Chapter 4
Adam
Three hours. That's all the sleep I manage—a thin, restless thing stretched across too many thoughts. My phone buzzed all night, June's name at the top, and even in darkness, I couldn't stop myself from scrolling through our messages again and again.
She'd replied: "That makes two of us." And neither of us stopped there.
We'd circled each other in the dark—cautious, daring, probably foolish—until nearly four a.m., words building slow heat neither of us was ready to name.
It wasn't the last text so much as the feeling left behind that won't let me go.
We passed hours like this, not crossing any explicit lines, but every admission was feeding a fire on both ends, more honest than I meant, more necessary than I'd realized. Everything felt balanced on the edge—dangerous, and alive.
I'm strung tight, restless. I close my eyes and she's there—sundress, wide eyes, lips parted in surprise. I tell myself to calm down, but my body has other ideas. I can feel myself hardening as my arousal takes over. God, I want her.
Those full lips, those kind eyes, the way her dress shifted with the swell of her glorious chest.
I let out a groan as I take myself in hand, imagining June's touch. Imagining those full lips wrapped around my length, taking me deep—
Emma's voice breaks through the haze, slicing into my spiraling lust. "Daddy!" she chirps from the hallway, feet thudding toward my door. "It's morning time! You have to get up!"
I manage to right myself just as she bursts in, a whirlwind of color—shirt on backwards, socks clashing, hair wild. She squints at me, all expectation.
"Can we see June today?" Her hope is so pure I almost laugh.
I glance at the clock—7:32 a.m.—and dredge up every responsible-parent excuse. "Maybe, Em. It's Sunday, she might be busy."
Emma takes no prisoners. She plants herself on the edge of my bed, eyes narrowing with an uncanny kind of wisdom. "You like her."
"June?" I fumble, heart jumping to my throat. "She's nice. I like that she's nice to you."
She shakes her head, curls bouncing. "No, you like her, like her. Like how Prince Eric likes Ariel." She grins, gap-toothed and devastating.
The hit lands hard—I'm in trouble. Even she can see it now, the thing burning through me that I've been trying to muffle. It's written all over me, and if Emma knows?
I rub my eyes and give in. "You really want to see June today?"
Emma nods, bouncing off the bed, her socks skidding on the hardwood. "Yes! And maybe we can make cookies. Or cake. Or—anything." She's already plotting the future, and for a wild moment, I'm right there with her.
Because if what happened last night was real, neither of us will be able to go back to pretending for much longer.
Emma chatters her way through breakfast, every other sentence curled around June—June's cookies, June's "pretty" hair, June's magical ability to turn flour and eggs into happiness.
I pour cereal, half-listening, but her excitement sticks, infectious and wild.
She wants to bake, to learn, and she wants June as her teacher.
My heart does something complicated, and I try not to look too eager.
June's off today, maybe we can drop by. Just a neighborly visit. Just for Emma.
Except that's a lie and I know it.
I'm not thinking straight. My thoughts loop over last night's texts.
Her, "That makes two of us," the easy drift into honesty, the confessions neither of us should have made.
The idea of seeing June again—not hiding behind words or screens—makes me nervous in a way I haven't been since high school.
I catch myself staring at my reflection in the microwave door, wondering if I measure up.
And if I look a little harder, maybe I'll find a man who deserves her.
After breakfast, Emma disappears upstairs to reconstruct her sock situation and debate which hair bow sends the right baking message.
I drift to my bedroom, open my closet, and do something I never do.
I weigh outfits like a teenager prepping for prom.
First a faded t-shirt, then a blue button-down, then a soft gray henley.
The henley wins—better on the shoulders, understated but nice.
Perfect for "just dropping by." At least that's the story I'm telling myself.
Emma pops back in, rainbow barrettes clipped in odd places. "Daddy, you look nice! Are you trying to look nice for June?"
My ears burn. I glance away, then shrug, trying for casual. "You never know who might answer the door."
She's not fooled—six-year-olds never are. She grins, delighted at her own cleverness. "Can we go now?"
I grab my front door keys, smooth a hand through my hair, then stop. Am I really doing this? Would June mind if we show up?
"Let's go, princess," I say, voice steadier than my heartbeat. "But remember, June might be busy."
Emma barrels out ahead—fearless and certain. I trail after her, carrying hope and nerves, trying to believe that today might be just the start of something bigger than either of us knows.
