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They’ve traded barbs and pranks for months, but tonight the stakes change. Mason doesn’t back down, doesn’t break, and Aria can’t stop herself from meeting him toe-to-toe. Every step closer is a dare, every kiss a collision, every touch another rule they can’t take back. What started as playful rivalry is burning into something neither of them can ignore. And this time, Mason isn’t letting her hide behind jokes—he’s going to make her admit what she really wants.

Trick or Tease

Chapter Three

Aria

The Game Turns Hot

The air shifts the second he steps forward. One slow, deliberate move, and I’m already backing up, like my body hasn’t caught up to my brain yet. Another step and I bump against the edge of the rug, my heel catching, but I don’t fall. He’s too close for that.

The room feels smaller than it did a minute ago, the glow from the jack-o’-lanterns outside throwing shadows against the walls. It’s stupid, really. Halloween decorations and low light shouldn’t make my heart pound like this. But Mason Beckett closing the distance? That’ll do it.

“You’re getting a little close, Beckett.” I keep my voice sharp, like I’m not the one who just took three steps back without realizing it.

His smirk is infuriating. “You’re the one who let me in.”

I hate how steady he sounds, how sure. Like he’s been waiting for me to corner myself. My pulse jumps in my throat, my skin hot and restless under his stare.

This isn’t a prank anymore. This is something else—something I’m not ready to name.

And I’m not sure if I want him to stop.

We’re toe-to-toe now, neither one of us giving an inch. His shoulders block out the room behind him, the dim light catching sharp angles of his face, leaving the rest in shadow. His eyes lock on mine, steady, unreadable—until they flick down for the briefest second to my mouth.

My breath hitches, and I cover it with attitude. “Problem?”

“Not yet,” he murmurs, voice low enough to skim over my skin like a touch.

The argument should’ve kept going. That’s our thing, me throwing jabs, him batting them back like it’s nothing. But instead of more words, he closes that last inch like it was inevitable all along.

The kiss slams into me, sudden and hard. More fight than anything sweet, like we’ve both been waiting to land the first real hit. His mouth is hot, demanding, his stubble scraping my skin in a way that burns and thrills at the same time. I gasp into his mouth, the sound betraying me when I wanted to sound sharp, untouchable.

My fingers fist in his shirt, yanking him closer, while his hands frame my jaw like he’s staking a claim. His thumb presses against my cheek, firm, steady, holding me there as if I’d ever try to pull away. He tastes like heat and something darker, like every insult and challenge we’ve ever thrown at each other caught fire and turned into this.

My head screams mistake, lines blurred I can’t unblur. But my body? My body’s already gone.

This is dangerous. Addictive. And I already know—I won’t want to stop.

My back hits the wall before I even register that he’s moved me, his hands braced on either side of my head. Not caging me exactly, but directing me, steering me, like I’ve been heading here all along and he’s just the one making sure I arrive.

The wall is cool against my spine, a sharp contrast to the heat pouring off him. The solidness of him crowding me in with every breath, and it’s enough to steal my own, leave me tight and restless. I should tell him to move. Push him back, crack a joke, anything that keeps this in the safe territory of pranks and insults.

But my palms betray me, sliding up his chest instead. The steady rise and fall beneath my hands makes me dizzy, especially when my fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie and I tug like I can bring him closer than he already is.

I shove at his chest, even though my hands don’t actually push him away, they clutch his hoodie tighter instead. “What’s the plan here, Beckett? Corner me until I admit you’re right?”

His mouth brushes mine in the next breath, teasing, stealing air before it can become a full kiss again.

“Maybe I just like watching you squirm,” I bite out, even though my pulse is tripping all over itself.

That’s when his smile turns wicked, and he lowers his head just enough to murmur against my lips, “You’re still talking too much.”

I can’t stop the laugh that slips out, shaky and breathless. “Shut me up then.”

His answer isn’t words. It’s the low, dark growl that vibrates straight into my chest before his mouth claims mine again, harder this time. Messier. Hungrier.

His hoodie is half-off before I even realize I’m the one shoving it off his body, desperate to feel more of him. The T-shirt underneath clings to his skin, thin fabric stretched across his shoulders. My hands ache to get under it, to feel skin instead of cotton.

He doesn’t let me linger. His hands are on me now, firm at my waist, sliding higher until my shirt bunches at my ribs. The rough brush of his knuckles across bare skin makes me jolt, arch into him.

It’s frantic, reckless—him pressing me harder into the wall, me clutching at him like I can fight and surrender at the same time. Every kiss tastes like we’re still trying to win, to one-up each other, only now the scoreboard is our bodies.

And the line between our war and whatever this is? It’s gone, burned to ash in the heat of his mouth.

His mouth drags lower, lips grazing the edge of my jaw, my throat, leaving sparks in their wake. My body tips forward instinctively, like I can chase the heat of him before it disappears. I’m ready for more, aching for it, when suddenly he stills.

Not much, but enough.

The absence slams into me harder than I expect. My lungs squeeze tight, every nerve screaming for him to keep going.

“Mason—” The name slips out rough, shaky, before I can stop it.

His grip doesn’t loosen. One hand is planted firm against the wall beside my head, the other steady at my waist, holding me in place like he knows I’ll try to twist free, or maybe like he knows I won’t. His chest brushes mine with each uneven breath, but he doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t give me what I’m begging for without words.

“What—” My voice sharpens, desperate to cover the quiver underneath. “Giving up already?”

That smirk I hate—cocky and unfairly gorgeous—pulls at his mouth. “Not even close.”

I glare up at him, nails biting into his T-shirt where my hands still clutch it. “Then why stop?”

His thumb strokes slowly across my jaw, deliberate, sending a shiver straight through me. His eyes lock on mine, pinning me there with the same intensity he’s always carried, only this time, it’s not about pranks or winning. It’s about me.

The faint candlelight flickered across his face, making him look more dangerous than he should.

“Because I want to hear you say it,” he says, low and rough, every word dragging heat down my spine.

I shake my head, stubborn, though my pulse is wrecking me. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Say it, Foster.” His voice hardens, deep and commanding, as if the air itself bends to listen. His hand at my waist tightens, not painful, but sure. “Tell me this is what you’ve been after.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy, intimate. My pride claws for a way out, another smart remark, a laugh, anything to deflect. But the truth is burning hotter than my defenses, my body betraying me with every ragged breath, every tremor of need I can’t disguise.

“Mason…” The word falls out, half plea, half surrender. My throat tightens as I force the rest out, barely more than a whisper. “I want it. I’ve wanted it longer than I should.”

His smile unfurls slow, dangerous, like a victory he’s been waiting all year to claim. He leans in, lips brushing mine without giving me the kiss I crave.

“That’s all I needed.”

And I’m left trembling, knowing I just handed him every ounce of control.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part four

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: October 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

A knock on the door changes everything. Mason Beckett isn’t here for candy—he’s here for payback. One smug grin, one simple dare—trick or treat—and suddenly their little war doesn’t feel so harmless anymore. The banter that’s always kept them safe is sharper now, the air between them thicker, charged with something Aria doesn’t want to name. And when Mason steps inside, she starts to wonder if she’s about to lose the only game she’s ever cared about winning.

