Where I am. Who I’m with.
And who I’ll be in the morning.
At first light, Sol tells me about the house. And I don't know if it's because of what we did, or because he's so worn down, but he seems so detached from it he could be talking about strangers.Hecould be a stranger, if not for the gentle fingers sifting through my hair.
I need to take care of him. Stay with him whether he needs to find dry land or keep swimming. But Sev calls before I can find the reset I need to do any of that, and Sol takes his phone down to theSirona.
My bed is cold without him.
I rise alone, shower, and get dressed. Take my meds, adding the extras I need for my spinning head today.
We're out of coffee. The shit kind, and Sol doesn't like tea. And I don't like being so dependent on him I can't fix this tiny fucking thing while he takes a goddamn shower.
It's early. Sol's barely slept. Skylar isstillsleeping. So I take Fiadh, the phone I find beneath the shoe rack, and leave without waking him. Walk along the beach until I run out of sand while I navigate the phone.
Mal's phone. His passcode is our mam's birthday, his contact list short enough that I find who I'm looking for without spending too long swiping the screen.
I fire off a message I hope is coherent, taking a chance on a memory that feels like someone else's. Then I find the coffee wagon by the crab shack run by fishermen Sol doesn't get on with, and settle in to wait.
Folk rolls up fifteen minutes later, skin flushed with cold, hair damp with sea water.
"Did you jump off a cliff?"
I don't know why I say it. Just that it makes sense to me. And that Folk’s wry smile isn’t much of a denial.
He folds his Mal-shaped frame onto the bench in front of me, stretching his legs. “I thought your message meant Mal was home.”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“How’s life?”
“Messy.”
Folk grins a little, but he looks closer at me, and it doesn’t feel intrusive. “Is this about Dav Bosanko?”
Wariness creeps through me—at myself, not him. I wake up every morning remembering the promise I made Sol. And yet, I can’t entirely recall why I wanted to talk to Folk. So I stay quiet, hoping he’ll figure it out for the both of us, and the silence allowsmy mind to wander. To shunt abruptly back in time to last night—this morning—or whenever it was I woke up to find Sol in my bed without me begging him to stay.
He needed me.
I love and loathe how that feels, so I don’t dwell on it. I skip to the good part—to Sol so open and beautiful for me. Taking him in my mouth is an addiction I want forever, but seeing his face while he came so hard…Christ, there’s no way I’ll ever forget that. No injury in the world that can take it from me. I didn’t even come myself—it didn’t seem important. I kissed away Sol’s offer of relief and stared at him for hours instead.
At least, I think it was hours. Could’ve been minutes and I fucking hate how time escapes me. How I have no goddamn clue how much has passed when I retune to the world and Folk is beside me instead of opposite.
Absence seizure.
Maybe. Sometimes, I’m not sure if I’m just thinking too hard for the people around me to tell the difference.
“Sorry,” I tell Folk, pressing the heel of my hand to my eye, holding it still as it tries to shake the fuck out of itself in my skull. “What were we talking about?”
Folk shrugs. “Nothing in particular. How’s Skylar doing? Can’t be nice to have your person disappear on you like that.”
His gaze flickers as he says it, and I wonder if it’s happened to him. Or if he’s done it to someone else. To his husband, who I’ve met more than once but can’t seem to picture whenever I try.
He looks like you, Jackie. Old Whitlock must have a type.
Right. Because Folk chatted me up once upon a time and I never noticed—because I’venevernoticed any man but Sol. Because this thing inside me, this unfettered burn of want and love and more fucking want is his and his alone.
Skylar. Folk asked you about Skylar.