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1118 Words
Leo rode the long way back from Ethan’s place, taking the coastal road that hugged the cliffs outside Seabreeze Harbor. The Harley’s engine settled into a steady growl under him, the kind of sound that usually cleared his head. Today it only gave the thoughts more room to move.
Lily had looked shaken when she left. Not scared—Lily didn’t scare easy—but unsettled in a way he recognized. Maya had said something. He didn’t need the details. His brother’s fiancée had a talent for stirring pots that were better left alone.
He downshifted, leaned into a curve, and felt the familiar pull of the bike. Leather cut against the wind, cold air cutting across his face. Riding was the one place the noise in his head usually quieted. Not today. Today the noise had a name and a scent and a habit of sleeping naked under thin sheets.
That morning had been a mistake. He should have stayed outside her door and shouted the news. Instead he’d walked in, sat on the edge of the bed, and put his hand on her back like he had any right. The soft, sleepy sound she’d made when he stroked her spine was still stuck in his ears. Then the admission that she wasn’t wearing anything. He’d stood there like an i***t, blood heading south, while she glared at him and demanded to know if Maya was okay.
Sixteen years of carefully not looking, and one early-morning sheet had nearly undone the whole system.
He pulled into the alley behind Harbor Flame and killed the engine. The building was quiet this early. Lily’s truck wasn’t in its usual spot yet. Good. He needed a few minutes alone with the kitchen and the list of specials he still hadn’t locked down.
Inside, the restaurant smelled the way it always did between services—wood, residual smoke, the faint citrus cleaner Lily used on the bar tops. He hung the cut on the hook by the back door, rolled his shoulders, and headed for the open grill. Work was safer. Work had rules he understood.
He started prepping for the night: checking the brisket he’d put on early, pulling down the cloudberry jars from the market, tasting the batch of horseradish sauce he’d started the day before. The Valentine’s menu was coming together in his head the way menus always did—flavors first, then heat, then the story he wanted the plate to tell. Sweet and bite. Soft and sharp. Exactly like the woman upstairs who still refused to admit she had feelings for him and somehow still managed to wreck every carefully built wall he put up.
The godparent thing sat heavy in his chest. Ethan and Maya had looked so damn sure when they asked. Package deal. Him and Lily. Like the two of them were already a unit. He’d said yes because saying no would have hurt her, and hurting her was the one line he never crossed on purpose. But the idea of standing up for two kids while knowing he had no business raising any of his own felt like a private joke the universe was telling at his expense.
He’d been clear for years. No kids. Not because he hated them—he liked other people’s fine—but because he knew himself. He forgot birthdays. He left laundry everywhere. He disappeared on long rides when the walls closed in. He’d ruined every relationship that asked for more than good s*x and temporary company. The only two things he hadn’t managed to break were the restaurant and the friendship with Lily. He intended to keep it that way.
His phone buzzed on the stainless counter. A text from Ryan, the only other cook he trusted on the line.
Still out. Need another week.
Leo stared at the message, then typed back a short acknowledgment. Ryan’s breakup was dragging on. Fine. He could cover. He always covered. The bike and the kitchen were the only two places that never asked him to be better than he was.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs from the apartment. Lily appeared in the doorway wearing one of his old flannels over a black tank and jeans, hair still damp from a shower. She carried a stack of inventory sheets and the same careful expression she’d worn outside Ethan’s house.
“You’re early,” she said.
“Couldn’t sleep after the hospital.” He turned back to the sauce, giving himself a reason not to stare. “Maya okay?”
“As okay as a woman carrying twins can be a week after a false alarm.” She set the papers down and moved behind the bar, already falling into the rhythm of checking stock. “Ethan said you texted him about lunch.”
“Figured someone should make sure she ate something that wasn’t sugar.”
Lily’s mouth curved, small and real. “You’re a better brother than you pretend.”
He didn’t answer that. Instead he plated a small taste of the horseradish sauce and slid it across the pass. “Tell me if it needs more bite.”
She came around, took the spoon, and tasted. Her eyes closed for a second the way they always did when something hit right. “Perfect. Don’t change it.”
The quiet stretched. He wiped the same spot on the counter twice.
“Maya said something to you,” he said finally.
Lily’s shoulders tensed. “She thinks we should talk about things that don’t need talking about.”
“And you told her to mind her business.”
“I told her there was nothing to talk about.” She met his eyes across the pass. “There isn’t, Leo. We’re good the way we are.”
He nodded once, slow. The words were the same ones he’d told himself for years. Hearing them from her mouth still landed like a dull blade.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re good.”
She held his gaze another second, then turned back to the inventory sheets. He watched the line of her neck where the damp hair curled, the way the flannel his flannel hung off one shoulder. The same pull he’d felt that morning tightened low in his gut.
He forced himself back to the grill. The night would be busy. The menu still needed finalizing. Ryan was out. The bike was waiting in the alley for the ride home later, when the kitchen was closed and the apartment was quiet and he could pretend the distance between their bedrooms was enough.
It had always been enough before.
He wasn’t sure how much longer that would stay true.
- Writer
