatever fragile hope I had deflates. This is her life. Her town. Her fight. And I’m standing on the opposite side of it.
“I’ll get my order to go,” I offer.
She shakes her head. “This is bound to happen again. We’re meeting on Thursday. The more we see each other, the easier it should get.”
Luna doesn’t look like she believes that any more than I do.
“I better go,” she says.
“If I can’t have you, Luna, just give me one more minute,” I murmur, curling my fingers into my palms, fighting every instinct to pull her close.
“DK.”
That’s it. Just my name, spoken haltingly. But she doesn’t leave. Not yet. Instead, we drift closer. I incline my head, inhaling her scent—warm, soft, and unforgettable.
For two heartbeats, we stand there, staring at each other, mouths mere inches apart, breaths mingling in the narrow space like a phantom kiss.
Her lashes flutter. My pulse hammers in my throat.
Then her fingers drift over my knuckles like a feather. One soft, electric second. Then she steps away, turns, and walks back down the hall toward the dining room.
And all I can do… is watch her go.
Tonight is another one where sleep doesn’t come.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling fan as it cuts lazy circles through the dark. Its quiet, steady whir, a contrast to how loud my mind is.
White noise hums from my tablet.
It doesn’t help.
I check the clock.
2:51 a.m.
Nearly three hours. My body’s tired. My eyelids are heavy. But my brain paces. Replays. It grabs at memories, at tasks, at moments, and won’t let them go.
It’s stuck in the hallway.
Her face framed by ebony curls.
The way she said DK like it’s been living inside her.
I try box breaths. In for four. Hold. Out for four. Repeat. Breathe. Don’t battle. Insomnia feeds on resistance. The harder you fight it, the more it digs in.
But my mind doesn’t give a damn about a truce.
I reach for the water on my nightstand, take a sip, then set the glass back down. The meds sit right beside it, a clear bottle with an orange top. Instant sleep in capsule form. But I don’t touch it.
That’s part of the deal. To try without. To let the discomfort pass. Like insomnia is a weather storm instead of a fucking siege.
3:43 a.m.
I climb out of bed and pace the room, barefoot on the cool hardwood.
I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t want my body thinking it’s morning.
My mind latches onto tomorrow’s tasks. Strategy planning at ten.
Budget development. Campaign messaging with the communications team.
Agenda for the debate meeting. And just like that, I’m back on Luna.
The performance we’ll put on—professionals—pretending we don’t know the intimate feel of each other.
I stretch my shoulders, roll my neck, shake out my hands like I’m about to step into the ring. A battle with myself. With temptation. One I’m already losing.
4:12 a.m.
I have to be up in less than four hours.
4:33 a.m.
Finally… I take the pill.
I hate that I need it. Hate that my brain won’t shut off without chemical persuasion. I hate that the one person who made me feel the most relaxed also happens to be the one I can’t have.
As sleep creeps in, my mind blurs—calls I need to make, emails to write. Luna’s voice. Her face. The echo of her touch.
Then it all goes dark.
The next morning moves fast, even if my sleep-deprived brain feels like it’s trudging through mud. In Washington, I’d chase the exhaustion with Red Bull and caffeine pills, and keep powering through.
Back when I thought I was superhuman.
Until I learned the hard way that I’m not.
Now, I stock up on water and pace myself.
At noon, Ash and I grab smoked sausages from the food truck out front. I load mine with hot mustard and sauerkraut. He sticks to ketchup—a simple guy. It’s good to have his company. He doesn’t talk about work nonstop like I used to.
Armed with napkins, we claim a bench under a tree. It filters out the worst of the sun and offers a small mercy of breeze.
“You going to the festival this weekend?” he asks, around a bite.
“I’m working on Gabriel’s opening remarks with communications, “I say. “I’ll be there for that part. You?”
“For sure.” He wipes ketchup from his beard.
