LS Phoenix's Blog

I’m pressing pause on posting new short stories here, not because I’m stepping away, but because I’m stepping in.

I have a few works-in-progress that need my full attention right now. The kind that don’t just want an hour here or there, but real, focused time. The kind that only come together when I stop multitasking and let myself sink into the story.

Writing short stories every week is something I genuinely love. This space matters to me. But sometimes, creating means knowing when to shift your energy so the bigger projects can breathe.

So if things are a little quieter story-wise this week, that’s why.

I’m still writing.

Still deep in scenes.

Still very much in my characters’ heads.

I’ll be back with new stories soon. For now, thank you for being here and for letting me take this moment to build what comes next.

The morning sun usually brings the cold reality of the day before. But for Boston, waking up in Finn’s bed isn't a regret—it’s a revelation. The secrets are gone, the tension has snapped, and the man who has been his best friend for a decade is finally exactly where he belongs. In the quiet warmth of a New Hampshire morning, the "What If" series comes to a stunning, spicy conclusion. There are no more masks to wear and no more words left unsaid. There is only the heat of the present and the promise of a future where they never have to be alone again.

Chapter Three 

Finn 

Gravity

The first thing I notice isn't the light. It’s the weight.

For ten years, I’ve woken up with a hollowness in my chest, a phantom limb syndrome for a life I wasn't allowed to have. But this morning, there is a heavy, solid arm draped over my ribs, the palm flat against my stomach. There’s the steady, rhythmic puff of warm breath against the back of my neck.

I’m paralyzed, but not by fear. I’m afraid that if I breathe too deeply, the molecules of the room will rearrange themselves and I’ll be back in my own bed, alone.

Then, Finn moves.

He groans, a low, gravelly sound that vibrates right through my spine. His nose brushes against the sensitive skin just behind my ear, and then I feel it—the press of his lips against my shoulder blade. It’s a slow, lingering kiss, followed by another at the base of my skull.

"Morning," he mutters, his voice thick with sleep. He pulls me closer, dragging my back flush against his chest.

I can feel everything now. The rough hair on his legs against mine, the hard, morning heat of him pressing into the small of my back, and the proprietary way he’s holding me. It’s the kind of hold that says mine.

"Morning," I whisper, finally finding my voice. I turn my head slightly, catching his eye. The amber morning sun is flooding the room, and Finn looks... wrecked. His hair is a disaster, his jaw is dark with stubble, and his eyes are hooded and heavy with a look that makes my stomach flip.

"You're still here," I say, the thought slipping out before I can stop it.

Finn’s expression softens, but his grip tightens. He shifts, hiking his knee up to hook over my hip, pinning me down. "I told you, Bos. I'm not going anywhere. In fact..." He leans down, nipping at the cord of my neck, his hand sliding down from my stomach to the curve of my hip. "I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be."

The shift from domestic to desperate happens in a heartbeat.

He flips me onto my back, his body looming over mine, the sunlight catching the muscles of his chest. He doesn't give me time to think. He’s kissing me again, his tongue demanding entry, his hands pinning mine to the pillow above my head. It’s the "push and shove" again, but there’s no anger in it this time—just a decade of hunger that one night couldn't possibly satisfy.

He moves between my legs, his weight a crushing, beautiful reality. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him in, my heels digging into his lower back. I want him closer. I want the skin to disappear.

"Finn," I gasp, my head hitting the headboard as he moves down, his mouth finding my nipple, his teeth grazing the peak until I’m arching off the bed. "Please. Now."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his chest heaving. He reaches for the nightstand—a fumble of foil, a quiet snap of latex—and then he’s back, hovering over me, his hand shaking slightly as he guides himself to the opening of my heat.

But he stops. He holds my gaze, his eyes searching mine with a sudden, grounding seriousness.

“Boston,” he rasps, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “Are you sure? I mean… have you ever even done this before?”

The honesty of the question makes my face heat up, but I don’t look away. I can’t afford to be shy now. “I’ve… yes. I’ve done it. But not with a man.”

Finn’s brow furrows, a flash of genuine confusion crossing his face as he tries to do the math on my history. I feel a small, nervous laugh bubble up in my chest at the look on him.

“I have a toy, Finn,” I mutter, my voice dropping an octave. “I’m not… I’m not going in blind.”

A slow, wicked smirk spreads across Finn’s face, the first real glimpse of the cocky, playful Finn I’ve loved for years, but sharpened with a new, sexual edge.

“A toy, huh?” He chuckles, the sound low and vibrating against my thighs. He leans down, his nose brushing mine. “Well, I’m glad you practiced, Bos. But I promise I’m going to feel a hell of a lot better than silicone.”

He doesn’t wait for a comeback. He shifts his weight, his expression turning focused and intense as he begins to ease himself in.

The first press of him is a slow, agonizing burn. I’ve spent a thousand nights imagining what this would feel like, but the reality is overwhelming. He’s too big, too much, and yet he’s the only thing that fits. He waits, his arms trembling as he holds himself up, giving me a second to adjust to the incredible fullness of him.

"You okay?" he rasps, his eyes searching mine, fierce and protective.

"Don't you dare stop," I choke out, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his face down to mine.

He groans, a sound of pure surrender, and sinks into me.

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. It’s a total invasion, a complete shattering of every boundary I ever built to keep him out. He starts to move, long, slow strokes that feel like they’re reaching right into my soul. Every time he thrusts forward, he’s erasing another year of silence. Every time he pulls back, he’s taking a piece of me with him.

The rhythm builds, the bed creaking, the only sound in the room is the harsh, jagged gasps of our breathing. I’m a mess beneath him, my eyes rolling back, my voice breaking as I moan his name over and over. He isn't being gentle anymore. He’s being thorough. He’s marking me from the inside out, his pace turning frantic, his skin slick with sweat that makes us slide against each other.

"Look at me, Boston," he commands, his voice a rough growl.

I open my eyes, my vision blurring. He’s watching me with an intensity that’s almost frightening. He wants to see it. He wants to see the moment I break.

"You're mine," he mutters, the words punctuated by a hard, deep thrust that makes me cry out. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"Yours," I sob, my hips rising to meet his, my world narrowing down to the friction and the heat and the man who has always been my gravity. "Always yours, Finn."

That’s the breaking point. Finn’s pace turns into a blurred, desperate gallop. He’s gripping my hips so hard his fingers are leaving marks, his head buried in the crook of my neck as he loses his rhythm, loses his mind. I’m right there with him, the tension in my gut coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps, a white-hot explosion of pleasure that leaves me shaking and sightless.

Finn follows a second later, a low, guttural shout escaping him as he spends himself deep inside me, his body collapsing against mine, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my own.

We stay like that for a long time, the sunlight moving across the floor, the world outside Finn’s apartment completely forgotten. He doesn't pull out. He just stays heavy and warm, his face hidden in my neck, his breath finally evening out.

I run my hand down his back, feeling the sweat and the muscle, the reality of him. The "What If" is dead. The silence is gone.

I’m not tired anymore. For the first time in ten years, I’m finally awake.

