Vows We Broke

Chapter 1

Harley

Hazy light filters through our bedroom curtains in lazy golden stripes.

I blink away sleep, finding myself in that peaceful space between dreams and reality.

Beside me, Skyler breathes deeply, one arm flung across the pillow, his dark hair rumpled against the white pillowcase.

There’s the slight furrow between his brows that never fully relaxes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the barely perceptible twitch of his fingers as he dreams.

These quiet moments feel stolen. Precious.

Our bedroom tells the story of us better than words ever could.

My case files are stacked neatly on my nightstand, color-coded tabs marking urgent client needs.

Skyler’s architectural magazines spill across his side, dog-eared pages marking inspiration for future projects.

The dresser holds framed snapshots of our life together—hiking in the mountains, laughing at his cousin’s wedding, my head on his shoulder at sunset by the lake.

A silver ring box sits in my top drawer, waiting for the perfect moment.

Four months, and I’ll be Harley Thompson.

The name still feels strange in my mouth.

I slide from beneath the covers, careful not to disturb the mattress. Skyler shifts, reaching unconsciously for the warm space I’ve vacated. My heart catches at the gesture.

The hardwood floor chills my bare feet as I pad to the bathroom.

I shut the door softly before flipping on the light, squinting at my reflection.

My hair stands in dark waves around my face, defying gravity in ways that would fascinate physicists.

I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and attempt to tame the wild mass on my head into something resembling a professional social worker rather than someone who stuck their finger in an electrical socket.

Today’s schedule scrolls through my mind: two home visits, a court appearance for the Johnson case, paperwork that multiplies like rabbits every time I turn my back. I apply minimal makeup, just enough to look alive under the office’s harsh fluorescent lighting.

When I emerge, the apartment smells like dark roast coffee with hints of chocolate and cinnamon.

Skyler stands at the kitchen counter, his back to me, shoulders moving slightly as he hums something under his breath.

He’s pulled on sweatpants but remains shirtless, the morning light catching on the planes of his back.

I allow myself a moment of appreciation before he senses my presence.

“Were you planning to wake up today, or should I have called in sick for you?” He turns, coffee mug extended like a peace offering, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

I accept the mug, inhaling the steam. “Some of us need beauty sleep.”

“Clearly, it’s not working.” His eyes dance with mischief as he reaches out to tug at a particularly rebellious strand of my hair.

I swat his hand away, failing to suppress my smile. “You’re supposed to say I’m beautiful no matter what.”

“You’re beautiful,” he says, suddenly serious. His finger traces my jawline. “Even with that impressive bird’s nest situation happening up there.”

I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the coffee. “Charming.”

“It’s why you agreed to marry me.”

“I agreed for the coffee.” I take a deliberate sip, maintaining eye contact. “This is excellent blackmail material.”

Skyler laughs, the sound filling our kitchen. “I’ve created a monster.”

We move around each other—him reaching for mugs while I open the fridge, me ducking under his arm as he grabs plates from the cabinet. Three years of practice have turned us into choreographed partners, anticipating movements before they happen.

As I lean against the counter, his phone vibrates against the granite, a sharp, rhythmic buzzing that cuts through the quiet. Skyler’s gaze flickers to the screen, his smile faltering for just a second before he catches himself.

I arch an eyebrow, gesturing to the device with my mug. “You’re criticizing my bird’s nest when your phone is chirping like that?”

He huffs a soft laugh and immediately slides the phone into his pocket, out of sight. “Sorry, baby. I know how much you hate it when I’m on that thing while we’re together.” He steps back into my space, pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead. “The world can wait ten more minutes.”

He retrieves eggs from the refrigerator while I steal a piece of bread from the toaster. Our fingers brush when I hand him the butter, a casual touch that still sends electricity through my skin.

“You have the Henderson meeting today?” I ask, leaning against the counter.

“Nine o’clock.” He cracks eggs into a bowl. “Dad’s sending over preliminary numbers for the project.”

I nod, ignoring the slight tension in my shoulders at the mention of his father. Robert Thompson’s name has that effect on me. It’s always like someone’s suddenly adjusted the thermostat down ten degrees.

“How about you?” Skyler whisks the eggs, not noticing my reaction.

“Court at eleven for a custody case. Then paperwork until my eyes bleed.”

“Sexy.”

“Social work…where the paperwork is endless and the crying happens in bathroom stalls.”

He smiles, pouring eggs into the heated pan. “You love it.”

“I do.” It’s true. Despite the bureaucracy and heartbreak, there’s nothing else I’d rather do.

Skyler slides the spatula under the edges of the eggs, his movements confident and smooth. I watch those architect hands that can sketch a building from nothing, that trace patterns on my skin in the darkness.

I set two plates on our small kitchen table.

We found it at a flea market six months after moving in together.

Skyler saw potential in the scratched surface and wobbly leg; I saw tetanus.

But he restored it over weekends, sanding and staining until it gleamed, proving me wrong in the most beautiful way.

Morning sunlight catches on my engagement ring as I arrange the silverware.

The diamond isn’t large—we both chose practicality over flash—but it catches fire in certain light, sending prisms dancing across our walls.

Sometimes I catch Skyler watching me watch those light patterns, a small, satisfied smile on his face.

“Earth to Harley.” Skyler waves the spatula. “Where’d you go?”

I shake myself from my thoughts. “Just thinking about how domestic we’ve become. Remember when we ate cereal for dinner three weeks in a row?”

“Dark times.” He slides perfectly cooked eggs onto our plates. “My mother would have had a coronary.”

I laugh, the sound lighter than my thoughts at the mention of Elaine Thompson. “Your mother has opinions about everything, from cereal to centerpieces.”

“True.” His smile tightens almost imperceptibly. “But she means well.”

I don’t argue. Morning light, coffee, and Skyler’s bedhead aren’t things I want tainted by thoughts of his parents’ disapproval.

Instead, I rise on my tiptoes and kiss him, tasting coffee and toothpaste and promises. His hands find my waist, anchoring me against him like I might float away if he lets go.

“What was that for?” he murmurs against my mouth.

“Practice,” I whisper back. “For all those mornings after.”

His smile is the sun breaking through clouds. “I like how you think, almost-Mrs. Thompson.”

The name still sounds strange, but in this moment, I think I could get used to it.

I pack our lunches while Skyler adds pepper to his eggs. Muscle memory guides my hands. Turkey and provolone for him, hummus and veggies for me.

“Don’t forget the mustard this time,” Skyler says. “I had a very dry sandwich yesterday.”

“That’s because you refused to use the cafeteria condiments like a normal person.” I squeeze mustard onto his bread with exaggerated drama. “God forbid you touch a communal dispenser.”

“Have you seen those things? Petri dishes with pumps.” He shudders dramatically, then winks.

The rain pattering against our kitchen window reminds me of another rainstorm three years ago. The café on Maple Street . . . the day everything changed.

I was drenched, my umbrella having surrendered to Chicago’s wind two blocks back. Water dripped from my hair onto the counter as I ordered the largest coffee possible. The café was packed with others seeking shelter from the downpour.

There was only one table with a single occupant—a man hunched over papers spread carefully across the surface. Dark hair fell across his forehead as he sketched something with intense focus. I hesitated, then approached.

“Mind if I sit here? It’s either join you or stand in the corner like a wet potted plant.”

He looked up, hazel eyes registering surprise, then amusement. “Be my guest. Though fair warning, these are work drawings.”

I set my coffee down carefully. “I promise to keep my liquids to myself.”

The universe heard my lie and decided to punish me immediately. A businessman pushed past, jostling my arm, and my coffee toppled in slow motion. I lunged for it, but physics had other plans.

Brown liquid spread across his papers like a flood.

“Oh my god.” Horror froze me in place. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for whatever these are.”

Instead of the anger I expected, he laughed. Actually laughed. “Well, that’s one way to critique my design.”

I grabbed napkins, frantically blotting the mess. “Are these important? Please tell me they’re just doodles.”

“Just preliminary sketches for a client presentation.” He helped me mop up, our hands occasionally brushing. “Tomorrow.”

I stopped mid-blot. “Tomorrow? As in, the thing you need for work tomorrow?”

He nodded, still unnervingly calm. “It’s fine. I have the digital files. These were just for my own reference.”

“I feel terrible.” I surveyed the soggy papers. “At least let me buy you coffee for the rest of your natural…” I paused, then added, “and supernatural, life.”

“How about we start with one and see how it goes?” He extended his hand. “Skyler Thompson.”