The resort had fallen into a rhythm.
Too comfortable. Too dangerous.
Susan kept her distance, but Chris… he was patient. Always near, never pushing.
He became part of her days in small, almost invisible ways. He carried Leah without being asked. He read bedtime stories aloud in a voice so low and steady that sometimes Susan lingered in the doorway, listening longer than she meant to.
She hated that it felt natural. That it felt right.
One afternoon, she sat at the balcony, Leah asleep in her crib. A book lay open in her lap, unread. Her eyes drifted to the horizon, heavy with thought.
"You always get that look when you're lost in thought," Chris's voice came from the doorway.
Susan stiffened. "What look?"
"The one that says you're fighting a war in your head."
Her lips pressed together, but the corner of her mouth almost betrayed a smile. She glanced at him dressed casual, tie gone, looking infuriatingly at ease.
"You don't know me that well," she said softly.
His gaze caught hers, steady and sure. "I know you better than anyone else ever dared to try."
The words struck deep. She turned back to the horizon, blinking hard. "Stop saying things like that."
"Why?" he asked quietly, stepping closer, lowering himself into the chair beside her. "Because it's true?"
"Because it hurts," she whispered.
Silence stretched, broken only by the sound of the wind moving through the trees. Chris didn't fill it with excuses, didn't push. He just sat beside her, his presence warm, grounding.
Finally, Susan spoke, her voice low. "I'm tired of being broken, Chris. Tired of fighting to put myself back together, only to have someone rip it all apart again."
Chris's jaw tightened, but his reply was soft. "Then let me help you hold the pieces."
Her throat ached, eyes burning. "And what happens when you drop them? When you walk away again?"
"I won't." His voice cracked just slightly, but the conviction in it was unshakable. "Not now. Not ever."
For a moment, she believed him. God help her, she wanted to believe him.
Susan's hand trembled where it lay on the armrest. Chris reached across, slow enough for her to stop him, and covered her hand with his. Warm. Solid.
Her instinct screamed to pull away. But she didn't. She was tired of pulling away only to wish from a distance it felt like surrender.
It started small.
A misplaced word.
A look that lingered too long.
An old wound pressed just a little too hard.
Susan had been feeding Leah when Chris suggested, "You should rest after this. I'll handle her tonight."
Her head snapped up. "Don't tell me what to do."
"I'm not…."
"You are," she cut him off, heat sparking in her tone. "You're always here, always hovering, like I can't take care of my own daughter."
Chris's jaw tightened. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what do you mean, Chris?" She stood now, eyes blazing. "That you've suddenly decided to play perfect father? Perfect saviour? You weren't there when it mattered the most. You don't get to act like this fix everything."
His composure cracked. "That's unfair?" His voice rose, rough, desperate. "You think I don't torture myself every damn night replaying the moment you walked away because I wasn't man enough to stop you?"
The air between them went sharp, charged.
Susan's chest heaved. "Then why didn't you stop me?"
"Because I was a coward," he snarled. The words ripped out of him like confession, like blood. "Because I thought losing you would hurt less than having you stab me in the back!"
Silence thundered.
Leah stirred in her crib, but neither moved, both locked in the storm of each other.
Tears burned Susan's eyes. "And now? You think I won't?"
"No." Chris stepped forward, closing the space between them until she could feel the heat radiating off his body. "You're not that cruel, even when you know my weakness, you won't hurt me like that Susan." His voice broke, raw and gutted. "I can't breathe without you anymore."
Her pulse raced. Every wall she'd built, every shield, trembled.
"Stop," she whispered, even as her body betrayed her, leaning closer. "Don't say that."
"Why?" His forehead nearly touched hers, his breath mixing with hers.
Her tears spilled, hot against her cheeks. "Because I want you," she choked. "And I hate myself for it."
He kissed her hard, she grabbed his collar, crashing her lips to his in a kiss that was nothing like softness, nothing like surrender. It was anger, and hunger, and months of pain colliding in a storm.
Chris groaned against her mouth, his arms crushing her against him, desperate, starved. pulled him closer, fists in his shirt like she wanted to fight and fuse at once.
When they broke apart, gasping, his forehead pressed to hers, Chris whispered hoarsely, "I am all yours Susan, not 1 moment have I not been."
And she kissed him again, harder, as if letting go would kill her. The kiss burned until neither could breathe.
Susan tore her mouth from his, panting, her hands still fisted in his shirt. "This is wrong," she whispered, but her body betrayed her, arching closer.
Chris's hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her cheek. His eyes were fevered, dark with hunger but soft with something far more dangerous. "Then let it be wrong. Just this once. Let me love you the way I used to."
Her heart cracked at the words. She should have pulled away. Should have walked out. Instead, she kissed him again not angry this time, but desperate. A plea.
Chris lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as though her body had been waiting for this moment all along. He carried her to the bed, their mouths never parting, every kiss rough and aching, like trying to make up for every second lost.
When he laid her down, she pulled him with her, refusing to let go. Her fingers skimmed his jaw, his chest, clutching like she was terrified he'd vanish again.
"I hate you," she whispered against his mouth, her voice trembling.
"I know," he breathed, pressing kisses along her jaw, down her throat. "Hate me from this distance."
Her laugh broke, half-sob, half-moan. She pulled his face back to hers, kissing him hard.
Every barrier between them fell his control, her resistance, the silence that had poisoned them. What remained was raw need, raw truth, their bodies remembering what their hearts had always known.
"Chris…" she gasped, his name a prayer, a curse, a surrender.
He stilled, pulling back just enough to search her eyes. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
Her chest heaved. She stared up at him, every part of her trembling with fear, with desire, with love she hadn't wanted to admit.
"Don't you dare stop," she whispered.
The way he kissed her then wasn't anger, wasn't guilt it was devotion. Fierce, reverent, consuming. Every touch, every caress carried apology and promise, like he was trying to carve his vow into her skin.
For the first time in months, Susan stopped fighting. She let herself feel.
And in Chris's arms through trembling surrender she finally let herself belong again.
The night didn't end with fire.
It ended with quiet.
Susan lay curled against Chris, her head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart anchoring her in a way she hadn't realized she craved. His arm was draped protectively around her, his fingertips tracing slow, absent patterns against her back reverent, careful, as though he was afraid, she'd vanish if he held too tight.
For the first time in months, there were no walls. No accusations. No silence too heavy to bear. Just breath. Just warmth. Just them.
"You're warm," she murmured drowsily, her voice muffled against his skin.
His chest rumbled with a soft laugh. "You used to steal all my heat. Now you admit you like it."
She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging her lips betrayed her. "Don't get cocky."
"Too late." He tilted her chin up, brushing a lazy kiss across her mouth. "You gave me permission."
Susan's cheeks flushed. She tried to glare, but it faltered beneath the tenderness in his gaze. This wasn't the Chris she was used to this was the man she had glimpsed only in rare, stolen moments. The man who made her laugh. Who looked at her like she was his entire world?
Her throat tightened at the additional warmth of his hand sliding into hers.
For hours, they stayed tangled in the quiet whispering, kissing, sometimes just breathing in unison. Leah stirred once, and Chris was the first to rise, moving with surprising ease as he scooped her up and soothed her back to sleep. Susan watched from the bed, her heart twisting painfully as Leah snuggled against him with a soft sigh.
When he returned, slipping beneath the sheets, she whispered into the dark, "You make it hard to keep hating you."
His breath caught, then he pressed his forehead to hers, his voice hoarse. "Good. Because I'm never letting you hate me again."
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
Her heart was too full.
Instead, Susan closed her eyes and let herself rest against him, just this once, without fear of tomorrow.
The morning after was almost unsettling in its simplicity.