Trick or Tease - Wicked Little Treats: A Halloween CollectionTrick or Tease

Chapter One

Aria

Mischief Managed

A couple hours later, the street is eerily quiet. Porch lights click off one by one, jack-o’-lanterns burning low, their grins caving in. I’m curled on my couch with a blanket and a glass of wine, replaying the look on Mason’s face when he caught me. That not-smile, not-frown, just smug enough to make me want to throw the spider at his head.

A knock at my door makes me jump. Not a light rap like kids begging for last-minute candy. A solid, deliberate thud.

I freeze, glass hovering halfway to my mouth. Most of the neighborhood’s done for the night. Which leaves exactly one person bold enough to come knocking.

Another thud, steady and unhurried.

Muttering under my breath, I pad to the door, bare feet whispering across the floor. I peek through the glass. And, of course, there he is. Mason. Hood down now, hair mussed from the wind, bowl of candy still in his hand like he’s been waiting for this moment.

When I open the door, he doesn’t bother with a hello. He just tips his chin, mouth curved with that same dare from earlier.

“Trick or treat.”

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed like I’ve got all the time in the world. “Pretty sure you’ve aged out of trick-or-treating, Beckett.”

His gaze drags over me, slow and steady, again, before settling back on my face. “Guess that makes you the treat, then.”

Heat flickers low in my stomach, traitorous and sharp, and I smother it with a scoff. “Cute. Did you rehearse that one on the way over?”

“Didn’t have to.” His mouth curves, not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “Some things come naturally.”

I roll my eyes, but my fingers curl tighter against my arms to keep from fidgeting. He doesn’t even blink, just stands there on my porch holding that ridiculous bowl of candy like he owns the place.

“Goodnight, Mason.” I push at the door, slow and casual, like I actually expect him to move.

Before the latch can catch, his hand slides to the frame. Not rough, or pushy. Just solid, fingers spread against the wood. Blocking me without even breaking stride in his breathing.

I narrow my eyes. “Seriously? You planning to loiter until sunrise?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re gonna keep pretending you don’t like this game.” His voice dips lower, almost conversational, like he’s discussing the weather instead of cornering me on my own porch.

The worst part? My pulse trips over itself, betraying me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t rush. Just holds the space, calm and steady, like he knows eventually I’ll be the one to cave.

And damn it, he’s probably right.

I huff out a laugh, more nerves than humor, and roll my eyes. “Fine. If you’re so determined, come in then.”

It’s supposed to be a bluff. A line to make him finally step back and leave me standing here with the last word.

Instead, Mason shifts the candy bowl to one arm and ducks his head just enough to clear the doorframe, strolling inside like I’ve rolled out a welcome mat. Not cautious or hesitant. Just nonchalant.

“Seriously?” I spin, shutting the door a little harder than necessary. “That wasn’t an actual invitation.”

“You said come in.” He shrugs, tone maddeningly mild as his gaze sweeps across the room. “I listen.”

“That’s a first.”

He doesn’t bite. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he drifts farther in, calm and unhurried, like every step plants a flag. He doesn’t look around like a guest, he surveys like he owns every square foot.

I fold my arms tighter across my chest, trying to cage the sudden flutter beneath my ribs. I should be annoyed. No—furious. He’s barged in, tracked the chill of the October night across my floor, and acts like it’s his living room.

And yet.

There’s something about the way he fills the space so easily, like he belongs here more than he should, that sparks low under my skin. Half-annoyed, half-thrilled. Mostly pissed at myself for feeling both.

Mason drifts farther into the room like he’s on a self-guided tour, gaze snagging on every corner. The string lights I’d looped over the mantle cast a soft orange glow, the cheap cobwebs I stretched across the bookshelf drooping in uneven clumps. His mouth curves like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Really went all out, didn’t you?” he says, brushing his fingers over a paper bat that’s already peeling off the wall.

“It’s called holiday spirit,” I shoot back, trailing after him with my arms crossed. “You should try it sometime.”

He hums, low and unimpressed, and keeps moving. His eyes flick to the side table where I stupidly left a roll of tape, then to the candy bowl, where a spare plastic spider lies in wait. He picks it up between two fingers, turning it slowly before dropping it back into the bowl.

“Holiday spirit,” he repeats, voice lazy. “Or just really elaborate plotting.”

“It’s decor.” The words snap out before I can soften them, and his grin says he heard the defensive edge.

He wanders toward the sideboard, brushing his knuckles over a stretch of fake webbing that sags too low. Then he turns, closing the distance between us until I’m forced to shift a step back. His height, and his calmness eats up the space like he’s designed to unsettle me.

“You put this much effort into everyone?” he asks quietly, eyes locked on mine.

My throat goes tight, sass tangling with nerves. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just… easy to mess with.”

His gaze lingers, steady, sharp. “Easy. That what you tell yourself?”

And my pulse gives me away, thudding hard enough to make me want to shove him—or kiss him.

Mason doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts closer, closing the space until I can make out the faint smell of smoke and sugar clinging to his hoodie. His gaze holds mine steady, unblinking, the kind of look that dares me to flinch first.

“Trick or treat?” His voice is low, deliberate, curling over me like smoke. Not a question so much as a promise.

I lift my chin, forcing a smirk I don’t fully feel. My arms fold tight across my chest, a flimsy shield. “Treat.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and razor sharp. “Then don’t complain when it’s more than you can handle.”

The words land hot, curling down my spine, and I hate the way my throat works around the swallow I can’t hide. His smirk doesn’t get wider, and he doesn’t press—he just lets me sit in it.

I try to even my breath, paste on a smile that’s all teeth. “You really think you’re that scary?”

His gaze dips, lingers just long enough to make my skin spark, then comes back up steady. “Not scary. Just honest.”

The silence stretches, heavy and humming. My pulse hammers, traitorous, giving me away even as I pretend I’m calm.

He doesn’t call me on it. He just stands there, confident and immovable, like he already knows he’s won this round.

And damn it, I’m not sure he’s wrong.

He shifts again, slow enough that I should have time to step back. But… I don’t.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing lightly under my chin, tilting my face toward his. My breath stalls. My brain screams that I should shove him away, crack another joke, anything to prove he doesn’t rattle me.

But my body betrays me, leaning in before I can think better of it.

When his mouth finally covers mine, it’s not tentative. It’s decisive, like he’s been waiting all night for me to run out of smart remarks. Heat crashes through me, sharp and dizzying, until my hands fist in his hoodie without permission.

I kiss him back—too hard, too eager—and I hate myself for how good it feels.

He pulls back just enough to let his breath skate across my lips, his eyes dark and steady on mine.

“Still think it’s just a game?” he murmurs.

My smirk wobbles, weaker than I want it to be. “You wish.”

But the way my pulse stutters, the way I’m still clinging to him, says otherwise.

His grin tilts, smug and satisfied, like he’s just claimed victory in a war I swore I wasn’t losing.

I shove at his chest, more for my sanity than to move him. “This doesn’t change anything,” I lie, the taste of him still lingering, daring me to prove it.