Come back next for another story

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: January 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

The drive from the diner was a blur of frantic hands and desperate breaths. Now, behind the closed door of Finn’s apartment, the boundaries that defined Boston and Finn for a decade have finally crumbled. There are no more secrets. No more "just friends." Only the heat of skin on skin and the realization that they’ve both been starving for the same thing. In a night fueled by ten years of suppressed hunger, Boston finally learns what it feels like to be wanted—and Finn realizes that the person he’s been looking for has been by his side all along. But as the adrenaline fades, they’re left with the biggest question of all: how do they build a future on the ruins of their past?

Chapter Four 

Finn 

Gravity

The drive to my apartment is the longest five minutes of my life.

I’m driving like a maniac, one hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel and the other gripped firmly on Boston’s neck. I can’t let go. It’s like if I break the contact, he’ll vanish, or I’ll wake up in that diner booth and realize I imagined the taste of him. My thumb is tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the way he’s trembling. He’s staring straight ahead, his breathing jagged, his hand resting on my thigh, fingers digging into the denim of my jeans so hard I’ll probably have bruises by morning.

I want those bruises. I want every mark he’s willing to leave.

I don’t even think I turned the engine off all the way before I was out of the door. I beat him to the passenger side, yanking the door open and pulling him into me before he could even stand up straight. We don’t make it two steps toward the stairs before my back hits the brick wall of the apartment complex and his mouth is back on mine.

This isn’t the careful, quiet Boston I’ve known for ten years. This is someone else. Someone hungry. Someone who’s been starving in plain sight while I sat next to him and talked about the weather.

“Key,” he gasps against my lips, his hands fumbling at my waist, searching for the pocket where I shoved my lanyard. “Finn. The goddamn key.”

“Working on it,” I growl, finally catching his lips again to shut him up.

I find the key by sheer muscle memory, shoving it into the lock and pushing us inside. I don’t even bother with the lights. The streetlamp outside the window throws a slanted, amber glow across the hardwood, highlighting the dust motes and the mess of shoes by the door. I kick the door shut with my heel, a heavy, final thud, and then I have him against the wood.

My hands are everywhere. I need to know the shape of him. I’ve seen Boston shirtless a thousand times. At the lake, in the locker rooms, crashed out on my couch. But I’ve never seen him like this. I’ve never looked at the slope of his shoulders or the line of his throat and felt this desperate, gnawing need to own it.

I yank his hoodie over his head, my movements rough and impatient. He helps me, his own hands frantic as he tugs at my shirt, skin finally meeting skin in the dark.

The heat of him is a shock. He’s solid and warm, his chest rising and falling in sync with mine. I slide my hands down his back, my palms flat against his skin, and feel the way he shudders. It’s a physical reaction, a total surrender to the touch, and it makes something primal roar to life in my gut.

“Ten years,” I mutter, burying my face in the crook of his neck. He smells like the diner and the cold night air and something that is just Boston. “Ten years, Bos. How did I not know?”

“Because I didn’t want you to,” he whispers, his voice breaking. He arches into me, his hips seeking mine, the friction through our jeans making my vision go dark. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t lose you.”

“You’re never losing me,” I say, and it’s a vow.

I lift him, his legs instinctively hooking around my waist, and carry him the short distance to the bedroom. We hit the mattress hard, a tangle of limbs and gasping breaths. The "push and shove" is back—we’re fighting for dominance, fighting for breath, fighting to get as close as two human beings can possibly be.

I’m over him in a second, pinning his wrists above his head. He looks up at me, his hair a mess, his lips swollen and red, and his eyes… God, his eyes. They’re full of that same terrifying love he confessed in the diner, but now there’s something else there. Desire. Hot and unapologetic.

“Finn,” he says, my name sounding like a prayer and a plea all at once.

I let go of his wrists and slide my hand down, my fingers glancing over his ribs, his stomach, until I reach the button of his jeans. I pause, looking him dead in the eye. I want him to be sure. I want him to know that once this happens, the best friends we used to be are gone forever.

“You sure?” I rasp.

Boston reaches up, his hand cupping my face, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “I’ve been sure since I was fifteen, Finn. Just… please. Don’t stop.”

So I don’t.

The clothes are gone in a flurry of denim and cotton, tossed somewhere onto the floor. When I finally feel him against me, completely bare, it feels like the last piece of a puzzle clicking into place. I slide my hand between our bodies, catching the soft moan he makes when I wrap my fingers around his cicj. He’s hot and slick, his head hitting the pillow as he arches his back, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at me,” I command, my voice rough.

He opens them, those blue-grey depths swimming with heat. I start to move my hand, a slow, steady rhythm that has him gripping the sheets until they tear. I lean down, my mouth hovering just inches from his.

“I’m gonna make you forget every second you spent wondering 'what if',” I whisper.

I capture his mouth again, deeper this time, my tongue mimicking the motion of my hand. Boston is a riot of sound beneath me, low groans, sharp intakes of breath, and my name whispered like it’s the only word he knows. He’s so responsive, so sensitive to every touch, it makes me feel powerful and humbled all at once.

I shift, my knee forcing his legs wider, and I use my free hand to explore. I want to know every inch of him. I want to know the spot behind his ear that makes him gasp, the way his stomach muscles quiver when I lick his skin, the way he tastes.

The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. Every time our hips collide, it’s a spark. Every time he drags his nails down my back, it’s a brand. We aren’t just touching. We’re erasing a decade of distance. We’re making up for every night we spent on separate sides of a couch, pretending we weren't thinking about exactly this.

"Finn," Boston gasps, his body tightening. He reaches down, his fingers fumbling between us until he finds me, his grip tight and desperate. The sudden, hot friction of his hand against me makes my vision go white.

My own body is screaming for more, my heart hammering against my ribs as he matches my rhythm. It’s messy and frantic, a decade of just friends burning up in the heat of his palm.

“Finn, I can’t…” Boston gasps, his body tightening, his fingers digging into my shoulders. “I’m close. I’m so close.”

"Stay with me," I mutter, my voice breaking as I press my forehead to his, both of us caught in the same desperate momentum.

I watch him fall. I watch the way his face contorts, the way he loses his breath, the way his entire body spasms as he comes, his name for me a broken, beautiful sound in the quiet of the room. I follow him a second later, the pleasure so intense it’s almost painful, a white-hot explosion that leaves me hollow and whole all at the same time.

I collapse against him, my face buried in his chest, our hearts racing in a frantic, overlapping beat. The silence that follows isn't the heavy, suffocating silence of the diner. It’s light. It’s easy.

It’s the sound of two people finally finding where they belong.

I shift after a moment, expecting him to pull away, to get that ‘what have I done’ look in his eyes. But Boston just wraps his arms tighter around me, tucking his head under my chin.

“Still here?” he whispers.

I press a kiss to the top of his head, my hand splayed over his heart. “I’m not going anywhere, Bos. Not ever.”

