Chapter 10
Harvey
Sleep didn’t come. Not really. The house was too still, the kind of quiet that pressed against the walls and slipped under the door. From somewhere far off came the whisper of wind through the trees, the silence felt intentional, designed.
What haunted the dark wasn’t the house—it was her.
The way her breathing had trembled when I’d touched her. The way her eyes had lifted to mine before I leaned in and pressed my lips to her forehead.
God help me, I should’ve kissed her. Really kissed her.
My hands fisted in the sheets as the memory struck again—the soft brush of her hair against my jaw, the warmth of her skin beneath my palms, the way her scent lingered—clean, delicate, with the faintest hint of vanilla.
I could almost taste her in the air between us, could feel the tremor in my restraint when she looked at me like that—like she remembered everything we never said.
What would she taste like now?
Would she still taste like the memory that had haunted me for ten long years—something both sweet and off-limits, a promise I never got to keep?
I turned onto my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the ache pressing deep in my chest. The need was brutal, primitive.
It wasn’t just desire. It was something that clawed at the edges of my restraint—wanting to make her feel cherished, wanted, loved until she forgot what it meant to be alone, but I want to feel her melt against me and know she was safe there too.
But reality crept in like the cold that always finds its way through old walls.
She lived five hours away, in another world—her son, her company, her life here on Lake Washington, in a different state than me.
Mine was back in Miller’s Creek. My mother needed me, the crew needed me.
How could we possibly fit into each other’s worlds without breaking something that mattered?
The answer felt too far away, too fragile to hold.
When sleep finally took me, it came in shards—flashes of her laughter, the sound of waves against the dock, the warmth of her body beside mine that wasn’t really there. Her voice, soft in the dark, her eyes meeting mine across a decade of silence, the taste of regret that never faded.
The smell of coffee woke me before the light did. I sat up, scrubbing a hand over my face, the quiet of morning broken by the low hum of voices downstairs. A child’s laugh—light, fleeting. Ethan. The sound pulled a smile from somewhere deep, one I hadn’t used in a long time.
By the time I stepped into the kitchen, the sun had pushed through the fog, spilling gold through the tall windows. Marta was moving fast, hair pinned tight, voice brisk but kind as she hurried Ethan into his jacket.
“Shoes, sweetheart. Backpack. Let’s go or you’ll miss the bell.”
Ethan spotted me, grin splitting his face wide open. “Harvey!”
Before I could brace myself, he barreled into me, small arms wrapping tight around my waist. It hit hard—right in the chest, that unexpected warmth.
I froze for half a heartbeat before I bent and returned the hug.
His hair smelled of shampoo and sunshine.
I didn’t know it was possible to care that fast for someone else’s kid.
but something inside me twisted—sharp and tender all at once.
“Hey, champ,” I murmured, ruffling his hair. “Have a great day at school, alright?”
He tilted his head up, eyes bright. “You’ll come to one of my games sometime, right?”
My throat tightened. “Yeah,” I said softly. “We’ll figure it out soon, okay?”
He nodded and ran for the door, backpack bouncing. Something twisted inside me—sharp and tender all at once. I hadn’t expected to feel that kind of pull toward someone else’s kid, but Ethan had a way of slipping right under my skin before I even realized it.
Marta’s knowing smile flickered as she ushered him toward the door. When the front door clicked shut behind them, the silence felt too big.
Then I saw her.
Aria stood near the window, the headset tucked against her ear, the soft morning light wrapping around her like something heaven-made.
The sun painted her in gold, catching the fine strands of her hair, the graceful lines of her shoulders beneath the silk of her blouse.
Her reflection shimmered against the glass, half woman, half dream.
“Make sure the press release goes out by noon,” she said quietly into her Bluetooth, voice low, commanding, all business—until her eyes flicked toward me.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single look.
She smiled, just a little. Enough to make my lungs stop working right.
Every damn feeling I’d buried came rushing back—ten years of wanting her, ten years of pretending I didn’t care, ten years of missing what I’d never had.
I’d been ready to tell her that night—to tell her I loved her. And then it all fell apart. I’d believed the worst, let the anger fester until it became the only thing that kept me breathing. But now, knowing the truth—knowing what she’d endured—I hated myself for ever doubting her.