Emma skips ahead, humming something Disney, all confidence and optimism. I follow behind, carrying the weight of last night's texts and the memory of June at my door, eyes wide, lips parted, looking at me like I'd knocked the air from her lungs.
I catch movement through the kitchen window—June, wearing an oversized cardigan and leggings, smiling at something as she moves around the space. She's relaxed, unguarded, and my chest lightens. This is her sanctuary, and we're about to walk into it uninvited.
Emma bounds up the porch steps before I can second-guess. She knocks—three rapid, enthusiastic thumps—and bounces on her toes. I climb slower, nerves rattling, trying to find something resembling composure.
The door swings open, and there she is.
June freezes, eyes going wide, lips parting in surprise. Her hair is wilder than usual, the soft waves framing her face. No makeup, barefoot, flour dusted across one cheek—her signature. She's beautiful.
For a beat, neither of us speaks. The air charges, thick with everything we said in the dark, everything we didn't say. Her gaze flicks from Emma to me, and I watch color bloom across her cheeks.
"Hi," I manage, voice rough.
"Hi," she echoes, breathless.
Emma saves us both. "June! Can we bake cookies today? Please? Daddy said maybe you'd teach me, and I really, really want to learn, and—"
June's smile shifts, softens, becomes something just for Emma. "Of course, sweetheart." Then her eyes meet mine again, uncertain, hopeful. "I mean, if that's okay? My kitchen's kind of a mess, but you're welcome to come in."
"We don't want to intrude," I say, though every part of me wants to step closer, cross the threshold, stay.
June shakes her head, stepping back, pulling the door wider. "You're not. I was just... experimenting. Come in."
Emma darts past her, already cataloging the space with wide, curious eyes. I linger on the porch, close enough now that I catch the scent of vanilla and something floral clinging to June's skin. Her gaze holds mine, and I see it—the same want, the same fear, the same impossible hope.
"Thank you," I say quietly, just for her.
She nods, lips curving. "Anytime, Adam."
I step inside, and the door closes softly behind us.
June's kitchen is exactly like her—a blend of order and warmth, professional precision softened by personal touches.
Vintage mixing bowls stacked on open shelves, cookbooks wedged everywhere, a window ledge crowded with herbs.
The counters are dusted with flour, a half-finished batch of something cooling on a wire rack.
It smells like butter and sugar and home.
Emma's already exploring, fingers hovering over a stand mixer like it's treasure. "Can I touch it?"
June laughs, easy and bright. "You can do better than touch it. You can use it." She pulls out a step stool, pats it. "Come on up, sweetheart. First rule of baking, have fun."
Emma scrambles up, eyes shining. June ties a too-big apron around her—pale blue with tiny cupcakes printed on it—and something in my chest twists. This moment, this tenderness, feels significant in a way I can't name.
June catches my eye over Emma's head, smiling softly. She knows what this means to me, to us.
"What about me?" I ask, trying for casual. "Do I get an apron?"
Her eyes dance, mischief sparking. "Only if you promise to follow instructions, Mr. Firefighter."
"I'm very good at following instructions."
She raises a knowing eyebrow at me as she moves to a drawer, pulling out an apron, and I know immediately I'm in trouble. It's bright pink with ruffles along the edges, something between vintage kitsch and outright comedy.
I don't hesitate. I take it, loop it over my head, tie it at my waist. Emma dissolves into giggles. "Daddy, you look silly!"
I strike a pose, hands on hips. "I look fabulous."
June's laugh is full and unguarded, the kind that makes you want to hear it again and again. Our eyes meet, and the air shifts—playful, but something underneath. Something that hums.
She turns back to the counter, gathering ingredients. "We're making sugar cookies. Simple, but they teach you the basics." She demonstrates measuring flour, leveling it with a knife. "Precision matters in baking. Everything has to balance."
I step closer, watching her hands—the confidence, the grace. She makes it look effortless.
"Your turn," she says, nudging a bowl toward me.
I measure, and she leans in to check my work.
Her shoulder brushes my arm, sending a jolt through me.
The kitchen isn't small, but somehow there's never enough space between us.
Every movement brings contact—her hip grazing mine as she reaches for sugar, our hands colliding over the same measuring cup, her fingers steadying mine as she corrects my grip on the whisk.
Each touch is electric, leaving trails of awareness I can't ignore.