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: January 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

The words are out, and there’s no taking them back. After Boston confesses his decade-long secret in the middle of a neon-lit diner, his first instinct is to run. He expects the rejection. He expects the pity. What he doesn't expect is for Finn to follow him into the cold night air and demand the truth. In the shadow of a beat-up Jeep, the "best friend" labels are stripped away, replaced by a hunger that neither of them can ignore. The first kiss isn't a beginning—it’s an explosion. But as the friction turns from emotional to physical, Boston has to wonder: is this a beautiful new start, or the beginning of the end?

Chapter Three 

Boston 

The Point of No Return

The world didn't end.

That’s the first thing I notice. The diner floor didn't swallow me whole. The fluorescent lights didn't shatter. The trucker in the corner just kept eating his eggs. But inside the several inches of space between me and Finn, everything I’ve ever known has been incinerated.

I’m in love with you.

The words are still hanging there, vibrating in the air like a live wire. I can’t take them back. I can’t laugh them off or pretend I was joking. The look on Finn’s face, that wide-eyed, stunned silence, is the death knell of the last ten years. My heart is hitting my ribs so hard it feels like a bruise forming from the inside out.

I can’t breathe. I actually, physically cannot get air into my lungs.

“Boston,” Finn says. Just my name. No joke. No deflection.

I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and watch him try to figure out how to let me down easy. I can’t watch the pity creep into his eyes, or worse, the revulsion. I’ve spent a decade curated to be exactly what he needed, the loyal sidekick, the reliable best friend, the brother he chose. And in five seconds, I’ve set it all on fire.

“Forget it,” I choke out, sliding out of the booth so fast my knees hit the table. “Just… forget I said anything. I’m going home.”

“The hell you are,” Finn says, but I’m already moving.

I push through the heavy glass door of the diner, the bell ringing like an alarm. The night air hits me, cold and damp, but it doesn't help. I’m vibrating. My vision is blurring at the edges, and my only thought is that I need to get to the Jeep, get to my apartment, and lock the door until I can figure out how to move to a different time zone.

I’m halfway across the dark parking lot when I hear the diner door slam open behind me.

“Boston! Stop!”

I don’t stop. I reach the drivers side of the Jeep and yank on the handle, but it’s locked. I kick the tire, a jagged, pathetic sob escaping my throat. Stupid. So goddamn stupid.

“Boston, look at me!”

A hand grabs my shoulder, spinning me around. Finn is there, his face flushed, his chest heaving like he’s the one who just ran a marathon. He slams me back against the Jeep, his hands gripping my upper arms. Not to hurt me, but to anchor me.

“Let go, Finn,” I snap, my voice breaking. I try to shove him off, but he’s solid, a wall of muscle and heat that I’ve spent my whole life wanting to lean into. “You got what you wanted, okay? You wanted the truth. There it is. Now let me go before I make this even worse.”

“Worse?” Finn’s voice is a low growl, vibrating with a frustration I don’t understand. “You think telling me you love me makes things worse?”

“It changes everything!” I shout, the tears finally spilling over. I’m shaking so hard my teeth are rattling. “You don’t get it. You’re Finn. You’re easy. You’re everyone’s favorite person. And I’ve been sitting next to you for ten years dying a little bit every time you touch me because I knew it didn’t mean the same thing to you. I’ve had to watch you date people, listen to you talk about your life, all while pretending I wasn't obsessed with the way you breathe. So yeah, it’s worse! Because now you know, and you’re gonna look at me differently, and eventually, you’re gonna leave because it’s too much.”

Finn’s grip on my arms tightens until it’s almost painful. He’s staring at me with an intensity that makes my knees weak. The tension between us shifts, that sharp, electric push and pull. But he’s not pulling away. He’s crowding into my space, pressing me into the cold metal of the Jeep.

“You think I’m gonna leave?” Finn asks, his voice dropping to a dangerous, rough register. “You think after ten years of you being the only person who actually knows me, I’m just gonna walk away because you have feelings?”

“You don’t feel it back,” I whisper, the truth finally sagging out of me. “And that’s the part I can’t survive, Finn. The 'I’m sorry, but' talk. I can’t do it.”

Finn’s eyes drop to my mouth. Then back to mine. His jaw is set, that little muscle in his cheek ticking again.

“You’re so smart, Bos,” he mutters, leaning in until our foreheads are touching. I can feel his breath on my lips, warm, smelling of that diner coffee and the mint he always chews. “You’ve got everything figured out, don't you? You’ve already written the ending before we even got to the first page.”

“Finn—”

“Shut up,” he says. It’s not a request.

His hand moves from my arm to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling just enough to make me gasp. And then his mouth crashes against mine.

It’s not a "best friend" kiss. It’s not gentle or tentative. It’s a collision. It’s years of unspoken tension and suppressed hunger exploding in a single moment. He tastes like heat and desperation, his tongue pushing past my lips with a demand that makes my brain short-circuit.

I groan into his mouth, my hands flying up to grip the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, trying to fuse our bodies together. The cold metal of the Jeep is at my back and the furnace of Finn is at my front, and for the first time in a decade, I’m not suffocating.

I’m finally breathing.

His other hand slides down to my waist, fisting in my shirt, pulling me flush against him. I can feel the hard line of his thigh between mine, the friction sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated lightning straight to my gut. This is the push and shove. This is the fight I didn't know we were having.

He pulls back just an inch, his lips bruised and wet, his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them.

“You have no idea,” he rasps against my skin, “how many times I’ve thought about doing that and told myself I was crazy.”

I can’t even speak. I just reach for him again, my mouth seeking his, my body screaming for more than just a kiss in a dark parking lot. The "What If" is over.

Now, there’s only what next.

The air between us is thick, charged with the kind of electricity that usually precedes a storm. I can feel the vibration of his heart against mine, a frantic, heavy rhythm that matches the one thudding in my own chest. Every point of contact, his hands in my hair, his chest crushed against mine, the heat of his thigh, is a revelation. It’s like I’ve been living in black and white and Finn just dragged me into a world of color so bright it hurts.

He doesn't pull back. He just leans his forehead against mine, both of us gasping for the same air, the humidity of the night clinging to us.

'The Jeep,' he rasps, his voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel. 'My place. Now.'

I don't even have the breath to answer. I just nod, my fingers still white-knuckled in the fabric of his hoodie. The revelation didn't break us. It unraveled us. And as he fumbles for his keys, his eyes never leaving mine, I realize we aren't just crossing a line. We're burning the bridge behind us."

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: January 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Finn has always been the one to fill the silence. He’s the talker, the singer, the one who assumes everything is exactly as it seems. But when Boston flinches from his touch in their favorite diner booth, the facade doesn't just crack—it shatters. Suddenly, ten years of memories are shifting under Finn's feet. Every look, every shared blanket, and every "brotherly" hug takes on a new, heart-wrenching meaning. The "What If" is no longer a question; it’s a confession that changes everything. Is their friendship strong enough to survive the truth, or was the lie the only thing keeping them together?

Chapter Two 

Finn 

The Fracture

I lean forward, intending to grab the sugar shaker just to force him to look at me, but my hand misses the glass and brushes flush against his knuckles instead.

He flinches.