Mason doesn’t argue. He just smirks, steady and unshakable, like he already knows round two is inevitable.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

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: October 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Halloween in the neighborhood is all about costumes, candy, and chaos—but for Aria Foster, it’s also about outsmarting the infuriatingly smug neighbor next door. Mason Beckett never flinches at her tricks, never cracks under her pranks, and that only makes her more determined to win. But when one scare goes sideways, their harmless rivalry sparks with something sharper. Mischief has always been fun… until she realizes the real danger might be how much she likes getting under his skin.
Wicked Little Treats: A Halloween Collection book oneTrick or TeaseChapter OneAriaMischief Managed

The street’s alive with Halloween chaos, kids darting between houses in capes and masks, candy bags dragging like they’re filled with bricks already. Jack-o’-lanterns grin from. every porch, candles flickering just enough to cast shadows that move if you look too long. Porch lights blink on and off, signaling which houses are fair game and which are pretending they’re not home.

I’m not here for the candy. I’ve got a different kind of treat planned.

The very realistic fake spider in my hand dangles by its fake web string, fuzzy black legs catching in the glow of my neighbor’s porch light. One drop into Mason Beckett’s mailbox and he’ll be treated to the scare of his life tomorrow morning. Or at least he would be, if he ever admitted defeat.

Mason never hands me the satisfaction. He stands there like a statue. Steady jaw and even breath while I do the running around. It’s maddening. Addictive.

If I’m honest, this stupid war has been the best part of the year, more fun than the farmer’s market or book club combined. I live for the mini victories. Mason Beckett might be my rival, but winding him up is my favorite hobby. Even if he refuses to let me win.

I slip across the dew-cool grass, crouch low, cat burglar energy, minus the talent—fingers curled around the spider. The neighborhood hums with sugar and shrieks, but all of it blurs when I look at one place.

His house.

Mason’s porch light glows steady, jack-o’-lantern carved with neat, straight lines like he took a ruler to it. Figures. Even his pumpkin has to be perfectly measured. 

I crouch by the mailbox, fingers numb with excitement. The hinge gives a soft, guilty creak when I lift it, too loud in the hush between trick-or-treat screams and I freeze, breath caught behind my teeth. No one’s watching. Good. I snake the very realistic spider inside, stretch the fake web so it’ll snag his hand when he reaches for the mail, then smooth the lid down like I’ve done nothing at all.

Not finished, I fish the backup from my hoodie: a plastic skeleton hand with tape on the palm. I tuck it under the doorframe so the fingers peek out like something trying to crawl free. Subtle enough he won’t notice until it’s too late.

I can’t help the grin tugging at my mouth as I picture his face. Him pausing at the mailbox, frown carved deep, that inevitable shake of his head like he can’t believe I’ve wasted my time on this again. Which, of course, only makes it sweeter. If I’m really lucky, maybe a muttered curse as he shakes his head like I’m a kid he can’t control. Later, I’ll pretend I’m not watching, but I already know I’ll be peeking through my blinds the second he steps outside.

Tonight, I win.

Or at least, I think I do.

“Breaking and entering’s a crime, Foster.”

The voice cuts through the night from directly behind me, low, smug, and way too close. Static prickles up my arms. My knees slam the rail with a hollow crack—the pumpkin teeters—and for a blink I picture myself face-first in orange mush. 

“Jesus—” The word bursts out as I spin, breath snagging in my throat. My pulse slams in my ears, too fast, too loud. I shove a hand into the pocket of my hoodie like I can hide the evidence, fingers curling tight around nothing but fabric.

And there he is. Mason Beckett, leaning against his porch rail like he’s been waiting all night for me to show up. Dark hoodie. Dark jeans. A big plastic bowl of candy tucked in one arm. His hair’s messy from the wind, but of course, it works for him. Because everything works for him. Annoyingly good-looking, even lit by the flicker of a jack-o’-lantern and the distant glow of passing headlights.

My pulse hasn’t settled, but I force a casual shrug. “Pretty sure skeleton décor is public domain tonight.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, not a smile so much as a dare. “Uh-huh. You were just… generously enhancing my curb appeal?”

“Exactly,” I shoot back, straightening to my full height, which unfortunately isn’t anywhere close to his. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

His gaze skates over me slowly and cataloging, not the porch or the prank, but me. It leaves sparks along my skin, stupid and traitorous, and I have to clamp my hands at my sides to stop them from trembling. The air between us hums with something I refuse to think about, the kind of awareness I’ll deny until the day I die.

Most people would be rattled finding their neighbor crouched by their mailbox in the dark. Mason just looks amused, like I’m a show he never bought tickets for, but he’s not leaving his seat.

And that smugness—that calm, steady tone—throws me completely off balance.

I square my shoulders, refusing to let him see how rattled I still am. “Admit it, Beckett. I got you this time.”

Mason picks up and drops a piece of candy back into the bowl like I’m not even worth the effort. Then his gaze flicks back to me, slow and deliberate. “Not even close.”

My jaw tightens. Of course. Nothing shakes him. I could stage a full-on haunted house in his living room and he’d probably just stand there, arms crossed, waiting for me to run out of fog machine juice.

“You flinched,” I push, pointing at him like I’ve caught him red-handed.

His mouth curves again, that maddening almost-smile. “Pretty sure that was you almost eating my pumpkin.”

Heat crawls up my neck, equal parts irritation and something else I’ll never admit to. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.” He leans against the rail, relaxed in a way that makes me grind my teeth. Like I’m the entertainment, not the other way around.

I want him to scowl, roll his eyes, mutter a curse… anything. Instead, he stays calm, steady, infuriatingly smug. My pulse won’t calm, jittering in my throat like I’ve had three espressos. I can’t tell if it’s leftover adrenaline from being caught or the way his eyes hold mine… steady, unshakable, like he knows I’ll break first.

Either way, it feels like I’m the one losing.

Mason shifts away the rail, closing the distance with a slow, deliberate step. My breath stumbles, traitorous, but I hold my ground. His voice drops low, smooth as smoke.

“One day, Foster, you’re gonna regret starting this war.”

It shouldn’t land the way it does—heavy, hot, like a promise instead of a threat. A shiver runs down my spine before I can stop it, and I want to kick myself for the way my body reacts.

I paste on my best smirk, forcing my tone light. “Big words for a guy who can’t even handle a fake spider.”

His eyes glint in the porch light, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to tell me he knows I’m bluffing.

I spin on my heel before he can see more, pretending I’m still in control when every nerve in me says otherwise.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

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: October 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Restless after the bonfire, Sadie finds herself drawn back to Dax—and neither of them are finished. What starts as a kiss on the dunes ignites into something hotter, harder to ignore, and far more real than either planned. Between the heat of the tailgate and the honesty that follows, they discover this isn’t just about thrill. It’s about connection. And that might be the most dangerous part of all.

Chapter 3

Sadie

Burned in the Best Way

The sky’s caught somewhere between night and morning, that soft blue hour when everything looks half-dreamed. The bonfire’s long gone, only a faint orange glow left in the distance and a couple of voices that sound too tired to still be laughing. I should be home, asleep, but my body won’t settle. Every time I close my eyes, I feel him… heat, hands, breath, all of it replaying like it’s burned under my skin.

