Tristan
I wake up feeling groggy and disoriented, my head pounding like a bass drum.
The sunlight filtering through the curtains is harsh, making the hangover worse.
I blink, trying to clear the fog from my mind.
It takes me a second to realize where I am—in our bedroom, not some bland hotel suite or my office couch.
My throat is dry, and my mouth tastes like cotton.
I groan and roll over, the movement sending a wave of nausea through me.
It’s late, much later than I usually sleep.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand and see it’s well past ten.
Thank god it’s the weekend and I don’t have to drag myself into the office.
As I try to gather my thoughts, fragments of last night come back to me. The bar, the drinks, the confrontation with my mother. What I discovered about my father’s cancer and his secrets.
The bed beside me is empty, but when I look over, I see a glass of water and some pills on the nightstand. Chloe must have left them for me. I reach for the pills and swallow them down with the water, feeling a small surge of gratitude.
I sit up slowly, massaging my temples to try and ease the pounding headache filling my skull. The painkillers should help soon, but right now, I need something more immediate. A shower.
Dragging myself out of bed, I head to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes as I go. The cool tiles under my feet are a shock, but they help clear some of the fog from my mind. I turn on the shower, letting the water run until it’s hot, and then step under the spray.
I stand there for a while, just letting the heat sink into my muscles, easing the tension and pain. Slowly, I start to feel human again. The combination of the shower and the painkillers begins to work, dulling the throbbing in my head to a manageable level.
I wash my hair, scrub my face, and rinse away the regrets and exhaustion. By the time I turn off the water and step out, I’m feeling more like myself. I towel off, comb through my hair, and throw on some clean clothes.
As I head downstairs, the smell of coffee greets me, mixing with the salty tang of the ocean breeze coming through the open windows. The house is quiet except for the soft sound of waves crashing against the shore outside.
I head to the kitchen, drawn by the smell of fresh coffee. The pot is still steaming. I pour myself a cup, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and into my hands.
With my coffee in hand, I step outside onto the patio.
The view is incredible as always, the ocean stretching endlessly in front of me.
The waves crash against the shore in a steady rhythm, the sound soothing and constant.
I take a deep breath, letting the salty air fill my lungs, hoping it’ll help clear out the rest of my hangover.
I sit quietly, the warmth of the sun and the steady crash of the waves working to settle the mess inside me. From my spot on the patio, I take in the view of the beach below.
Down at the edge of the water, I can see Chloe, her figure outlined against the ocean. She walks along the shoreline, her feet just skimming the edge of the waves as they lap at the sand.
I watch her, sipping my coffee and letting the sight of her bring me some peace. Then I set my cup down on one of the patio tables and make my way toward the staircase that leads to the sea.
I take a deep breath, taking in the salty tang of the ocean air, and make my way down the steps to join her.
As I approach, she looks up and smiles. “Hey,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m alright,” I say, managing a small smile in return. “Thanks for the painkillers. They helped a lot.”
“I’m glad,” she says, her eyes scanning my face as if checking for any lingering signs of discomfort. “You had me worried last night.”
I take her hand and squeeze it. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
She continues along the beach, and I fall into step beside her. The breeze stirs her hair, lifting the dark strands. She’s dressed in a tank top and a pair of light, flowing pants that shift with every movement.
“What happened, Tristan?” she asks as we walk. “What got you so fucked up?”
I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. I’ve always been good at keeping my emotions under wraps, but the way she’s looking at me—my wife, concern in her eyes—makes it impossible to deny her.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “I found something in my father’s files yesterday,” I begin. “Something I wasn’t supposed to see.”
She stays silent, waiting for me to continue, her hand warm in mine.
“My dad had cancer,” I say, the words tasting bitter as they leave my mouth. “Years ago, when I was just a kid. He never told us. He went through treatment, beat it, and kept it all a secret.”
Chloe’s grip tightens on my hand. “I had no idea.”
“Neither did I.” My voice cracks slightly. “But that wasn’t the worst part. I found out that the cancer came back. Recently. Aggressive. And he didn’t tell any of us. Neither did my mother, even though she knew the whole time.”
Her eyes widen in shock. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”
“I confronted my mom about it.” My emotions start to push to the surface. “She admitted that she knew about the recurrence. But she didn’t know if his death was an accident or… or something else.”
Chloe’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes welling up with tears. “Tristan…”
As we continue walking along the beach, I take a deep breath, getting ready to say what I need to say. Chloe’s concern is obvious, her eyes locked onto mine, waiting for me to open up.
“I think he killed himself.” The words come out in a rush, before I can stop myself. Her grip on my hand tightens. “I think he knew he was going to die, and he… he wanted to be the one to end it. He needed total control over everything, right up to the end.”
The anger and frustration build up inside me, threatening to spill over. I can’t shake the feeling of betrayal running through me.
How can I forgive him for leaving us like this? For robbing us of the chance to truly know him, to say goodbye?
I clench my fists, my chest tight. “I don’t understand why he did it.
” My voice has an edge of anger to it. “My mother said he did it to protect us. That he loved so hard, it hurt to be loved by him. But I don’t feel like making excuses for him right now.
He could have fought, he could have let us in, let us help him, but instead, he just… gave up.”