It isn't a small movement. He jerks his hand back like I’ve burned him, his eyes snapping up to mine, wide and full of something that looks terrifyingly like panic. He shoves his hands under the table, out of sight, and the rattling of the silverware against the Formica is the only sound between us.

“Whoa,” I mutter, my hand hovering over the tabletop, still feeling the ghost of his heat. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to jump-scare you, man.”

“It’s fine,” he says, his voice an octave too high.

I frown, the first stirrings of an uneasy realization crawling up my spine. Boston has never flinched from me. We’ve lived in each other’s pockets since we were ten. We’ve shared beds, clothes, secrets, and broken bones. I’m the guy who pulled him out of the lake when he got a cramp in seventh grade. I’m the person he calls at 3:00 AM when the world gets too loud. To him, I’m supposed to be the safe spot.

But as I watch the way his gaze drops to my mouth and then darts away, fast as a heartbeat, I realize I’m not.

The air in the booth suddenly feels very thin.

The coffee in front of me is steaming, the bitter scent of over-roasted beans filling the gap between us, but I can’t bring myself to take a sip. My hand is still tingling from where it brushed Boston’s knuckles. It wasn't even a full touch, just a graze, a split second of skin meeting skin, but the way he recoiled was violent. It was the kind of flinch you give a hot stove or a jagged piece of glass.

It’s a look I’ve never seen on him. Not directed at me.

“Boston?” I say his name again, but it feels different this time. Heavier.

He’s still staring at that sugar shaker, his fingers white-knuckled around the glass. The fluorescent lights overhead are humming, a low-pitched drone that suddenly feels like it’s vibrating inside my skull. Usually, this diner is my sanctuary. It’s where we come to decompress after a double shift, where we talk about the cars we want to build and the places we’ll go once we save up enough.

But tonight, the booth feels like it’s shrinking.

“I’m fine, Finn. Seriously,” he says. His voice is a sandpaper rasp, and he finally looks up, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He looks at my chin. My shoulder. Anywhere but into the space where I’m trying to find him.

“You’re not fine,” I say, and for the first time in ten years, I feel a prickle of genuine fear. Not the kind of fear you get from a horror movie, but the cold, sinking dread of realizing you’re standing on a bridge and the cables are starting to snap. “You just jumped six inches because I touched your hand. Since when do you do that? Since when are we… this?”

I gesture between us, to the empty air that suddenly feels like a canyon.

Boston lets out a jagged breath, his hands still hidden beneath the table, but I can see the tension vibrating through his shoulders as he retreats further into the fabric of his hoodie. "I’m just jumpy. Too much caffeine. Not enough sleep. Don’t make it a thing, Finn."

Don’t make it a thing. That’s his go-to. Whenever Boston feels exposed, he tries to shrink the world back down to size. But the more he tries to minimize it, the more my brain starts to catalog the last few months. It’s like a film reel that’s been playing in the background of my life, and someone just turned the volume up to a scream.

I think back to the bonfire in October. It was freezing, the kind of New Hampshire cold that gets into your marrow. We were sitting on the tailgate of the Jeep, sharing a flask of cheap bourbon. I’d leaned into him, heavy and relaxed, the way I always do. I’d made some joke about us being old men together, sitting on this same tailgate in forty years, still complaining about the same radiator leaks.

I remember now how he’d gone dead still. He hadn’t laughed. He’d just taken a long pull from the flask, and when I looked at him, his expression was so painful I’d asked if he was getting a migraine.

I thought it was the bourbon or maybe he was just tired.

Then there was New Year’s. My sister, Sarah, had cornered him near the drinks table. She’s always been nosy, always asking why a guy as decent as Boston hasn't brought a girl around in years. I’d been across the room, but I’d caught the look on his face when he glanced over at me. It was a second, not even that, a fracture of a moment where he looked like he was drowning and I was the only dry land in sight.

I’d laughed it off later. I’d told him Sarah was a shark and he needed to get better at dodging her.

He’d just looked at me and said, “It’s not as easy for me to dodge things as it is for you, Finn.”

I didn’t get it then. God, how did I not get it?

“What happened on Friday?” I ask, my voice dropping. I lean across the table, trying to force him to look at me. “The power went out. We were on the couch. I woke up and you were gone. You didn’t even leave a note, you just… you were gone before the sun was up.”

Boston’s jaw tics. I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek. “I told you. I had stuff to do at the shop. Early shift.”

“The shop wasn't even open Saturday, Bos. I texted Miller to see if he’d let you off early so we could grab breakfast, and he told me he hadn't seen you since Friday afternoon. Said the doors stayed locked all day.”

The lie hangs between us, limp and ugly. Boston finally meets my eyes, and the sheer amount of agony in his gaze nearly knocks me back. It’s not anger. It’s not even panic anymore. It’s exhaustion. The kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying a weight that was never meant for one person.

“Why are you doing this?” he whispers. “Why can’t you just let it be?”

“Because you’re my best friend!” I snap, my voice cracking loud enough that the trucker in the corner glances over. I don’t care. “Because I don't know who I am without you, and lately, it feels like you’re trying to erase yourself. You’re right here, but you’re not here. And I don’t know what I did to make you want to leave.”

“You didn’t do anything,” he says, and his voice is so small it breaks my heart. “That’s the problem, Finn. You didn’t do a single damn thing.”

He stands up suddenly, the legs of his chair screeching against the linoleum. It’s a harsh, jarring sound that cuts through the hum of the diner. He looks like he wants to run. He looks like he’s about to bolt out the door and keep going until the Jeep is just a speck in his rearview mirror.

“Sit down,” I say, and it’s not a request.

He hesitates, his chest heaving under his hoodie. For a second, I think he’s going to ignore me. But then the fight seems to drain out of him all at once. He sinks back onto the chair, his shoulders slumped, his head hanging low.

I look at his hands. They’re still trembling.

I think about every time I’ve called him "brother." Every time I’ve joked about us being "platonic soulmates." Every time I’ve hugged him or slapped him on the back or fallen asleep on his shoulder without a second thought. I’ve been moving through our friendship like it was a well-lit room, never realizing that Boston was standing in the shadows, trying to keep the walls from caving in.

The realization is hitting me in waves now. It’s in the way he never talks about the future unless I bring it up. Or in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m busy with something else, a look so heavy with longing it’s a wonder I didn’t feel it like a physical weight on my skin.

What if he knew?

Boston had thought it. I can feel it now. That question has been the third person in our friendship for God knows how long.

“Boston,” I say, reaching across the table again. This time, I don’t try to touch him. I just leave my hand open on the Formica, an invitation he doesn’t have to take. “Talk to me. Really talk to me. No more 'fine.' No more 'tired.' Just... give me the truth. I can take it. Whatever it is, I promise I can take it.”

He looks at my open palm, then back at my face. His eyes are swimming now, the glassiness breaking into actual tears that he’s trying desperately to blink back.

“You say that,” Boston whispers, his voice trembling as much as his hands. “But you have no idea what you’re asking for. If I tell you... there’s no going back, Finn. Everything we are? It dies the second I say it.”