So I walk. I tell myself it’s just for the air, to clear my head, to shake off the feeling that the night didn’t actually end. But when I round the curve of the dunes and spot a familiar figure sitting on the tailgate of a pickup, hoodie on, bare feet pressed into the sand, I stop pretending I don’t know why I’m here.

He looks up as I approach, hair ruffled by the wind, that small, crooked grin softening when he sees me.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks.

“Something like that.” I shrug, tucking my hands into my sleeves. “I told myself I was walking. Somehow I ended up exactly where you are.”

His smile turns quiet. “Funny how that happens.”

I step closer, the sand cool between my toes, my skirt brushing against my legs. The air smells like salt and smoke and whatever’s left of last night. It feels calmer now, stripped of noise and expectation. Just him. Just me.

“I wasn’t done,” I admit, my voice barely above the wind.

He studies me for a long moment, then pushes off the tailgate, bare feet sinking into the sand as he closes the space between us.

“Good,” he says, low and certain. “Because neither was I.”

The world narrows again to the sound of the surf, the chill on my skin, and the warmth rolling off him when he stops in front of me.

He stops just close enough that the air between us feels charged again. The quiet stretches, his breath, mine, the faint hush of the tide.

“Sadie,” he says softly, like he’s testing the sound of it in this silence. His hands find my waist, warm against the chill still clinging to my skin. He doesn’t pull, just holds, waiting.

I draw in a shaky breath, my hands resting at his chest but not pushing him away. The tension hangs there, thick and charged.

He dips his head, and I meet him halfway. The kiss starts soft, then deepens, slow and searching. His hands slide up my sides, fingertips brushing bare skin beneath my shirt until I shiver against him. 

He pulls away from me, resting his forehead against mine. “You don’t have to do this just because the night got away from us,” he says softly.

“I’m not,” I whisper.

His eyes hold mine. “Then tell me you’re sure.”

I meet his gaze, steady. “I am.”

The words hang there between us, and something shifts, slow, deliberate. I reach up, my fingers sliding into his hair before tugging him down into a kiss that’s deeper than the last. It’s slower too, not the wild rush of the dunes, but something that feels even more dangerous for how certain it is.

When his mouth parts under mine, I taste salt and heat, every exhale a quiet undoing. His hands tighten on my hips, anchoring me there.

He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” I breathe. “All of it.”

That earns a low sound from him, half groan, half surrender. I slip my hands under his hoodie, feel the muscles flex beneath my palms. He lifts his arms, and the fabric goes with it, falling into the sand behind him.

The wind skims over my bare shoulders, cool and sharp. I toe off my sandals, grounding myself in the cold grit of sand while he grabs a blanket from the truck bed, shaking it loose and spreading it out.

He glances back at me, that same teasing spark in his eyes. “Careful, princess.”

I smile, heat curling low again. “Maybe it’s you that should be careful.”

The metal of the tailgate is cool under my thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat burning through me. He’s already stripped down to just his jeans, hoodie tossed somewhere in the sand, shirt yanked over his head like it was nothing. I’m still mostly dressed, skirt bunched up around my hips, panties shoved down and dangling from one ankle like a flag I forgot to take in.

He stands on the sand, palms my knee, spreading me wider. The night air slips in, but I barely notice, it’s him, his focus, his touch, that makes me shiver.

“Hold on,” he mutters, reaching for his wallet in his pocket and pulling out a foil wrapped condom. The small pause has my chest rising too fast, anticipation building. My lips part when he tears the foil, smooths the condom down over his cock in one firm stroke. The sight alone makes my breath catch.

“Don’t make me wait,” I whisper, shaky but sure.

He grins, wicked and certain, before dropping lower. His hands skim up my thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he lowers his mouth to the inside of my leg. One slow, dragging lick up the tender skin has me gasping his name, my head tipping back against the open night sky.

“Jesus,” I breathe, fingers tangling in his hair.

He doesn’t linger there. Just enough to make me shake before his mouth travels higher, lips grazing, tongue teasing, until his thumb finds my clit. He circles once, twice, and my whole body jerks like he’s rewired me.

“Please,” I beg, my voice gone, raw.

He looks up, eyes locking with mine, and the weight of it steals the last of my air. “Right there.” His thumb presses harder, steady, while his mouth works its way closer, kissing up my stomach, my chest, until he’s standing over me again.

“Don’t stop,” I pant, clutching his shoulders like I’ll fall if I let go.

“I wasn’t planning on it.” His tone is rough, low, like it scrapes out of his chest just for me. His grip shifts, strong arms sliding beneath my thighs. He pulls me forward without effort, settling me at the edge of the tailgate, my body lining up perfectly with his.

“Look at me,” he orders, voice tight as the head of his cock notches against my entrance.

I do. Wide-eyed. Breathless. Because nothing in this world feels as raw, as real, as this moment.

His fingers dig into my skin, anchoring me as he pushes forward. The stretch makes me whimper, makes me claw at anything I can find purchase on, but I can’t look away from him. Not when he’s pushing inside me, not when he’s watching every reaction like it’s his own salvation.

The night is quiet around us, only the sound of my breath and his ragged groan filling the space, until he’s fully seated, holding me there, giving me no doubt, this is where I come undone.

He moves inside me slowly, like he plans to feel every inch. The first push makes my lungs forget what to do. I exhale hard and tighten around him, body clenching like a fist, then easing when I force my shoulders to drop. He watches me. Doesn’t move until I nod.

“Okay,” I breathe. “I’m good.”

His mouth tips like he knew I would be. He starts with a steady roll, not fast, not rough, just deep enough that I feel the slide and the heat and the way my body opens for him. My hands slide to the lip of the tailgate for leverage. The metal bites my palms, harsh and real, grounding me while he works me open.

“Just like that,” I whisper.

His grip adjusts on my thighs. He angles me a little higher, hips shifting, and the next thrust hits a place that steals the sound from my throat. I arch hard. He catches me with a palm pressed flat over my lower belly.

“Feel me?” His voice is sandpaper, low and sure.

“Yes.” It rips out of me. “God, yes.”

He keeps the rhythm, steady and confident, eyes locked on mine. It does something to me. This isn’t just thrill and ocean wind and the back of a truck. It’s the way he looks at me while he moves, like he’s learning me in real time. It lands. 

Deep.

“You take me so well,” he says, pace tightening.

A shaky laugh slips free. Cocky now because I can’t help it. “Told you I can handle the heat.”

“More?” He’s amused, like he already knows my answer.

“More.” I push back for it.

He gives it to me. The roll shifts to something greedy. Not messy, just more. Deeper. His thumb finds my clit again, firm and sure, and I swear my vision goes bright around the edges. He keeps me right there, talks me through it in that voice that makes my whole body listen.

“Right there. Stay with me. Look at me.”

I do. I hold his gaze and let him take me apart. My breath climbs. My sounds get rougher. My thighs start to shake around his hips. He keeps the pressure exactly where I need it, the stroke perfect and relentless, and I break with a hard gasp that tips into a cry. My hands slip on the metal and he is there, holding me steady while my body grips around him, wave after wave pulling me under.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “That’s my girl.”

