72

Your hands are trembling." Amara's voice shattered the stillness, her own voice softer than the rain pounding against the kitchen pane.

Leo stepped back from the coffee machine, scalding liquid spilling onto his forearms. "Shit—"

She was beside him before he'd had time to blink, her fingers applied to the blistered flesh. "Idiot. Don't move."

"Since when do you care about burning metaphors?" He winced as she removed his wet thermal.

Her breath stilled. The scar—a crooked lightning bolt from the war years—pulsated under the pressure of her thumb. "You used to tape these up. Now you display them as war medals."  

"Maybe I managed to get past the embarrassment of the war." He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, his grip steady. "But you… you keep yours hidden."  

She dropped her eyes to the wedding band she'd hidden under a gardening glove. "Some wounds are not meant to heal."

The air thickened. Leo's thumb traced the frayed cuff of the glove, remembering how it had slipped off when she'd fought Liana in the storm. "You left the hospital early today. Why?"

"To escape this." She removed the glove, revealing puckered scar tissue where a few years earlier a drunk driver's shattered glass had ripped her knuckles. "The one you made."

Leo's chest tightened. "I didn't—"

"No." Her laugh was bitter. "You didn't aim the glass. But you sure as hell aimed those words. 'Priorities, Amara. The ring's just metal.' Remember?"

The memory soured his tongue. He reached for her, but she stepped back, her hospital scrubs sticking to the curves he'd once memorized in the dark.

"Stop." She had the sound of shattering. "Stop trying to fix it. You can't stitch this up with AA meetings and Liana's science fair medals."

"I never said I could." He moved in, forehead against hers. "But what if I don't want to fix it? What if I just… need to feel you again?"

Her breathing hitched. For a moment, her body eased—a shiver, a sigh—before she pushed him back.

"Feelings got us here," she said, voice a blade. "Feelings made you sell my ring. Feelings made me scream at our daughter in the ER. Feelings are a fucking formula we can't solve."

Leo's laughter was gruff. "You used to like math."

"Used to." She headed toward the sink, shoulders braced. "Now I just get through it."

The clock kept ticking.

Leo's thumb grazed the small of her back—a question.

She didn't move.

He leaned in closer, mouth to the shell of her ear. "You remember that night after Liana's recital? When I told you 'perfect pitch' was a myth because you sang better when you cracked on the high notes?"

Her body betrayed her, leaning toward his warmth.

"When did you begin writing poetry?"

Her breath was a surrender.

"Never." His voice grated. "But I know a symphony when I hear one."

Her glove came crashing to the floor.

His hand curved around hers, the map of the old wars on his knuckles scarred against the softness of her palm.

"Leo—"

"Shh." He places a finger to her lips, salt and rain and the dying memory of chamomile. "Just. feel."

Her mouth met his—not gently, not yet—but with the hungry friction of two wildfires colliding. Her nails dug into his biceps as he backed her against the counter, the heat of their bodies melting the ice between them.

Amara’s laugh was a choked gasp as he nipped her jawline. "You’re wearing too many clothes for someone who’s ‘just feeling.’"

Leo’s grin was all teeth. "Blame your daughter. She inherited your impatience."

She leaned into him, her hips bumping against his. "Then shut up."

His shirt hit the floor.

Her scrub top followed.

As his lips traced the lightning bolt scar on her shoulder, she trembled. "You… you never touched this before."

"Was holding out for the correct equation." He paused for air as her teeth scraped his collarbone. "Turns out… variables are overrated."

The front door slammed.

Liana's voice echoed down the hallway: "Mom! Dad! I forgot my—"

Amara stiffened.

Leo cursed under his breath, scrambling for his shirt.

They paused in the doorway.

"Uh." Liana’s tone was a mix of horror and amusement. "I’m… gonna pretend this is a really bad hologram projection. Yeah. Hologram. Definitely."

Amara buried her face in Leo’s shoulder, laughing through her mortification. "Kill me now."

He kissed the top of her head. "Later. Promise."

Liana cleared her throat. "So, uh. Grandma's will? Lawyer called. Said there's. something about a safety deposit box in Portland."

The air changed.

Amara stood up straight, her voice strained. "Portland?"

Leo's hands froze. "What's in Portland?"

Liana shrugged, but her eyes flicked between them. "Beats me. The box is in Grandma's name, but the lawyer said. said it's to both of you."

Silence.

Amara's scarred knuckles turned white against the counter.

Leo's jaw clenched.

Finally, Liana sighed. "Look, I’ll go dig up the violin if that helps. Or… uh… burn more chamomile tea. Just… don’t start screaming again, okay?"

The plea hung in the air.

Amara reached for Leo’s hand, her touch electric. "We’ll go. Together."

His thumb brushed hers—a silent vow.

As Liana retreated, muttering about "trauma-induced insomnia," Amara turned back to Leo, her eyes stormy.

"Portland’s a long drive," she murmured.

His voice dropped to a rasp. "We’ve got time."

Her lips met his—this time, slower, deeper, a promise unfurling like dawn.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Amara’s laugh was shaky but real. "You’re a mess."

"Your mess," he corrected, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

The front door creaked open again.

Liana poked her head in, brandishing a crumpled Polaroid. "Found this under Grandma's bed. Thought you two might. uh. shed light on the timestamp?"

Amara's blood froze.

They were in the photo at the beach—she, Leo, Liana—as the sun dipped below the horizon.

The timestamp indicated: 2 DAYS BEFORE GRANDMA'S FUNERAL

But Grandma wasn't dead yet.

Not then.

Not ever.

Leo's hold on her hand tightened until it hurt.

"Fake Polaroid," Leo grumbled, his voice more even than he was. "Grandma never learned how to work her camera."

Amara's laughter tasted bitter. "She took dozens like that. Remember? The ones where she'd yell 'Say cheese!' but the picture always came out."

She floundered out of words, looking at the photo in Liana's hand.

The timestamp glowed.

2 days before a funeral that never happened.

Liana whispered. "What if… what if Grandma isn't dead?"

Amara's coffee cup shattered on the ground.

Leo's breath was suspended.

The Polaroid's timestamp pulsed like a pulse.

And in the distance, a phone began to ring.