“Then let it die,” I say, and I mean it. Because whatever we are right now, this ghost-haunted, silent version of us, it’s already dead. I want the real thing. Even if it scares the hell out of me. “Let it die and let’s see what’s left.”

Boston takes a shaky breath, his eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying intensity.

“I’m in love with you,” he says.

The words aren't a whisper and he doesn’t shout them. They’re just a fact, laid out on the table between the salt shaker and the cold coffee.

And just like that, the air in the diner finally stops moving.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: January 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Sometimes the loudest thing in a room is the secret you aren’t telling. For Boston, every night drive and every shared cup of coffee with Finn is a masterclass in internal composure. They’ve been "Boston and Finn" since they were kids—a duo defined by shared history and an easy, platonic rhythm. But lately, the rhythm is off. Between the neon glow of a late-night diner and the suffocating memory of a quiet Friday night, Boston is realizing that "tired" is no longer a big enough word to cover the truth. How do you keep breathing when the person you love is the one taking all the air?

Chapter One 

Boston 

The Weight of Oxygen

The neon sign of the corner diner is missing the 'E,' so it just pulses DIN R in a rhythmic, nauseating pink against the dashboard. I’ve been staring at it for three minutes, timing my breathing to the flicker. It’s a distraction, a way to keep my thoughts from drifting six inches to the left, where Finn is currently vibrating with an energy I haven't been able to match in weeks.

The Jeep smells like him. It always does, a mix of high-end woodsmoke cologne, stale French fries, and the faint, metallic scent of the garage where he spends forty hours a week. It’s a smell that used to mean safety. Now, it just feels like a trap. Every time I inhale, I’m reminded of exactly how close we are and exactly how far I am from ever being able to tell him why my hands are shaking.

Beside me, Finn is singing. He’s not even good at it, he’s off-key and loud, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in a frantic, happy rhythm. He looks effortless. That’s the word for Finn. He moves through the world like it was built specifically for him, never doubting his place in it, never wondering if the person sitting next to him is secretly mourning a friendship that hasn’t even ended yet.

“You’re quiet tonight, B,” Finn says.

The song ends, and he shifts the Jeep into park with a finality that makes my stomach roll. He doesn’t look away; he just leans his head back against the headrest, grinning at me. There’s a smudge of grease on his jaw, right along the bone, and his hair is a disaster of golden-brown curls that he’s been running his hands through all day.

I want to reach out and wipe the smudge away. My pulse thrums in my fingertips, a physical ache that demands I touch him. I can almost feel the heat of his skin, the slight roughness of the grease. I have to clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms just to stay still.

“Just tired,” I lie.

The word is smooth. It’s a practiced shield I’ve been carrying since the eleventh grade, a universal excuse for why I’m not laughing at his jokes or why I’m staring out the window like the sidewalk holds the answers to my life. I’ve said it so many times it doesn't even taste like a lie anymore. It’s just the price of admission for staying in his life.

“Liar,” he huffs, but it’s fond. He reaches over and shoves my shoulder, a rough, brotherly gesture that makes my skin burn beneath my shirt. “You’re thinking again. I can hear the gears grinding from here, Bos. It’s loud. Distracting. Stop it. Coffee first, existential crisis later.”

He hops out of the car before I can respond, slamming the door with a loud thwack that echoes in the empty lot. I watch him walk toward the diner entrance. He walks like he owns the pavement, his gait loose and confident. He doesn't know that every time he touches me, I have to mentally reconstruct my entire personality so I don’t fall apart. He doesn't know that "tired" actually means I spent the last three hours wondering what he’d do if I kissed him.

I stay in the car for a moment longer, letting the silence settle. This is the "What If" that haunts me. What if he knew? What if I reached out and didn’t stop at his shoulder? What if I let the truth spill out right here on the cracked vinyl seats?

The air would change. I know it would. It wouldn't be this easy, comfortable oxygen we share. It would be heavy. It would be thick with the kind of silence that you can’t come back from.

I think about the bakery Eli mentioned in that other life, for us, it was the old pier. Last summer, we sat out there until three in the morning, legs dangling over the edge of the wood, sharing a sleeve of saltines and a lukewarm soda. Finn had been talking about some girl he’d met at a bar, and I’d sat there, nodding, feeling my heart being slow-roasted in my chest. He’d turned to me, his face illuminated by the moonlight, and said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Bos. You’re the only person who actually gets me.”

I’d smiled. I’d told him he was stuck with me.

And it was the most honest thing I’d ever said, even if it felt like a death sentence.

I finally pull myself out of the Jeep, my boots hitting the asphalt with a dull thud. The humidity is thick tonight, clinging to my skin like a second layer of clothes. I follow him into the diner, the bell above the door chiming a greeting that feels too cheerful for how I’m feeling.

The diner is nearly empty. Just a trucker in the corner and the low hum of the refrigerator units. Finn is already slid into our usual booth, the one with the tear in the red vinyl that he always picks at when he’s bored. He’s already ordered. I know this because the waitress is already walking away, and Finn is looking at me with that expectant, bright-eyed expression that usually makes me feel like I’m home.

Tonight, it just makes me feel like I’m standing on a trapdoor.

“Black coffee, breakfast sandwich, no tomato,” Finn says, tapping his fingers on the table. “I saved you the trouble of speaking. You looked like it was going to be an ordeal.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, sliding into the seat opposite him.

I pick up the glass sugar shaker and start turning it in my hands, watching the white grains slide back and forth, back and forth. It’s better than looking at him. If I look at him, I’ll see the way the fluorescent lights catch the amber in his eyes. I’ll see the way he chews on the corner of his lip when he’s thinking. I’ll see everything I’m not allowed to have.

“Talk to me, man,” Finn says, his voice dropping the playful edge. He leans forward, his elbows on the table. “Seriously. You’ve been weird since Friday. And don’t give me the ‘tired’ thing again. I know what tiredness looks like on you. This isn't it.”

Friday.

The night we stayed up watching horror movies at his place. The night the power went out during a storm, and we’d ended up huddled on the couch under a single scratchy wool blanket. He’d fallen asleep with his shoulder pressed against mine, his breathing deep and even, and I’d sat there for two hours, terrified to move, terrified that if I shifted even an inch, I’d accidentally reveal the way my heart was screaming his name.

I’d watched the shadows of the rain on the wall and thought about how easy it would be to just lean my head on his. To let the "Best Friend" label slide off and see what was underneath.

But I didn't. I stayed frozen. I stayed the "Best Friend."

“I’m fine, Finn,” I say, finally meeting his eyes. It’s a mistake. The concern there is so genuine it hurts. It’s the kind of concern that only comes from years of shared history, from a bond that I’m currently sabotaging with every secret I keep.

“You’re not,” he says, his brow furrowing. “You’re somewhere else. I feel like I’m sitting here with a ghost.”

I want to tell him. The words are right there, stinging the back of my throat like acid. I’m not a ghost, Finn. I’m just a man who’s been in love with you since we were fifteen, and I don’t know how to stop.

Instead, I just tighten my grip on the sugar shaker until my knuckles turn white.

“Just a lot on my mind,” I say softly.