I’m still shuddering when he drives in deep and holds. His mouth finds my neck. His rhythm stutters. The groan he lets out is ragged and helpless against my skin, and the sound sets off one more sharp aftershock that makes me whimper into his shoulder. He buries himself and goes still, breath hot at my throat, heartbeat pounding where his chest is pressed to mine.

The truck creaks. The ocean fills the quiet, steady and indifferent. We breathe together, bodies slick and spent, his palm still warm over my stomach like he doesn’t want to stop touching me. I don’t want him to either.

Dax

The Thing Under the Heat

She sits on the tailgate, skirt rucked up, my shirt forgotten in the bed behind her, hair wild from my hands. I should be thinking about getting her off the metal and into the cab. I should be thinking about anything but the way my chest feels too full.

I’m not a fling guy. Haven’t been for a long time. I moved here to quiet the static, took the transfer because it sounded noble, but it was burnout and I knew it. I wanted sleep that wasn’t full of noise. I wanted easy days and water and work that ended when I locked the door.

Then she walked onto that beach like trouble I wanted to keep.

I don’t dump any of that at her feet. I keep it simple. I stand between her knees and rest my hands on her thighs, thumbs brushing the soft skin there.

“I came to quiet the noise,” I tell her. “Didn’t expect you to be the loudest thing that feels good.”

Her mouth curves. Not a smirk. Something softer. I feel it like impact.

“I’m not great at casual,” I add, honest, because I don’t know how to be anything else. “I can try. I just don’t do…  pretend very well.”

The wind shifts. The ocean keeps talking. She studies me like she’s trying to decide if this is something she can hold without dropping it. I let the rest sit between us. The long drives that emptied me out. The months I didn’t want anyone. I don’t need to say it. She’s smart. She hears it anyway.

I hold her gaze and keep my touch steady. I want her to see the man, not just the heat.

Sadie

What Are We Doing 

He says he doesn’t do pretend and it makes something inside me go quiet in a way I like. I sit there with my legs around his hips and try to make my brain catch up.

“This was supposed to be temporary,” I admit. My voice sounds smaller than I want. “Came back for a breather. To see Kelsey. Reset a little. I even had a leave-by date in my head.”

“Okay.” No judgment. Just that steady calm I’m starting to recognize.

I try to name this a fling. I open my mouth to say it and the word tastes wrong. Like I’m trying on shoes I grew out of.

“It can be simple,” I try instead. “We don’t have to make it a thing.”

He reaches to the ground and grabs his hoodie, then tries to put it over my shoulders like I’m not stubborn. I dodge. A beat later the wind reminds me I am half dressed on cold metal, and I take it anyway. He doesn’t say anything about it. Just steadies me while I slide my arms in.

“Simple works,” he says. “As long as it’s real.”

I play with the hood ties to buy a second. The truth sits heavy and warm under the cotton. I like how he watches me. I like that he waited. I like that he says what he means and then shuts up so I can think.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say finally. “But I know how this feels.”

His fingers brush my knee. A small touch. It lands bigger than it is.

“We can start there,” he says.

I nod. It’s not a promise. It’s not nothing either.

Sadie 

Open Ending, Hopeful Lean

We climb down from the tailgate and walk toward the waterline where the sand is packed and cool. Our fingers don’t lace. They bump. They hover. It’s almost worse because I want the rest.

“I wasn’t planning on you,” I say again, because honesty seems to be the theme.

He looks at the dark horizon, then back at me. “And I’m not planning to let you go this easy.”

I huff out a laugh that feels like surrender. “Then don’t.” A beat. “Or make it easy to find you.”

He works sunrise shifts. I have a calendar full of maybes. We don’t pretend it’s neat. I tug his sleeve. “Give me your hand.”

He holds it out and I write my number on his wrist with the stubby pen from my bag. The ink drags a little over his skin. He lifts my hand and snaps a quick photo of my fingers swallowed by his hoodie sleeve.

“No social,” he says. “Just memory.”

“Just memory,” I echo.

He leans in and brushes my mouth with his. Not hungry. Not nothing. A promise without the word. “Told you you’re too hot for me,” I murmur, because teasing is easier than admitting the size of what I feel.

“Nah.” His smile hits soft and certain. “Just hot enough.”

We walk the wet line of sand while the sky starts to pink. Our fingers touch again and stay there, not quite laced, pulse still humming from everything we did and everything we didn’t say. It’s hopeful. It isn’t tied with a bow. It’s enough for now.

The End

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: October 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

She tells herself it’s just a kiss on a dark beach.

Just a little fun before reality kicks back in.

But when Dax Hunter touches her, everything she’s been holding back ignites.

A quiet walk turns reckless, heat meets emotion, and suddenly Sadie’s realizing the real danger isn’t the fire—it’s how much she wants to stay in it.

Chapter Two

Sadie

Playing With Fire

The beach looks different at night.

The air’s cooler but thick with smoke and salt, the sand packed down by a hundred bare feet and beer bottles. Someone’s got music playing from the bed of a pickup, something old, loud, and full of nostalgia. The kind of song everyone pretends they’re too grown-up to know the words to until they’re tipsy enough to sing along.

A bonfire crackles in the middle of it all, throwing off sparks that vanish into the dark sky. The glow hits faces in flashes, laughing, shouting, kissing. Every scent is layered: smoke, saltwater, cheap beer, and whatever cheap body spray the guys still think smells good.

I follow my friend Kelsey through the crowd, trying not to trip over a stray sandal. She’s been begging me to come out for a week. “You can’t come home and not hit a summer bonfire,” she said. “It’s tradition.”

Translation: she wants to flirt with someone who’ll probably forget her name tomorrow, and I was the only one she could convince to play wingwoman.

“I swear,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, “half this town came straight here after work.”

“Half the town and all their bad decisions,” I mutter, kicking at a patch of sand.

She laughs and presses a solo cup into my hand. “Drink. You’re wound tight.”

I take a cautious sip, already tasting regret and cheap vodka.

The fire snaps and shifts, and that’s when I see him.

Dax Hunter.

He’s standing near the trucks, a few yards from the light, the glow catching his jaw and the damp edges of his hair. His shirt’s half-unbuttoned, red trunks swapped for worn jeans and bare feet. There’s a beer dangling from his fingers, a lazy curve to his mouth like he’s watching the world without really partaking in it.

And just like that, the bonfire feels hotter.

Kelsey follows my gaze, then grins like she’s just solved a puzzle. “That’s the new guy, right? Lifeguard or something?”

“Something,” I mumble.

“Sadie Collins,” she says, dragging out my name like a warning, “you’re staring.”

“I’m not,” I lie.

“Uh-huh. And I didn’t just see him look this way, either.”

I roll my eyes and take another sip to hide my face. Don’t stare. Don’t stare. Oh God, I’m staring.

He laughs at something one of the guys says, head tipping back, firelight flickering across his throat. It shouldn’t be illegal for someone to look that good doing absolutely nothing.

