I've barely crossed the threshold when I feel her presence behind me, close enough that I can sense her body heat. The door clicks shut, and before I can turn around, Summer is there, not the broken woman from last night or the calculated seductress from the clinic, but something else entirely.
Her body collides with mine with such force that I stumble backward, my shoulders hitting the wall as her mouth finds mine. There's a desperate hunger in the way she kisses me, her hands flying to my face, holding me there like she's afraid I'll disappear if she loosens her grip for even a second.
It's familiar. The softness of her lips, but there's something new too, something almost feral in the way she presses against me. Her teeth graze my bottom lip, not gently, and I feel a jolt run through my body that I'm not prepared for.
"Summer," I gasp, trying to create space between us, but she follows, eliminating any distance I manage to create. Her hands slide from my face to my shoulders, then down to grip my wrists with surprising strength.
"Please," she whispers against my mouth, the word more command than request. "Please, Scott."
Her body molds against mine, soft curves pressing into hard angles, and I feel my resolve weakening. It's been so long since anyone touched me like this, so long since I felt wanted instead of tolerated or pitied.
But the tattoos hidden beneath my sweater flash in my mind, spades marching across her chest, "BBC" emblazoned on her arm like a brand. Physical reminders of choices she made, of pleasures she sought elsewhere when I couldn't provide them.
"I can't," I manage, turning my face away from her seeking mouth. Her lips land on my jaw instead, trailing down to my neck with determined precision. "Summer, stop."
Her hands find my chest, and suddenly I'm stumbling backward, caught off guard by the force behind her push. I land on the couch with a soft thud, the cushions giving way beneath my weight. Summer towers over me, her eyes wild.
"Do you want to hurt me, baby?" she whispers, her voice taking on a husky edge I've never heard before. "You can hit me if you want to. I don't mind."
"What? No!" I recoil, horrified by her suggestion. "I don't want to hurt you. Jesus, Summer."
But she's already on me, fingers working my belt with practiced efficiency. Before I can process what's happening, she's yanked my pants and boxers down to my ankles in one fluid motion. The cool air hits my exposed skin, and despite my mental objections, my body betrays me. I'm already half-hard, responding to her touch like muscle memory.
"Summer, stop," I protest weakly, but the words lack conviction even to my own ears.
She hovers above me, eyes burning with determination. "Fine. No hitting." Her voice softens to a husky whisper. "We'll make gentle love instead."
In one swift movement, she shimmies out of her pants, revealing lace underwear I don't recognize. She straddles me with ease, and I feel the heat of her through the thin fabric. My hands instinctively find her hips, torn between pulling her closer and pushing her away.
"I don't want this," I mutter, but my body says otherwise. I'm fully erect now, straining against her dampening underwear as she rocks her hips against me.
"Yes, you do," she whispers, her voice silky and confident. She reaches behind her back, unclasping her bra beneath my sweater that she still wears. She jiggles around a little bit and the garment slides down her arms and she tosses it aside without removing the sweater, keeping those tattoos hidden from view.
She takes my hands in hers, guiding them to her breasts beneath the fabric. The soft weight feels achingly familiar in my palms, like coming home after years away. I squeeze gently, instinctively, and she moans in response.
But something's different. My fingers brush against something hard, metallic. I freeze, confusion replacing desire.
"Did you get your nipples pierced?" I ask, my voice hoarse with surprise.
Summer's smile turns predatory as she shifts her underwear aside and sinks down onto me in one fluid motion. My question evaporates on a gasp as I'm enveloped in her wet heat. My head falls back against the couch cushions, a groan escaping my throat without permission.
"Shhh," she whispers, pressing a finger against my lips. "No questions right now."
Her fingers thread through mine, pinning my hands against the couch on either side of my head. She starts to move, slow and deliberate, her body rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm that makes my breath catch in my throat. Each downward motion sends jolts of pleasure through me that I'm helpless to fight.
"Fuck," I groan, hating myself for how good this feels.