The waitress arrives with the coffee, the steam rising between us like a curtain. Finn doesn’t look away. He’s still watching me, searching for the crack in the armor he’s known for a decade. He’s looking for his best friend, and I’m just trying to make sure he doesn't find the person I’ve actually become.

Because if he finds him, everything ends. And I’m not ready to say goodbye to the only world I’ve ever known.

What if he knew?

The question isn't a ghost anymore. It’s the air in the room. And I’m starting to think I’m the only one who can’t breathe.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: January 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

This will be available in KU as well, if that makes it easier for you.

Description:

In the sun-soaked hills of Italy, the DeLuca family vineyard stands as a testament to generations of dedication and passion. Known for producing wines sought by connoisseurs, the vineyard has become a symbol of heritage and legacy. But with changing times, the burden of preserving this legacy now falls on Marco DeLuca’s shoulders. As he stands among the vines, Marco realizes he’s on the brink of a journey that could alter both the vineyard’s future and his own.

Unbeknownst to him, this path will lead to unexpected love and self-discovery, with Emma—a woman destined to forever impact the DeLuca family legacy.

Spicy Sneak Peek:

His hands slide down my sides, his touch careful but claiming. ‘This isn’t just a mistake, is it?’ I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. He freezes for a heartbeat, his forehead pressing against mine. ‘I could never regret you, Em,’ he says, his voice breaking, but the way his lips crash into mine tells me everything his words can’t.

Think of this book like Pretty Woman meets The Wedding Date, its funny, romantic and sexy all wrapped in one. But it also has lots of heart, angst and a little heartbreak mixed in. I hope you'll take a chance on Marco and Emery like I did. You won't be disappointed!

The job is finished, the lot is cleared, and yet... I’ve never felt more stuck. Silas Vance finally stopped talking, and let’s just say he found a much better use for his mouth. We were supposed to be rivals, but as the dust settles, I’m starting to realize that some things are worth falling for. Timber, indeed.

Chapter One 

Sloane 

Timber

The engine of the second truck cuts out, leaving a ringing silence in the clearing that feels ten times louder than the noise. Through the fogged-up glass, I can see the dull, ambient glow of their idling headlights reflecting off the leaves, trapping us in our dark little sanctuary behind the brush.

"Silas! You still got that chainsaw? Dad needs the extra chain!" Toby’s voice carries easily through the damp air.

I’m frozen, my heart a frantic bird trapped in my chest. Silas’s hands are firm and warm on my skin as I straddle his lap, and all I can think about is the fact that his brother is probably looking right at this truck. I open my mouth to whisper a panic-fueled oh my god, but Silas is faster.

"Shh," he breathes. It isn't a request. It’s a vibration against my lips, dark and demanding.

He doesn't pull away. He doesn't reach for the door lock or try to fix his shirt. Instead, his gaze holds mine, pinning me in place with a look that says he’s forgotten the rest of the world even exists. While his brother is shouting into the trees, Silas reaches down between us. I gasp, the sound caught in my throat, as his hand slides into the waistband of my jeans.

His rough, warm palm slides directly down the front of my jeans, the friction of his callouses against my sensitive skin making my toes curl as his fingers finally find their target

The first touch of his fingers inside me makes me gasp, my forehead dropping forward to rest against his as I let out a shaky, broken breath. It’s too much. The risk, the heat, and the sheer audacity of what he’s doing while his brother is standing just a few dozen feet away. I arch my back, my breath hitching in a way that’s dangerously loud as his hand begins to move.

A choked sound starts to climb up my throat—a mix of a sob and a moan—but Silas catches it. He smothers my mouth with his, his tongue sliding deep into my mouth in a kiss that is pure possession. It’s a silent, frantic war. He’s tasting me, claiming me, all while his brother’s voice cuts through the air again.

"Maybe he’s in the shed?" Toby’s voice is closer now. I can hear the jingle of keys.

"Quiet," Silas growls against my lips, his fingers moving with a slow, torturous rhythm. He knows exactly how to move, exactly where to put pressure, and he’s doing it with a focus that is absolutely terrifying. "Don't make a sound, Sloane. Let them think I’m not here. Let them think the woods are empty."

I’m gripping his shoulders so hard my nails are probably leaving marks through the gray fabric of his henley. Every time Toby shouts, Silas pushes deeper, his thumb finding the perfect spot to make my entire body vibrate. I’m a live wire, a string pulled so tight I’m about to snap, and Silas is the one holding the blade.

"Guess he’s gone," another voice—his dad—grumbles from the distance. "Truck’s here, but he probably walked back to the house. Come on, let’s go before the rain starts back up."

We sit in agonizing silence. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. I can hear the rustle of the leaves. Finally, a pair of heavy truck doors slam. Two engines roar to life, and the sound of gravel spraying tells us they’re finally pulling away, their tail lights disappearing into the tree line.

The second the sound fades, the silence of the woods rushes back in, heavier and hotter than before.

"They're gone," I pant, my forehead dropping onto his shoulder. "Silas, they almost—we almost—"

"I don't care," he rasps, and the sheer hunger in his voice makes my breath catch all over again.

He pulls his hand back just long enough to finish what he started with his belt, while I frantically shove my jeans down my hips, kicking them onto the floor of the cab. His movements are fast, focused, and primal as he pushes his own denim out of the way. There’s no more brooding lumberjack. There’s just the man who has been trying to get under my skin for six months, and he’s finally done waiting.

He hoists me up, his hands like iron on my waist, and adjusts my position until I’m hovering over him. For the first time, the 'enemies' part of our story feels like a distant, dusty memory. There is no snark left. No blog-worthy captions or clever hashtags. Just the raw, staggering heat of him as he finally, finally pushes into me.

I cry out, the sound echoing in the small, fogged-up cab. I don't care who hears it now. I’ve spent months trying to keep him at arm's length, trying to prove that I was too city, too modern, too me for a man like him. But as he moves beneath me, his hands gripping my hips with a strength that leaves no room for doubt, I realize I’ve been lying to myself for the sake of the 'gram.

The truck rocks on its suspension, a slow, steady rhythm that matches the fire in my veins. The windows are completely opaque now, a private, heated sanctuary in the middle of the clearing. Silas is a force of nature, a landslide of heat and muscle that I can’t escape, and God help me, I don't want to.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice breaking.

I open my eyes, seeing the man behind the mountain. He isn't the Grumpzilla who laughed at my boots. He’s completely undone, his face tight with a pleasure so intense it’s almost painful. He looks at me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered, like the wood and the timber and the legacy were just a placeholder for this moment.

"You're mine," he growls, his pace quickening, his hands dragging over my skin, driving me toward a cliff I’ve been leaning over since the moment I saw him in that hardware store. "Say it, Sloane."

"Yours," I sob, the word catching in my throat as the world starts to splinter and blur at the edges. "I'm yours, Silas. I've been yours since the first time you told me to shut up."

The world finally gives way, a crushing, breathless collapse that sends us both crashing down and leaves us tangled together in the quiet of the truck. The lot is still messy, the wood is only half-cleared, and my hair is a disaster that no amount of dry shampoo can fix.