Kelsey nudges me. “You gonna say hi, or just keep undressing him with your eyes?”

“I’m not—” I start, but she’s already walking away toward the fire, calling for someone I barely remember from high school.

I stay where I am, sand cool beneath my toes, cup in hand, pretending I’m not tracking every move Dax Hunter makes.

Because if I’m being honest?

Part of me came here tonight hoping I’d see him.

And now that I have, I’m not sure I remember how to breathe.

The longer I stay, the more the night blurs together. Music, laughter, firelight, and a thousand tiny reasons I should’ve gone home an hour ago.

Kelsey’s long gone, somewhere near the trucks, laughing with a group of guys she used to know from high school. I catch flashes of her hair and that loud, fearless laugh cutting through the music. When I look again ten minutes later, she’s not with the locals anymore. She’s talking to someone taller, broader, leaning against a motorcycle parked off to the side. He’s got that quiet confidence that doesn’t need an audience. She throws her head back, clearly trying to get a reaction, but he only gives her a slow smirk and says something I can’t make out from here. She swats his arm, mock offended, and he just tips his beer bottle her way like a dare.

Yeah. She’s not going home alone.

I turn back toward the fire and almost crash right into Dax.

One second, I’m steady. Next, I’m staring at a chest I definitely remember watching in the sunlight earlier.

“Sorry,” I mumble, stepping back before I make it obvious I don’t hate the view.

He grins. “Running into me seems to be a habit.”

“Pretty sure you’re the one sneaking up on people,” I shoot back, tipping my cup toward him.

“Or maybe you just keep finding me.”

That line shouldn’t sound as good as it does. The heat between us feels thicker than the air.

I start to move past him, but he shifts, blocking my path with that lazy, unbothered stance that makes it hard to think.

“So,” he says, voice low. “How’s the fan club tonight?”

I groan. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.” He steps a little closer, enough that the firelight catches the edge of his jaw. “You still watching me, Sadie Collins?”

“I wasn’t watching.”

He tilts his head. “No?”

“Okay, maybe once,” I admit, crossing my arms. “You did save a kid. It was a decent moment.”

“Decent,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. “I’ll try to do better next time.”

I laugh, and it slips out too easily. I’m tipsy, a little reckless, and maybe braver than I should be. “Cocky much?”

“Just confident.”

He takes the cup from my hand, sets it on a nearby cooler, and holds my gaze. “You really think I’m too hot for you, huh?”

I blink. “What?”

“That’s what you said earlier. Too hot for me.” He smirks. “You sure about that?”

The words catch in my throat, my pulse stuttering. “You heard that?”

“Hard not to.” He leans in, voice dropping. “For the record, Sadie… I think you can handle the heat.”

He says it with that steady, unhurried confidence that gets under my skin. I should walk away, make a joke, something.

Instead, I just stare at him, the fire throwing shadows across his face and heat across my skin.

And all I can think is, he’s probably right.

He tilts his head toward the shoreline, eyes glinting in the firelight. “You want to walk?”

I shouldn’t. But I nod anyway.

The noise of the party fades as we drift down the beach, our footsteps swallowed by sand. Laughter and music trail behind us, muffled now, carried away by the salt wind. Here, it’s darker. Quieter. Just the ocean rolling in and the pull of something I’ve been trying to ignore all night.

“Didn’t think I’d get you to sneak off this easy,” he says, voice low, teasing.

“Who said I’m not easy?”

His grin is quick, dangerous, and it curls low in my stomach. We slow near the dunes, where the firelight can’t quite reach. It’s just the two of us and the hush of waves.

I brush a streak of sand off my leg, but his hand beats mine there, broad palm sliding over my thigh. He should let go but he doesn’t. His thumb lingers, tracing the inside curve, heat sparking under my skin.

My breath catches. “You missed a spot.”

His eyes flick down, then back up, darker now. Hungrier. “Pretty sure I didn’t.”

The smart thing would be to laugh it off, to walk back up the beach and drown myself in another drink. But for once, I don’t want to think. I don’t want to second-guess every reckless choice.

So I close the last inch between us and kiss him.

It’s not light, or testing—it’s deep, slow, warm enough to make my toes curl in the sand. His mouth moves over mine with steady pressure, a quiet claim that sends heat rushing through me. I fist his shirt, pulling him closer, and when his tongue slides against mine, the sound that breaks from my throat is nothing but need.

He groans low, gripping my hip, and the world tilts when he backs me against the dune wall. Sand presses cold into my shoulders, his body all heat against mine. His mouth drags lower, brushing fire across my jaw, down my neck.

“Tell me you want this,” he mutters, breath hot against my skin.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

His laugh is rough. “Good answer.”

Then his hand slips beneath the hem of my skirt. My pulse stutters, but I don’t stop him. His fingers skim higher, teasing, until he’s cupping me, until my hips jerk into his touch.

“Already so wet,” he murmurs, voice low enough to shiver through me. “You thinking about this all night, princess?”

The word should annoy me. But it doesn’t. It wrecks me in a whole different way.

“Maybe,” I whisper, breathless.

His fingers slide over me once, slow, before he presses in, two thick fingers, steady and filling me just right. My knees almost give, but his body pins me upright, solid as stone.

The first thrust of his hand makes me gasp. The second has my head falling back against the dune, my hips grinding shamelessly into his palm where it hits my clit just right. He curls his fingers, finding that spot deep inside me, and the world dissolves into waves and heat with the rhythm he builds.

“Fuck—” The word tears out of me, strangled and desperate.

“That’s it,” he mutters. His mouth finds the shell of my ear, his teeth catching soft on the lobe. “Take what you need.”

So I do. I stop thinking, stop holding back, let myself chase it. My body clenches around his hand, every thrust pulling me tighter, higher, until it breaks apart. Pleasure rips through me, hot and blinding, and I cry out into his shoulder, shuddering against him as it floods me.

He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t pull away. Just keeps me steady while I shake, his mouth brushing my temple, his hand gentling as the aftershocks roll through.

When I finally find breath again, I realize my fists are still gripping his shirt, wrinkled and damp where I clung to him. He eases his hand free, slides it up to cup my jaw, tilting my face back toward him.

His eyes are hooded, dark with want, but there’s something else there too. Something that makes my chest tight.

The air still hums between us, heavy with heat. But underneath it, steady and undeniable, is the way he’s looking at me, like I’m not just a moment to burn through. Like maybe I’m already something more.

And for once, I don’t shove that thought away. I just let it sit there, warm and dangerous, like the flame we’ve lit between us.

We finally pull apart, still tangled in the heat and the dark. My pulse is a mess, my breathing worse. He looks down at me, mouth curved like he’s trying not to smile.

“Not exactly how I pictured a quiet walk,” he says, voice rough but amused.

That does it.

I can’t stop laughing, breathless and half-delirious, as I brush sand from my arms. It’s everywhere, sticking to my body, my clothes, probably tangled in my hair too. He looks just as riled, chest rising hard, a grin tugging at his mouth like he can’t quite believe what just happened.

“Guess that escalated,” I murmur, cheeks still hot.

“Guess it did.” His hand lingers at my waist, thumb drawing idle circles that make my pulse jump all over again.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The party noise drifts faint in the distance, like another world entirely. It feels like we built something separate here, louder, more hotter, more intense than I expected.

“So what’s your story?” I ask, brushing sand off my legs. “You don’t exactly scream small-town local.”

He doesn’t look away, though his smile fades a little.

I clear my throat. “So… why here? ”

“Needed a change. New start. Call it a transfer, call it burnout, doesn’t matter. Just… needed something different.”

It’s not a full answer, but it’s more than I expected. Enough to feel the weight under his words.

I nudge him with my shoulder, trying to soften the heaviness. “Different as in, ending up with sand in places no one should ever have sand?”

That earns a low laugh, rough and warm. But when his gaze settles back on me, it sharpens again, more warning than tease. “Careful, princess. Play with fire, you’ll get burned.”

I smirk, pulse still humming from everything we just did. “Maybe I like the burn.”

The silence that follows is thick, charged all over again. And standing there with him, I realize the fire isn’t anywhere close to dying down.

His gaze lingers a second too long before he straightens, brushing sand from his jeans.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “Before someone starts a search party.”

I laugh, following him back toward the light, every step a reminder that the night isn’t done with me yet.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

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: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 Summer isn’t always about tan lines and frozen drinks. Sometimes, it’s about coming home when you swore you never would—and running straight into the kind of trouble that makes you forget why you left in the first place.

Sadie Collins thought she knew what “too hot” meant. Blazing sun, sticky air, small-town boredom. But then a lifeguard with storm-gray eyes dives into her quiet little world, and suddenly, the heat isn’t just coming from the weather.

This is Too Hot for Me—a summer fling with a pulse.
A story about the girl who came home to cool off, and the man who made her want to burn.

Chapter One

Sadie

The Heatwave

The air feels heavy enough to chew. Even the breeze that rolls off the ocean can’t compete with the kind of heat that sticks to your skin and makes the sand feel like it’s trying to brand your feet. Kids shriek near the shoreline, gulls dive for dropped fries, and somewhere behind me, a car stereo is blaring an old country song about small towns and summer love.

I should probably find it charming. I don’t.

It’s the same beach I grew up on, same boardwalk with the same peeling paint, same teenagers working the snack shack pretending they’re too cool for sunscreen. The whole scene smells like nostalgia and coconut oil, which sounds better than it feels when you’re twenty-seven, unemployed, and back in your childhood bedroom with a sagging mattress and a mom who still leaves Post-it notes reminding you to hydrate.

“Between jobs,” I tell people. It sounds better than lost, even if that’s exactly what I feel most days.

The truth is, I didn’t have a grand plan when I packed up my apartment and came home. I just knew I couldn’t stay where I was. Too many closed doors, too many almosts. So here I am, waiting tables part-time at a diner that smells like coffee and bad decisions, pretending this is a pit stop and not a full-blown detour.

I came home to figure things out. Take a breath. Save a little money before I move on to somewhere new. But three weeks in, I’m already climbing the walls. Everyone I know either got married, had babies, or bought houses within a five-mile radius of the high school. I can’t decide if that’s sweet or terrifying.

There’s a kid screaming about a dropped popsicle. His mom looks seconds from losing it, hair plastered to her forehead. A group of teenage girls pose for selfies in matching bikinis, angling for the best lighting. A golden retriever digs a hole near the dunes like it’s his personal mission. The whole thing feels frozen in time.

I sip my now-lukewarm iced coffee and watch a group of surfers argue about waves that barely qualify as ripples. The smell of sunscreen, fried dough, and salt air wraps around me like a memory I didn’t ask for.

“Nothing ever changes,” I mutter, dragging my towel higher on the sand. “Except the humidity.”

A bead of sweat slides down the back of my neck. I swipe it away with the edge of my towel, then flop onto my back, closing my eyes against the blinding sun.

This was supposed to be relaxing… just me, the ocean, some overpriced iced caffeine, and a few hours of pretending I have my life together.

Instead, I’m lying here cataloging every single reason I need to leave again.

A whistle blows, it’s sharp, cutting through the chatter and music. My eyes snap open.

For a second, I expect to see the same old lifeguard crew I used to flirt with in high school, back when I thought tan lines and lip gloss could get me anywhere. But the figure standing on the chair isn’t familiar.

Broad shoulders. Sun-dark skin. A flash of red trunks and mirrored sunglasses.

Definitely not one of the locals.

He moves fast, grabs the rescue tube, hits the water in a clean dive. The crowd starts to shift, people standing, pointing. A kid must’ve gone out too far, caught in the current.

The heat presses in around me, but it’s not just from the sun anymore.

Something about the way he moves, confident, sure, zero hesitation, hits me square in the chest. He cuts through the waves like he’s been doing it all his life, like the ocean itself is just another part of his shift.

I prop myself up on my elbows, heartbeat ticking faster as he reaches the struggling kid, calm and efficient, not a single wasted motion.

And just like that, the heat isn’t the only thing making my pulse jump.

The kid’s eight, maybe nine, small enough that the waves look bigger than they are. He’s flailing hard, arms splashing more than swimming. His mom’s standing knee-deep in the surf, panic written all over her face, frozen between going after him and screaming for help.

The lifeguard—him—doesn’t hesitate.

He hits the water in a single, clean dive that would’ve made my old swim coach cry tears of joy. No showboating. No yelling for attention. Just focus and motion, cutting through the choppy surface with smooth, powerful strokes until he’s beside the kid.

I stand without realizing it, towel slipping off my lap. People around me start moving closer, a half circle forming along the shore. The mom’s crying now, voice cracking, but he’s already got the kid’s arm looped over the red rescue buoy. Calm, steady, unshakable.

“Kick for me, buddy,” I hear him call out, low but firm. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

And damn if the kid doesn’t do exactly that.

It takes less than a minute before they’re back in the shallows. He crouches down, checking the boy’s breathing while the mother drops beside them, hands shaking. The kid coughs a few times, sputters, then starts crying and everyone lets out this collective exhale, like the whole beach was holding its breath.

A few people clap. Someone whistles. The mom throws her arms around her son, sobbing into his wet hair. The lifeguard gives a quick nod, says something I can’t hear, then stands and brushes the water off his chest like he just walked out of an action movie.

Only, he doesn’t look like he’s performing. He looks like a man who’s done this a hundred times before.

Sunlight hits his shoulders, dripping down the hard lines of muscle and tan skin. There’s a scar across his left collarbone, faint, silvery, the kind that makes you wonder.

And now I’m staring.

Full-on, unapologetically staring.

His hair’s dark and wet, pushed back off his forehead, and when he takes his sunglasses off to hand them to another guard, I catch a glimpse of his eyes—storm-gray, serious. The kind of eyes that look right through you and somehow make you wish they’d stay there.

He scans the crowd, probably checking that everyone’s fine, that no one else is about to make his day harder. But when his gaze hits me, it stops.

For half a second, maybe less, it feels like the entire beach disappears.

Then he puts the glasses back on, climbs back up the chair, and sits like nothing happened.