“I go every year. They close off the waterfront on Saturday and Sunday. Family stuff during the day. At night, Docks Bar does a pop-up. There’s a bonfire, food, music—Chaz, the dude I told you about who owns the café—headlines.
C can sing the crap out of any song and plays a wicked guitar. ”
“My younger brother’s coming in on Saturday. He’d be down for that.”
“Great timing,” Ash says. “Town’ll be hopping. Gotta give Rayne credit. These big-draw events only started after she became Director of Tourism.”
I swallow sausage and bread, acting like her name doesn’t land anywhere near raw.
“She’s going to be a big loss,” he continues. “I heard she resigned to put everything into campaigning. But that’s Rayne. No half-measures.”
“You know her?”
“Since we were kids. I was several grades ahead, so we weren’t friends like that. But everyone around here knows Rayne. She’s a waterfront activist. Has been for years. I’m not surprised she’s running.”
“Any insights?” I ask, aiming for casual. “Background info. More than what’s in her bio.”
“She’s well-liked,” he says, swigging Coke. “Smart. Sociable. Deep in the community. Not afraid of hard work—or a challenge. I think she’s gonna give Gabe a run for his money. So you better bring it.” He laughs.
I force one out, too.
“What about her personal life?” I ask.
He sends me a sideways look before answering. “Her mom passed away when she was young. It’s just been her and her dad since. Mo. Great guy. Writes kids’ books.”
“I saw them at The Ship Mate last night. Didn’t realize he was her father until he introduced himself.”
“You thought she was on a date.”
“I wondered.” I shrug as if that wouldn’t have sent me into a spiral.
“Rayne’s never been married. And she’s not dating anyone that I know of. No one serious, anyway… not since Hollis Brown. That was a while back. Rumor is he cheated.”
Everything inside me tightens. “Does he live here?”
“Nah. Moved somewhere near Gary. Indiana,” he clarifies, watching me a little too closely as I mask my relief. “His parents are still here, though. Why?”
“Gathering intelligence.”
“Is that what you’re calling it?” He grins.
“What else would I call it?”
“Just saying, I don’t think your interest is purely campaign-related.” His smirk is all-knowing. “But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
I shake my head like he’s tripping, because the more I protest, the more I give away.
When the hour’s up, we toss our wrappers and cans into the recycle bin and walk back to the office.
In Washington, I wouldn’t have direct contact with an opposing candidate—only their office—but this is Bayside. So I prepare for tomorrow’s meeting by doing what I would do if Rayne Webber weren’t Luna.
Before my system shuts down at six, I receive Anika’s response.
The thought of that meeting puts a ripple in my chest. Makes me hit the gym hard.
Bayside Fitness is modest, but offers what I need. Free weights, treadmills, stationary bikes. A shower, in case I want to drop in one morning before work.
I push my body, hoping it will clear my head and help me sleep. When I leave, the sun’s nearly gone. All the shops are closed on the boardwalk. Fortunately, the Marina Market is still open. I hadn’t stocked my fridge with anything other than milk for cereal and beer to wash down the leftovers.
I can cook, Gogo made sure of that. But I never did in Washington. Dinner was take-out at my desk. I pick up fresh ingredients for simple dishes and grab a few of Neo’s favorite snacks. In the produce section, I see dark curls and freeze.
It’s not Luna. Relief and disappointment collide at once.
Back at the house, a place I’m still making home, I season chicken, put it in the oven to roast with cubed potatoes and vegetables. Starving, I grab a peach to tide me over.
It’s got that perfect ripeness. A give in the flesh when I squeeze, and the bite is sweet and juicy, dribbling down my chin.
I torture myself with images of Luna. My face between her legs, how wet she was, how sweet she tasted on my tongue, how she fisted my hair while she came all over my mouth, soaking my beard.
I toss the peach seed into the compost bag, and make a dash to the shower—picturing Luna while fucking my hand under the warm spray.
But as the tension drains from my body and my chest stops heaving, it’s not enough.
What I really want… what I really need… is Luna.