But as Silas wraps his arms around me, pulling my head into the crook of his neck and breathing me in like I’m the air he needs to survive, I realize I don't mind the mess.

I’ve been chopped down to my very foundation, and for the first time in my life, I like the view from the ground. I don’t need a filter for this. I don’t need a caption.

I just need him. Like they say when a tree falls, timber.

The End

Come back next week for another story

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: January 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Work is supposed to be productive, but it’s hard to focus on timber when Silas is standing close enough for me to count the flecks in his eyes. The bickering has officially shifted from "I hate you" to "I’m going to lose my mind if you don't touch me." The wood isn't the only thing catching sparks today, and honestly? My defenses are officially splintering.

Chapter Two 

Sloane 

Chipping Away

f there was an Olympic sport for "Holding Your Breath While a Huge Man Stands Entirely Too Close," I’d be on a cereal box by now.

Silas hasn’t moved. He’s still a wall of heat against my back, his hands firm on my waist, and his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear. The clearing is silent except for the distant chirp of a bird that clearly isn't dealing with a hormonal crisis, and the heavy, rhythmic thud of my own heart.

"You're overthinking it again, Sloane," he murmurs. His voice is a low rumble that I can feel vibrating through my own spine. "Stop trying to curate the moment and just feel the weight of the axe."

"Hard to feel the axe when I'm being used as a human kickstand," I manage to say, though it comes out breathier than I intended. I try to lean forward, away from the intoxicating scent of cedar and sweat, but his grip on my waist tightens. Just a fraction. Just enough to let me know he isn't letting go until he’s done with me.

"I'm stabilizing you," he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. "You're top-heavy. Bad center of gravity."

I scoff, finally finding a spark of my usual fire. "I am not top-heavy. I am perfectly balanced. You’re just looking for an excuse to put your hands on the 'content-obsessed tourist.'"

He chuckles, and the sound is rough, like sandpaper on silk. He lets go of my waist, but before I can even register the loss of contact, he’s moved in front of me. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against my damp collarbone as he hooks the neck of my denim shirt, pulling me an inch closer.

"Trust me, Sloane. If I wanted an excuse to touch you, I wouldn't need a pile of wood to do it."

His eyes are dark, stormy and unreadable, as they track the movement of my throat when I swallow. The air between us is thick, heavy with the kind of humidity that has nothing to do with the weather. It’s the kind of tension that makes your skin itch and your blood hum.

"Then why are you still here?" I whisper. "The lot is halfway cleared. You’ve made your point. I’m a disaster with a blade. You can go back to your cave and brood in peace now."

"I'm not finished with you yet," he says. The words are simple, but the way he says them, slow and deliberate, like a promise, makes my knees feel like they’re made of wet sawdust.

He takes the axe from my hand, his fingers lingering over mine as he pulls the tool away. He tosses it aside like it’s a toothpick. It hits the soft earth with a dull thud, and suddenly, the only thing between us is three inches of heated air and about six months of repressed frustration.

"You've been poking the bear for weeks, Sloane," he says, stepping even closer, forcing me to tilt my head back until I'm looking up at the canopy of trees. "Every time you walk into the hardware store, every time you post those little pictures of 'the simple life,' every time you look at me like I'm a problem you can't solve... you're asking for this."

"Asking for what?" I breathe, my hand instinctively reaching out to steady myself against his chest. His heart is hammering just as fast as mine. The discovery sends a surge of triumph, and terror, through me. He isn't as unaffected as he pretends to be.

"For someone to finally shut you up."

Before I can retort, before I can tell him that nobody shuts Sloane Miller up, his hand is at the back of my head. His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my face up, and then his mouth is on mine.

It isn't a sweet, slow-motion Hallmark type of kiss. It’s a collision.

It tastes like coffee and heat and everything I’ve been trying to pretend I don’t want. He’s rough, his beard grazing my sensitive skin, his tongue sweeping against mine with a hunger that tells me he’s been thinking about this just as long as I have.

I moan into his mouth, my fingers digging into the fabric of his henley, pulling him closer until there’s no daylight left between us. I want more. I want the heat, the weight, the way he makes me feel like I’m finally being leveled, not by an axe, but by him.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to growl against my lips, "The truck. Now."

If there was an Olympic sport for "Holding Your Breath While a Huge Man Stands Entirely Too Close," I’d be on a cereal box by now.

Silas hasn’t moved. He’s still a wall of heat against my back, his hands firm on my waist, and his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear. The clearing is silent except for the distant chirp of a bird that clearly isn't dealing with a hormonal crisis, and the heavy, rhythmic thud of my own heart.

He doesn't wait for an answer. He hooks an arm under my knees and hauls me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. I’m dimly aware of the axe lying forgotten in the dirt, but as Silas marches toward the black pickup, I realize the "work" has only just begun.

We reach the truck and he wrenches the door open, practically shoving me inside the cab before climbing in after me. The space is suddenly tiny, filled with the scent of leather, pine-scented air freshener, and the frantic, heavy breathing of two people who have reached their breaking point.

Silas doesn't waste a second. His hands roaming over my body with a desperate kind of hunger. He tugs at my denim shirt, the snaps popping like gunfire in the quiet cab. I’m just as bad, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his henley, needing to feel the heat of his skin against mine.

"You have no idea," he growls against the pulse point in my neck, his hands sliding up my thighs, "how long I've wanted to do this."

"Show me," I pant, arching my back as his mouth finds the sensitive skin of my collarbone.

His touch is everywhere, rough, certain, and completely overwhelming. He pulls me onto his lap, my legs straddling his hips, the friction of our jeans a torturous reminder of everything we’re about to lose. The bickering, the rivalry, the "stay on your side of the line" energy, it’s all burning up in the heat of this cab.

My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper. Every touch is a claim. Every gasp is a confession. He’s not just "chopping me down" anymore; he’s taking me apart, piece by piece, and I am more than willing to let him.

He growls, a deep, primal sound, and his hand reaches for the buckle of his belt. I’m leaning back against the steering wheel, my head spinning, my body feeling like it’s made of nothing but live wires and wanting.

"Sloane," he breathes, his eyes locking onto mine, dark and blown wide. "There’s no going back after this."

"Good," I whisper, reaching down to cover his hand with mine. "I've always hated the view from my side of the fence anyway."

He leans in, his forehead against mine, his hand finally clearing the last of our barriers. Just as the tension reaches a screaming pitch, just as I’m about to find out exactly what it feels like to have him finally break through—

The heavy, metallic thud of someone slamming a car door echoes through the clearing.

We both freeze.

"Silas? You out here?"

The voice is loud, cheerful, and definitely not alone. It’s his younger brother, accompanied by the distinct sound of a second truck pulling into the gravel lot.

"Shit," Silas hisses, his eyes snapping to the window as a pair of headlights sweeps across the trees.

My heart is nearly leaping out of my chest. My shirt is open, Silas is half-undressed in his own driver’s seat, and his entire family is currently thirty yards away and closing fast.

