Chapter 12
Adam
At the station the day drags, each minute stretching longer than the last. I keep waiting for something—a call, a fire alarm, any excuse to speed things up—but there's only the steady tick of the clock and this gnawing impatience coiled in my chest. I've worn a dry patch on my palm from rubbing it against my jeans, and every time I check my watch, it's moved maybe two minutes.
Torture.
Everything moves in slow motion. I'm sorting gear, grinding through paperwork that should take ten minutes but stretches to an hour, my mind never really on any of it. I'm useless at the lunch table—barely hear Torres when he says my name.
"Lane, you with us?"
I look up, blinking. "Yeah. Sorry, Cap. Just tired."
He narrows his eyes, half-suspecting, half-smirking. "Tired, or distracted by a certain baker?"
The guys snicker. I don't dignify it with an answer. Any comeback will only give me away.
I lean back in my chair and breathe through my nose, willing my pulse to slow, fighting the urge to grab my phone and check the time again.
Tonight, the house will be empty. No Emma, no cautious footsteps overhead, no sudden interruptions or pretending we don't want each other halfway out of our skin.
Just me and June, finally, with all the hours we need.
Even Sarah's threats don't burn as sharp today—not when tonight is so close. Maybe I'm reckless, letting myself hope, but I'm tired of being anxious. Tired of waiting.
By mid-afternoon I'm restless, bouncing my knee, barely hiding the stupid grin I keep catching in my reflection every time I pass a window. The anticipation makes everything sharper, more electric. Like being eighteen again, counting down to something you never really believed you'd get to have.
I finish my shift moving like I'm underwater, mind already racing ahead to this evening—to June's soft laugh, to tasting her skin and hearing her moan my name.
This day refuses to end.
But every slow second is another step closer to what I want most.
Her.
***
By the time I pull up to Maddie Henderson's, it's just going dark.
The porch light already glows, catching a mess of footprints in the old snow, bikes parked in a line like a miniature parade.
Emma's excitement is palpable from the back seat, wrestling with her pillow, Mr. Fluffkins, and the overnight bag June helped her pack.
I walk her to the door. Mrs. Henderson opens it before we even knock, smiling warmly. "Why, hello Adam! Emma, come on in—we've got pizza and movies and popcorn, the works."
Emma bounds through the door, barely remembering to call "Bye Daddy!" over her shoulder before vanishing inside in a whirlwind of pajamas and excitement. Mrs. Henderson laughs, soft and fond, then turns her gaze on me.
"Have a nice night, Adam," she says—and there's a glint in her eyes, like she knows exactly what kind of night I'm planning.
I try not to blush. I fail. "Thanks, Mrs. Henderson. Tell Jen I'll be back for her at ten tomorrow morning."
She winks. "Take your time, dear."
I drive home with the radio low, heart pounding harder with every mile. The streetlights flicker on as the sun dips below the horizon. Every turn feels heavier, more electric—like I'm driving toward the edge of something important.
By the time I pull into my driveway, my hands are shaking slightly on the wheel.
I spot June's silhouette through the kitchen window—tousled blonde hair, wearing a light blue checked shirt, jeans hugging her hips. Nothing fancy.
Perfect.
She's waiting for me.
Inside, the house smells warm and inviting. June stands barefoot by the counter, turning to face me as the door clicks shut.
"We’re alone?" Her voice is quiet, eyes searching mine.
"We’re alone." I shrug off my coat and toss my keys in the bowl. "Until ten tomorrow morning."
She exhales slowly. "That's... a lot of hours."
"Sixteen, roughly." I cross to her, find her hands, thumbs tracing circles over her knuckles. They're cold, trembling slightly. She doesn't pull away.
We stand there, suspended between all the nights of waiting and this one—the weight of finally being alone settling over us. All the buildup, the almost-moments, the interrupted kisses. It all rushes in. Nerves and urgency mixing in the space between breaths.
June laughs, shaky. "I have no idea what to do now."
"Neither do I." I grin, relief breaking through. "Which is weird, because I've thought about nothing else for quite some time."
"Dinner first?" she teases—but her voice is breathless.
"I should be a gentleman and say yes." My hands slide up her arms, into her hair, mouth hovering just above hers. "But I've waited long enough."
Her answer is pulling me down into a kiss—deeper than before, hungrier, no hesitation.
For the first time, there's nothing holding us back. No Emma upstairs. No interruptions. No clock ticking down.
Finally.
And all I can think about is finally, having her. Completely.
We don't make it past the stairs. June's breathless laugh echoes in the narrow hallway as she tugs me after her, that checked shirt already half shoved off one shoulder.
My own shirt ends up forgotten on the banister, hers abandoned on the fifth step, my jeans kicked off somewhere near the landing.
Every glance, every brush of skin is urgent—yes, finally, yes, please.
By the time she backs through the bedroom doorway, we're both down to underwear, breathing hard, hearts pounding.
For a split second, we go still.
The room is quiet. Real.
It's really happening.
June's voice comes out shaky. "We're really doing this."
I steady her with both hands at her waist, keeping my own nerves in check. "We're doing whatever you're comfortable with. We can stop anytime."
Her lips tip up—brave and scared at once. "I don't want to stop. I just... might need guidance."
A wave of tenderness breaks through the heat. "Tell me what feels good. I'll follow your lead."
I lay her back against the quilt, moving slow, savoring every inch of bare skin. She arches beneath my mouth as I kiss her neck, her collarbone, the curve where shoulder meets chest. I want her to feel it—how much I want her, how much I want her to want this.
When my mouth finds her breast, she gasps, hips lifting off the bed.
I take my time here—learning the weight of her, the softness, the way she shivers when I use my tongue.
Her fingers curl into my hair, tightening, pulling me closer rather than away.
Like she can't get enough. Like she's forgotten to be nervous.
The sound she makes crawls straight through me.
"Good?" I murmur against her skin.
"Very," she breathes, the word barely holding together.
Her skin prickles under my palms as I trace lower, fingers skimming the edge of her underwear. "Can I?"
She bites her lip, nods. "Please."
Slow, careful, reverent—I slide them down and toss them aside. I settle between her thighs, hands spreading them gently. "I want to taste you. Is that okay?"
June nods so hard her hair fans across the pillow. "Yes. God, yes."
The first touch of my tongue makes her hands fly to my shoulders, her thighs quiver, a broken sound tearing from her throat.
I take my time—tracing, tasting, listening.
Learning exactly what makes her breath stutter, what makes her hips chase my mouth, what makes her forget herself entirely and just feel.
Every sharp intake of breath is a map I'm memorizing. Every shiver is a gift.
When she gets close, I pull back. She swears at me—breathless, desperate—and I grin against her thigh.
"Adam, please—"
"Not yet," I murmur, and start again from the beginning.
By the time I finally let her fall, she's unguarded and wild—her whole body arching, my name tangled in her cry.
Beautiful.
Later, when the world returns and her breathing evens out, I move up beside her. She's glowing, eyes dazed, cheeks flushed.
"Your turn," she manages, shy but determined.
I cup her cheek. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." Her hand trembles slightly, but her gaze is steady. "Teach me what you like."
She's nervous at first—tentative, uncertain, her touch feather-light, like she's afraid of doing it wrong.
I cover her hand with mine, guiding her, feel her confidence build as I react to her.
When she realizes she has power here—real power, the ability to make me lose my composure completely—something shifts in her. She grows bolder. More deliberate.
When she tries her mouth, my whole body goes rigid.
"June—" Her name comes out wrecked, barely recognizable.
She looks up at me—checking, reading my face—and what she finds there makes her smile against my skin. She keeps going, braver now, following every sound I can't hold back, every involuntary movement, until I'm gripping the sheets and fighting to hold on.
"Angel—" The word tears out of me before I can stop it, rough and undone. "Angel, I'm gonna—"
I warn her. Give her every chance to pull back.
She doesn't pull away.
Something cracks open in my chest—surprise and tenderness and desire all tangled together.
Afterwards, we lie there, bodies cooling, hearts finally steady.
June half-laughs, half-serious. "We didn't actually have sex."
"No," I say, brushing hair from her face, smiling. "Is that okay?"
"Yeah. I think..." She pauses, choosing her words. "When we do that, I want to really feel it. Not be worried about Sarah, or court, or anything but us."
I kiss her forehead, something in my chest going soft. "I'll wait as long as you need."
She nestles closer, voice barely a whisper. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For making me feel safe. For making this... easy."
I swallow hard, chest tight. "It's never been like this for me either," I admit quietly.
Her eyes find mine in the dim light. "No?"
"No. This feels..." I search for the word. "Special."
She smiles—soft and real—and presses a kiss to my chest. "It is special."
We fall asleep like that—skin to skin, her head tucked under my chin, the world outside finally, mercifully quiet.
***
Soft sunlight presses through the curtains. I surface slowly, tangled in sheets and the deep, steady warmth of June curled against my side. Her breath slow and even, face completely peaceful in a way I've never seen before.
For a minute, I don't move. I just watch her—the little furrow between her eyebrows, the way her lips quirk slightly like she's dreaming something good. There's a sweetness in the silence, a comfort so deep it feels dangerous.
Like I could get used to waking up like this.
Like I want to.
My arm tightens around her instinctively. Last night wasn't perfect or choreographed—it was messy and honest and ours. I don't ever want to let it go.
Eventually, the world intrudes.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand—sharp, insistent, cutting through the quiet. I reach out carefully, trying not to jostle June.
Unknown number. Just a string of digits.
Dread pools in my stomach before I even unlock it.
The first text is a photo. My house. The front porch, taken from the street. The timestamp reads last night.
Cold prickles up the back of my neck.
I scroll. Another photo. My kitchen window—June's silhouette caught in the light, me behind her, arms around her waist. Then a third. My bedroom window. Curtains not fully drawn, the bed visible. Just enough for someone to know exactly what they're looking at.
A message follows:
You and June look quite at home. Curious what the court will think of your 'family time.' —S
Ice floods my veins. My pulse hammers in my ears.
June stirs beside me, blinking up sleepily. "Morning." Her smile fades the moment she sees my face. "Adam? What is it?"
I can barely find my voice. "You need to see this."
I hand her the phone.
She stares at the screen, color draining from her cheeks as she scrolls. "She was watching us? Last night?"
"Or she sent someone to." My jaw clenches so hard it aches, rage and fear warring inside me.
June sinks back against the pillows, knuckles white around my phone. "These photos... Adam, this could be—"
"I know." My mind is already spinning, cataloging damage. "They'll twist it into something it's not."
For a moment, we're both silent—exposed, vulnerable, the morning turning sharp and cold.
I pull her closer, even though it feels like the ground is crumbling beneath us. "We'll figure this out," I whisper, trying to make myself believe it.
But Sarah's already won something.
She's taken our perfect night and turned it into evidence.
Into ammunition.
June's voice is small, trembling. "What do we do?"
I press a kiss to her forehead, wishing I had an answer that didn't feel like losing.
"We call Michael," I say finally. "We document everything. And we don't let her scare us into hiding."
But even as I say it, I can feel everything shifting.
The weight of what we've done—what we are—suddenly feels heavier than it did last night.
Reckless. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Sarah trying to twist something beautiful and special into something sordid and ugly.