I could stop this. I know I could. My arms strain against her grip, testing the resistance, finding it surprisingly strong but ultimately breakable. I'm bigger than her, stronger. One decisive move and I could lift her off me, end whatever twisted game we're playing.
But I don't.
Instead, I watch her face as she rides me, the way her lips part slightly with each downward thrust, the flush spreading across her cheeks. My wife. The woman I promised forever to, looking down at me with hunger in her eyes that feels both familiar and foreign.
"I missed you inside me," she breathes, her voice breaking on the words.
Her words hit me like ice water. The spell breaks instantly.
"Missed me?" I mutter, my body going rigid beneath her. "Don't lie to me."
Summer's rhythm falters, her eyes widening as she registers the change in me. She tries to compensate, grinding down harder, her movements growing more frantic.
"Baby, what's wrong?" she pants, leaning forward to kiss me, but I turn my face away.
I feel myself softening inside her, the arousal draining from my body as images flood my mind, Summer with Taevion, Summer with his friends, Summer moaning beneath strangers while I sat alone in our empty apartment.
"Stop," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I can't do this."
"No, no, we're right there," she says desperately, still moving against me. Her hands cup my face, trying to force me to look at her. "Please, Scott. Stay with me."
Tears sting my eyes as I finally meet her gaze. "Summer, I can't. I don't want to fuck you."
The words hang between us, ugly and honest. Her movements cease completely, her body going still above mine.
"What?" The single word comes out broken, disbelieving.
I gently place my hands on her hips, lifting her off me. She allows it, sliding to the couch beside me, her face a mask of confusion and hurt.
"Would you want to be someone's second choice?" I ask, pulling up my boxers with trembling hands. A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Though it's not even second choice, is it? More like fifth or sixth... if I'm lucky."
Summer flinches like I've physically struck her. "That's not fair," she whispers.
"Isn't it?" I stand up, fastening my pants, needing the physical distance. "You chose them over me, Summer. Over and over again."
"I came back," she argues, her voice rising with desperation. She pulls down the sweater to cover herself, suddenly modest. "I'm here now."
The words hit something raw inside me, something that's been festering since she first showed up at my door. I run a hand through my hair, trying to contain the storm building in my chest.
"Why did you even come back, Summer?" The question bursts from me, sharp and jagged. "After all this time, why now?"
Her face transforms instantly. She stands up, pointing at me with such righteous indignation it's almost comical, given she's still half-dressed.
"I fought like hell to come back to you!" she screams, her voice cracking with emotion. Her finger jabs toward my chest with each word. "You have no idea what I went through!"
I study her face, the theatrical quiver of her lip, the calculated widening of her eyes. It's a performance I've seen before, in our worst fights when she needed to win at any cost. The realization settles cold and certain in my gut.
"You're full of shit," I say quietly, the calmness of my voice contrasting with the fury in hers.
Summer gasps, her hand flying to her chest like I've physically wounded her. Her eyes narrow to dangerous slits.
"HOW DARE YOU!" she shrieks, loud enough that I'm sure our neighbors can hear. "I SAVED YOUR LIFE AND THIS IS THE THANKS I GET!"
I laugh then, a hollow sound that surprises even me. "Saved my life? By disappearing for a year? By choosing to stay with them?"
"They would have killed you!" Her voice drops to a hiss, tears streaming down her face. "Taevion would have broken every bone in your body if I hadn't gone with him."
I stare at her for a long moment, the heat of anger giving way to something colder, something sadder. My hands start to tremble, and I stuff them into my pockets before she notices.
"The first time you went with him," I say quietly, "I believe that. I do. That's on me. I'm sorry I caused that situation. Truly."
The words taste like ash in my mouth, but they're honest. I'd dug that hole myself, one hit at a time.
Summer's face softens, victory flashing in her eyes as she senses my concession. But I'm not finished.
"But you kept going back," I continue, my voice threatening to break. I have to pause, swallowing hard against the lump forming in my throat. "At this point, I think I wish I'd just taken my chances with him breaking my bones. It would have hurt less than giving you up."