"Don't. Move," he whispers, his jaw tight enough to snap.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: January 2026

Log Off and Lean In

I came into the woods for a little "me time" and some manual labor for the ‘gram. What I got was a dull axe, a blister, and Silas Vance—the human equivalent of a thunderstorm in flannel. He thinks he’s going to chop me down to size, but I’m not exactly known for playing nice. The tension in this clearing is thick enough to cut with a saw... if I could actually get the saw to work.

Chapter One 

Sloane 

Sharp Edges and Hard Lines

If Silas Vance looks at me with that "bless your heart" expression one more time, I am going to use this axe for something other than splitting maple.

I’m currently standing in what used to be a picturesque clearing on the edge of my property, the future site of my "Rustic Retreat" blog-office, but is now a crime scene of splintered wood and my own shattered pride. The sun is beating down, my ponytail is losing the war against humidity, and I am fairly certain I have a blister forming on my palm that will require a medical professional and a very strong cocktail.

I’d envisioned this morning differently. I saw myself in my new, perfectly distressed denim and a cute bandana, effortlessly swinging an axe like some reclaimed pioneer goddess. I’d take a few "candid" shots of the progress, post them with a caption about Self-Reliance™, and be back inside for an iced latte by noon.

Instead, I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat, and the only thing I’ve successfully "reclaimed" is a deep-seated resentment for heavy machinery.

“You’re holding it like a hockey stick, Sloane.”

I don’t even look at him. I don’t need to. I can feel him. Silas is leaning against the bed of his blacked-out pickup truck, arms crossed over a chest that has no business being that wide. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray henley with the sleeves pushed up, revealing forearms that are basically a roadmap of veins and bad intentions. He’s been there for ten minutes, just watching me fail. It’s his favorite hobby.

“I’m holding it with authority, Silas,” I snap, readjusting my grip for the tenth time. My palms are slick, and the wooden handle feels like it’s vibrating with its own mockery. “It’s called technique. You should look it up sometime between your scheduled brooding sessions.”

“Technique involves actually hitting the wood. You’ve been swinging for twenty minutes and that log looks like it’s been nibbled on by a confused beaver.”

I whip around, the axe head sagging just a bit because, okay, the damn thing weighs a thousand pounds. “I didn’t ask for a consultant. I’m clearing this lot. It’s my lot. My wood. My aesthetic.”

“Your aesthetic is going to end with a trip to the ER.” He pushes off the truck, moving with that slow, predatory grace that makes my stomach do a stupid little flip I try to pretend is just hunger.

Silas is the human equivalent of a thunderstorm, dark, loud, and prone to making people seek shelter. We’ve been at each other's throats since I moved back to town and dared to suggest his family’s timber legacy could use a little "digital modernization." He called me a "content-obsessed tourist." I called him a "technophobic Neanderthal."

Silas Vance doesn’t just disagree with you; he tries to level you. He has this way of looking at me and my plans for this town, like we’re just overgrowth in his way. He’s spent his whole life cutting down giants, and I can tell he’s just waiting for the chance to chop me down to size. Figuratively. Probably.

I hate him. I really do. I hate that he’s six-foot-three of pure, rugged competence. I hate that he looks better in a pair of stained work boots than most men look in a tailored suit. And I especially hate that he’s right, I have no idea what I’m doing.

He stops three feet away. Close enough that I can smell the cedarwood, the faint, salty scent of skin that’s been working in the sun, and a hint of expensive espresso. It’s a devastatingly masculine smell. It’s the kind of smell that makes a girl want to forget she has a master’s degree and a five-step skincare routine.

“Give it here,” he grunts, reaching for the axe.

“No.” I pull it back, hugging the handle to my chest. “I’m doing this. I told the contractor the site would be cleared by Monday. I’m not letting some grumpy mountain man do it for me just because he thinks women are made of glass and glitter.”

He lets out a low, dry chuckle that sends a shiver straight down my spine. “Glass and glitter? Sloane, I’ve seen you go toe-to-toe with the town council over a zoning permit. I know you’re made of titanium and spite.”

He takes another step and the clearing suddenly feels very small. The birds have gone quiet, the wind has died down, and all I can hear is the sound of my own pulse thudding in my ears. He’s looking at me now, really looking at me. His gaze tracing the line of my throat, the messy strands of hair clinging to my temples, and the way my breathing has hitched.

“But titanium breaks under enough pressure,” he whispers, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that feels like a physical touch.

“I’m not breaking,” I whisper back, though my knees are feeling suspiciously like jelly.

“Is that right?” He doesn't go for the axe this time. Instead, he reaches out and runs a thumb along the line of my jaw, wiping away a smudge of dirt. His skin is rough, calloused, and hot, so hot it feels like he’s branding me. “Then why is your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest?”

I try to find my voice, to find a clever retort that will put him back in his place, but my brain has gone completely offline. All I can focus on is the heat radiating off him and the way his blue eyes have turned the color of the lake right before a freeze.

“It’s the… the exertion,” I manage to choke out.

“Uh-huh.” He smirks, his thumb lingering near the corner of my mouth. “Let’s test that theory.”

He moves behind me, his chest pressing against my back, his height looming over me. He’s a wall of solid muscle and flannel, and I am suddenly very aware of the fact that we are completely alone in the woods.

“Wider stance,” he commands, his hands sliding down my arms to my wrists. He’s not being gentle. He’s being firm, guiding my movements with a terrifying amount of control. “Keep your eyes on the center of the grain. Don’t just swing, Sloane. Drive through it.”

His hands move from my wrists to my waist, adjusting my posture. His touch is heavy, certain, and completely inappropriate for a neighborly dispute. I can feel the heat of his palms through my denim, and I’m fairly certain I’ve forgotten how to breathe entirely.

“Now,” he murmurs into my ear, his breath tickling my skin. “Show me that authority you were talking about.”

I take a breath, trying to steady my shaking hands. I swing. This time, the axe connects with a satisfying thwack, splitting the maple log clean down the middle.

“There,” I pant, leaning on the handle, my heart racing for an entirely different reason now. “See? Authority.”

I turn in his arms, a mistake I realize the second I do it. We’re chest-to-chest now. I can feel the hard planes of his torso against my breasts, the heavy buckle of his belt against my hip. He doesn't move back. He doesn't apologize. He just looks down at me, his eyes dark with something that definitely isn't neighborly concern.

“Not bad,” he says, his voice like velvet. “But you’ve still got a whole pile left.”

He leans in, his face inches from mine. I can see the individual golden flecks in his eyes, the slight scar on his lip, and the way his jaw is tight with restraint.

“Tell me, Sloane,” he whispers, his hand sliding up from my waist to the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in my messy ponytail. “Are you going to keep fighting me, or are you going to let me show you how this is really done?”

The ‘Chop Me Down’ metaphor isn't a metaphor anymore. He’s leveling my defenses, chip by chip, and I’m starting to realize that the only thing I want to hit right now is him.

“I think,” I breathe, my hand reaching up to rest on his solid, warm chest, “that you talk way too much for a man who claims to like the quiet.”

His eyes flare. “Careful, city girl. You keep pushing, and you might find out exactly what happens when I stop talking.”

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: January 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix