The house was quiet now.
Empty.
The kind of empty that echoed—every step, every breath, a reminder of what we’d built and what I’d lost. My heels clicked across the polished hardwood he installed, every inch of it too perfect. Too clean. Too damn cold for a place that once held laughter and lies in equal measure.
He stood at the back window, checking the lock.
Gray shirt. Faded jeans. Tool belt slung low like it had muscle memory. And that ring—still on his finger, even though I knew his wife hadn’t touched him in years.
“Everything tight?” I asked, voice barely more than air.
His eyes met mine in the reflection. Green. Sharp. That quiet kind of intense that made you forget to lie.
“All locked up,” he said. “You’re good to hand it off.”
I nodded. I should’ve walked out. I should’ve thanked him and let the door close. But I didn’t.
Instead, I walked toward him. Slowly. Stupidly.
“I’m not good,” I said.
He turned.
That was the thing about Jake. He never needed to ask what I meant. Not when he could feel it. Not when we both knew the tension between us had been soaked into the drywall of this place.
“You want to talk?” he asked. Calm. Cautious.
“No.”
I stopped a foot away. My heart was pounding.
“You ever going to take that ring off?”
His jaw flexed. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
“It does.”
Jake looked at me then—really looked. The way he always did when my ex was out on a call, and I’d bring lemonade to the porch just to watch him sweat in the sun. The way he always did when he fixed a shelf and I thanked him with a smile that meant something else entirely.
“You shouldn’t want this,” he said.
“But I do.”
His hand went to his belt. Not to drop it. Just to pause. Decide.
I closed the space.
“You ever think about it?” I whispered. “When you were in this house. When I bent over the kitchen island to grab a glass, or leaned over the railing in a towel…”
“Every fucking day,” he said, voice tight.
I reached for the ring. Slid it off. Slowly.
He let me.
And that was the last thread.
He grabbed me like he’d been holding back for a year and was done pretending. His mouth crashed onto mine, teeth and tongue and breathless need. I whimpered—actually whimpered—when he lifted me like I weighed nothing and carried me down the hallway to the bedroom that still smelled faintly like lavender and memory.
He threw me onto the mattress like it offended him.
I scrambled up onto my elbows, heart racing, hair wild. “Are you going to fuck me or stare at me all night?”
He smiled. Mean. Dangerous.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Yes, I do.”
His hands were on my thighs in an instant, spreading me. The zipper of my dress was ripped halfway down before I could blink. The fabric peeled off, dragged slow over my shoulders, exposing lace and skin he’d only ever imagined.
His mouth was on my neck, my collarbone, dragging down my chest like he had to taste every goddamn regret. My bra came off in one flick. I gasped when his tongue circled my nipple, then groaned when he sucked it hard enough to make my back arch.
“You feel that?” he growled, grinding against me through denim. “You made this happen. Every glance. Every smile. Every little fuck-you flutter of your eyelashes.”
I reached between us, yanked open his belt. “Then shut up and use it.”
He growled something I couldn’t make out—something feral—and shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself. When I saw him—thick, hard, flushed—I forgot how to breathe.
Then he was inside me. In one brutal thrust.
I screamed.
It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t tender. It was real. His hand on my throat. My nails on his back. My legs wrapped tight around his waist like I was scared he’d stop.
He didn’t.
He fucked me like he wanted to ruin me. Like he wanted to replace every memory this house had burned into my skin with something raw. Something louder.
I came first—shaking, choking on his name, unable to stop. He didn’t give me time. Flipped me onto my knees, dragged me back against him, and pounded into me harder. Deeper. His fingers rubbed my clit like he knew me. Like he’d dreamed of this and studied every inch of what I’d be like when I finally broke.
“Say it,” he snarled, dragging his teeth down my spine. “Say you needed this.”
“I fucking needed it,” I sobbed. “Jake—don’t stop—please—”
“Too late.”
He slammed into me one last time and came with a groan that shook the whole bed. I felt him throb inside me, filling me so deep I couldn’t think.
We collapsed. Tangled. Breathing like animals.
And when he reached for the nightstand and put the ring down…
He didn’t put it back on.