Her face crumples, the calculated performance giving way to genuine shock. For a moment, she looks small, almost childlike in my oversized sweater, her legs bare and vulnerable.
"You don't mean that," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
"I do," I say, surprised by how steady I sound despite the earthquake happening in my chest. "I would have healed from broken bones. But this?" I gesture between us. "I don't know if I can heal from this."
Summer's face transforms in an instant. The vulnerable, shattered expression hardens into something cold and unfamiliar. Before I can react, she lunges forward, grabbing my collar with both hands. The force of it pulls me down to her eye level, my knees almost buckling. I've never seen her eyes this glacial, this devoid of warmth.
"I put up with you through your entire addiction," she hisses, each word like a shard of ice. "I gave you love, comfort, and understanding when nobody else would even look at you. But you can't let this go?"
Her grip on my collar tightens, knuckles white with tension. I can feel her trembling, rage, and desperation vibrating through her body into mine.
Then, without warning, she pulls me into a crushing embrace. Her arms wrap around me so tightly I can barely breathe, her face buried in my chest. When she speaks again, her voice is softer but laced with something dangerous, a warning hiding beneath the gentleness.
"Can't we just forgive each other?" she whispers against my shirt. "Can't we pretend this last year never happened?"
Her words hit me like a physical blow. A part of me wants to push her away, to remind her of the photos, the tattoos again, the choices she made. But another part, the part that still wakes up reaching for her in the night, recognizes the truth in what she's saying.
She's not wrong. When I was spiraling, losing myself pill by pill, hit after hit, she never abandoned me. Never screamed or threatened or gave ultimatums. She just offered help, again and again, until I finally took it. She stood by me through the worst version of myself, cleaned my vomit, held me through withdrawals, whispered encouragement when I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror.
But then, after I got clean, she left.
I pull back slightly, studying her face. The makeup is smudged around her eyes, tears cutting pale tracks through her foundation. Despite everything, my heart clenches at the sight of her pain.
"I just don't know if I can get over it," I admit, my voice barely audible. "But..."
The word hangs between us, filled with possibility. A part of me wonders if she's earned this second chance. If what she did for me during those dark years balances the scales against her absence.
I sigh, feeling something inside me give way. Fear grips me, not of her, but of losing her again. Despite everything I just said and felt, despite all the rage and hurt, the thought of her walking out that door again makes my chest constrict painfully.
"Fine," I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper. "We can try again."
Summer's eyes widen in disbelief. Her grip on me loosens slightly, like she's afraid any sudden movement might make me change my mind.
"Really?" she breathes, searching my face for any sign of deception.
I take a step back, creating some space between us. My heart hammers against my ribs as I commit to this decision, terrified and relieved all at once.
"But we take it slow," I add firmly, watching her expression carefully. "I'm not jumping back into where we left off. This is... something new. Something different."
She bounces on her toes, a squeal escaping her that's so unexpected I almost laugh despite everything.
"Slow," she agrees, nodding vigorously. "We can do slow. I can do slow."
Her enthusiasm is both endearing and concerning, like watching someone promise to walk when they're clearly itching to sprint. She grabs my hands, swinging them between us like we're kids on a playground. The mood shift is so abrupt it leaves me dizzy.
I hesitate, knowing what I need to say next will test this fragile truce we've established. My eyes drift to her chest, hidden beneath my sweater, knowing what lies beneath the soft fabric.
"And those tattoos," I say carefully, watching her face freeze mid-smile. "We need to do something about them. I can't... I can't look at them every day and not think about where they came from."
Summer laughs, the sound light and unburdened, like the storm between us never happened. "Of course, Scotty," she says, tracing lazy circles over my knuckles with her thumb. "These tattoos don't mean anything to me. If I could, I'd cover myself in your name instead."
I shake my head nervously. "No, let's not do that."
"Okay," she answers softly.
But the way her eyes linger on me, bright and thoughtful, tells me she's already imagining it, every letter, every line, as if etching me into her skin could make sure I never leave again.