I swallow hard, my whole body shaking with anger, grief, and confusion. It’s like a storm inside me, contrasting with the calm waves and clear sky above us.
“I don’t care if my father did this to protect me and my brothers. We all still got hurt. We never had a chance to know him, and we didn’t get a chance to help him fight—or even fucking say goodbye!”
I can feel myself starting to lose control, but Chloe’s hand in mine pulls me back from the edge. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my shaking hands and quiet the noise inside me.
“Hey, it’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now. Just breathe.”
I clear my throat, struggling to get out the words. “I… I’m worried that I’ll end up just like him.”
Chloe meets my gaze. “I don’t think you could.”
I stare at her, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you’re nothing like your father. Not at all.”
As I hold her close, the warmth of her body against mine, I feel some of the tension ease. I rest my forehead against hers.
“You’re the only good thing to come out of this whole fucked up scenario,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
She draws back at that, a little line appearing between her brows as she bites her lower lip.
“Do you remember what you said last night?” she asks.
My heart skips a beat at the thought of what I might have said in my drunken stupor. I search my memory, but it’s hazy and broken up, the events of the previous night blurred by the fog of alcohol.
“No,” I reply honestly. “I don’t remember much after I got home.”
The concern in her eyes deepens, and I can’t shake the feeling that I might have said something to hurt her.
“I hope it wasn’t anything bad.”
“No,” she says quickly, and relief floods me. “Nothing bad. I promise.”
Then she reaches up to kiss me, her lips warm against mine as she trails her fingertips lightly over my cheeks as if mapping the contours of my face.
I wrap my arms around her like she’s a lifeline, because in this moment, that’s exactly what she is.
Despite the hangover still throbbing in my temples, everything else falls away the moment her lips are on mine.
She kisses me like she’s trying to pull me back from wherever I went last night, soft and insistent, and I feel the tension that’s been coiled in my chest since yesterday start to loosen.
My hands thread into her hair and I kiss her back, deeper, the taste of her doing more to clear my head than the shower or the painkillers did.
The need for her builds fast and I stop trying to keep any distance between us, pulling her closer, my mouth moving against hers with more urgency than I intended.
She makes a small sound against my lips and presses closer, her fingers curling into the front of my shirt, and that’s the end of any patience I had left.
I slide my hands under her thighs and lift her, and she gasps softly and wraps her legs around me, her arms locking around my neck.
I carry her toward the house still kissing her, navigating by feel, one hand braced against the doorframe as we make it inside and up the stairs without either of us breaking the kiss for longer than a second.
I take her out onto the balcony and drop into the wide chair there with her in my lap.
The morning sun is warm on my skin and the ocean stretches out beyond the railing, and the balcony is sheltered enough on all sides that there’s no one to see us except the water and the pale strip of beach below.
She shifts against me almost immediately, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate circle, and my hands fly to her waist to stop her. I can feel the heat of her even through both our clothes, and my jaw tightens.
“If you keep doing that,” I say, my voice already rough, “I’m going to come before I ever get inside you. You feel too fucking good.”
She looks at me from under her lashes, her lip caught between her teeth, and then presses her mouth back to mine, her hips making another slow, deliberate roll despite my grip on her waist. I groan against her mouth and pull her harder against me, which doesn’t help matters at all.
“I need you,” I murmur against her lips, my hands sliding up her sides, feeling the warmth of her skin through her shirt. “Fuck, I need you so much right now. You have no idea how perfect you are. How perfect for me.”
“Tristan,” she breathes against my mouth, and the way she says it makes my grip on her tighten involuntarily.
I reach for the hem of her tank top and pull it over her head, dropping it somewhere behind me.
The morning sun falls across her skin, highlighting the fullness of her breasts, the curve of her waist, and the way the sun catches the auburn threaded through her dark hair.
She’s so beautiful it does something to my chest that I’ve stopped trying to make sense of.
“God,” I rasp. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”
She flushes at that, her lips parting, and before she can brush off my words or deflect them, I bring my mouth to her breast, filling my hands with both of them, working her nipple with my tongue while she arches into me.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, and she makes soft sounds that turn from whimpers to mewls.
I resist the urge to rush even though every part of me is pushing to move faster, switching from one side to the other, feeling her responses build beneath my hands.
I finally lift her enough to get her out of her skirt, and she steps away from the pooled fabric and stands over me, the ocean stretching out behind her and the morning sun bright on her skin.
I could look at her like this all day. Then she drops to her knees in front of the chair and reaches for my zipper, working my pants and boxer briefs down to free my cock.
She wraps her fingers around me and strokes once, and I exhale hard and grip the arms of the chair to keep still.
She climbs back into my lap and lowers herself until her pussy lips are resting on my shaft, hot and slick, and the feel of it makes my body go taut. She rolls her hips in a slow, testing drag, not taking me in yet, and my cock pulses hard against her with every pass.
My hands find her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there as precum leaks from my tip.
“Put me inside you,” I demand, holding her gaze.
She bites her lip, her delicate throat working as she swallows. Then she reaches down and wraps her fingers around me, lining me up. When her entrance starts to envelop the head of my cock, a deep groan resonates in my chest.
“Fuck, yes,” I force out. “Just like that. I want to watch you ride me, dimples.”