But standing here now, seeing her framed by morning light, hearing the quiet strength in her voice—God, I knew better. I knew the truth.
She had loved me back then. She still did. She already confessed it to me yesterday.
And I couldn’t keep pretending I could wait another day, another hour, another breath.
Because the way she looked right now—bathed in sunlight, strong and fragile all at once—she wasn’t just someone from my past. She was every heartbeat I’d been missing.
I wasn’t sure how we’d make it work. Distance, obligations, all the things that could break us apart again. But for the first time in a decade, I wasn’t afraid of the risk.
I wanted her.
All of her.
And this time, I wasn’t going to let her go.
The house was still, wrapped in that soft hush that comes after everyone leaves. Marta had taken Ethan to school, then running errands, her laughter echoing faintly before the door shut behind her. Now it was just Aria and me—and the silence that held more truth than words ever could.
She stood by the window, the lake stretched out in shades of silver and gold. Morning light spilled over her, catching in her hair, haloing her in a way that made her look untouchable. But God, I wanted to touch her.
Her voice was low, melodic, drifting through the air as she spoke into her Bluetooth. Business Aria. Calm, poised, confident. The woman who built a life miles away from the one that broke her. I should’ve looked away. Should’ve respected the moment. But I couldn’t.
I’d spent ten years trying not to want her, and that went to hell the minute I saw her again.
Every inch of her called to me—the slope of her neck, the soft press of her lips when she listened, the faint rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. I wanted to memorize it all. Wanted to erase every mile, every misunderstanding, every year I’d spent believing she didn’t love me back.
The memory of that night haunted me—the way I’d gone to her, ready to tell her how I felt. How I’d rehearsed the words that never left my mouth. I love you, Aria. Simple, foolish, true. But then everything shattered, and I let anger replace heartbreak because it was easier to carry.
Now, standing in her home, I finally understood what losing her had cost me.
She turned slightly, catching sight of me in the reflection of the glass. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The air felt thick—like it was waiting for something to break. She slipped the earpiece from her ear, her voice trembling just enough to betray her calm.
“Hey,” she said softly.
I took a step closer. “Hey.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, searching, unsure. It hit me then—how long she’d been carrying everything alone. The strength it took to hold her world together while mine fell apart.
“Harvey…” Her voice wavered. “You’re quiet.”
Quiet wasn’t the word for it. I was drowning in everything I hadn’t said.
Another step. The sunlight caught her face, and I saw the faint shimmer in her eyes, the tremor of breath she tried to hide.
“I’ve spent so damn long trying to convince myself that staying away was the right thing,” I murmured. “That I could move on. That maybe what we had—what I felt—was just timing or circumstance. But it wasn’t.” My throat tightened. “It was you. It’s always been you.”
Her lips parted, trembling slightly, but she didn’t speak.
I closed the distance, slow but certain, until she was within reach. My hand lifted before I could stop it, fingers brushing the edge of her jaw. The warmth of her skin sent a shiver through me—soft, electric, alive.
“Tell me to stop,” I whispered.
She didn’t.
Her breath hitched instead, her eyes flicking to my mouth like she was fighting the same battle I was losing.
Ten years of restraint broke in one breath. I leaned in, pressing my forehead to hers, the scent of her—soft vanilla and morning air—pulling me under.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she breathed, the words trembling between us.
“Maybe not,” I said. “But I don’t care.”
Her hand found my chest, right over my pounding heart, as if she needed to feel it beating to believe this was real.
“I’m tired of running from you,” I said, my voice rough with everything I’d buried. “Tired of pretending I don’t think about you every damn day. If this burns, if it breaks me again—I’ll still take it. Because it’s you, Aria. It’s always been you.”
For a second she didn’t move. Then her fingers curled into my shirt, clutching tight, her whisper a tremor against my mouth.
“Then stop pretending.”
And just like that, the space between us disappeared.
Her mouth found mine, soft at first, then desperate, the kiss a storm years in the making. Every breath we stole fed the ache that had lived beneath my ribs since we were kids—since summer nights on the lake when I’d pretended friendship was enough.