Around me, life resumes. Kids start building sandcastles again. Someone turns the music up. The world keeps spinning.

But I’m still standing there, pulse thudding in my neck, coffee forgotten, heat crawling up the back of my thighs.

I tell myself it’s just adrenaline.
It’s not.

I tell myself I’m not going to talk to him.
That I’ll pack up my towel, dump out my watery coffee, and mind my own business like a normal, non-flustered adult.

But then he climbs down from the lifeguard chair, slings the red buoy over one shoulder, and starts walking in my direction, broad shoulders steady, each step making it hard to remember how to breathe.

Great. Perfect. Just what I needed.

He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell the ocean on his skin and the faint, sharp tang of sunscreen. The kind that never quite rubs all the way in.

“You okay there?” he asks, voice low and rough, still carrying that calm authority from before.

“Fine.” I shade my eyes, pretending I’m not checking him out again. “Just wondering if hero duty comes with a fan club or if you take applications.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “You offering?”

I shrug, casual as possible when my pulse is sprinting. “Please. I don’t have the patience to watch someone preen for attention.”

“Good thing I wasn’t the one clapping for myself,” he says easily. “You seemed pretty invested, though.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He gestures toward the water with a tilt of his chin. “You were watching the whole time. Didn’t even blink until I got the kid out. You sure you’re not part of the fan club?”

I can feel the heat crawl up my neck, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “Maybe I was just worried. Happens when someone runs into the ocean like they’re auditioning for Baywatch: Bro Edition.”

That finally earns me a real grin, slow and crooked. “You always this mouthy, or is it just the heat?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

He studies me for a beat, eyes hidden behind those reflective lenses again. “Name’s Dax Hunter.”

“Sadie Collins.”

He repeats it once, like he’s testing the sound. “Sadie Collins. You local?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunate for you, or for everyone else?”

“Depends who you ask.”

He laughs under his breath, quiet but warm. Then he shifts the buoy off his shoulder, muscles flexing with the motion, sunlight catching on the water still clinging to his skin.

“Careful, Sadie Collins,” he says. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you’re trouble.”

I arch a brow, ignoring the way his voice slides over my skin like another layer of heat. “Or maybe you’re just not used to someone looking back.”

That grin again. Lazy. Confident. Dangerous.

“Maybe,” he says. “Guess we’ll see which one of us burns first.”

And just like that, he turns, walking back toward his post without another word.

I stare after him for far too long, muttering to myself, “Definitely trouble.”

Only this time, I’m not sure if I meant him—or me.

He gives me one last look before turning away, a hint of a grin still ghosting his mouth. Then he walks back toward his tower and climbs the ladder to his post like he never left. Sunglasses on, shoulders loose, scanning the horizon again.

I wait until he’s back in the chair before I grab my towel and shove it into my bag. My hands are shaking a little, which is ridiculous. He’s just a guy. A ridiculously hot, sun-soaked, way-too-confident guy who probably has women lining up just to get rescued.

Not that I care.

I’m not here for that. I’m here to reset, remember? Clear my head, figure out what comes next, maybe remember how to be a functioning adult. Getting flustered over a lifeguard with a jawline that should come with a warning label does not fit anywhere on that list.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and start the slow trek up the beach. The sand burns against my feet, every step another reminder that I’m out of practice at this, heat, stillness, feeling things I didn’t plan to.

“Too hot for me anyway,” I mutter under my breath.

It’s supposed to sound dismissive. It doesn’t.

Because underneath the sarcasm and the sweat, something’s still humming in my chest. That look he gave me, steady, unhurried, like he’d already figured me out, hasn’t left my head. I hate how it felt… how seen I felt. Like he wasn’t just looking at me; he was reading me.

I stop at the edge of the boardwalk, adjusting the strap of my bag. The ocean glints in the distance, sun catching the surface like shattered glass. He’s still up there, perched high on that lifeguard stand, scanning the water like nothing and no one rattles him.

Of course he looks perfectly at ease. Men like him always do. The kind who know how to take charge, who dive headfirst into chaos and somehow make it look easy.

I, on the other hand, am sweating everywhere and mildly regretting my life choices.

I turn to go, determined to put some distance between me and the walking distraction in red swim trunks.

“Hey, Collins.”

The voice hits me from behind, deep and steady. I turn before I can stop myself. He’s watching me over the rim of his sunglasses, one brow raised.

“Don’t forget to hydrate,” he calls, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Smartass.

I raise my coffee cup in mock salute. “Way ahead of you.”

His grin widens just slightly, then he settles back into his chair like he didn’t just set my pulse off again.

I walk away faster this time, pretending I don’t feel his gaze following me until I’m halfway down the boardwalk.

By the time I hit the parking lot, I’ve convinced myself I’ll never see him again.

But the universe has a sick sense of humor.

Because in a town this small, “never” doesn’t mean much.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

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: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

The fence between them kept more than just their yards divided—it held years of silence, regret, and unspoken longing. But when Evan steps across the boundary at sunrise, everything shifts. What starts with shared coffee and tentative touches deepens into a night that strips away the past and lays them bare. For the first time since prom night, they finally stop holding back.

The Way Back to Us – Part 4: Sunrise ReckoningWhen the distance finally breaks, nothing can hold them apart.

The morning feels different before I even step outside. The air has turned, softer and cooler, the unmistakable breath of early fall curling through the pines. I pull my sweater tight and open the porch door.

Evan’s already there, two mugs in his hands. Not on his side of the fence, not waiting for me to bridge the distance—he’s moving toward me.

For a second, I forget how to breathe. The latch clicks open, that familiar creak splitting the quiet, and this time he doesn’t hesitate. His boots hit the steps, steady and sure, and then he’s there, holding one of the mugs out to me.

“I thought maybe we’d save ourselves the fence today.” His voice is calm, almost casual, but there’s something in it, something heavier than the words.

I take the mug, fingers brushing his as the warmth seeps into my palms. “Thanks.” My voice comes out quieter than I intend, but he doesn’t comment. He just sits down across from me, the space between us smaller than it’s ever been.

The porch boards creak when I settle into the chair opposite him. For a while, it’s easy talk, how the tomatoes are coming along, whether the weather will hold for the weekend. Ordinary things. But the silences stretch longer, thicker, until it’s impossible not to notice.

He sets his mug down on the rail, close enough that mine wobbles against it. Our hands brush, fingers catching for a second too long. Neither of us moves away.

I look up, and he’s already watching me. The weight of his gaze lands heavy in my chest, not sharp, not punishing, just full of everything we’ve avoided naming.

“Vanessa,” he says softly, like the name itself is an apology. Or a question.

I don’t answer. I just reach, closing the distance he’s too careful to cross. My hand slides over his, and when his thumb shifts against my skin, it feels like a door opening.

The first kiss doesn’t come in a rush. It comes in a slow lean, his breath warm against mine, both of us waiting for the other to pull back. Neither of us does. His lips meet mine tentatively at first, almost reverent, like he’s afraid the moment will shatter if he pushes too hard.

It deepens slowly, then all at once. Years of silence, years of hurt, pouring out in the press of his mouth, the way his hand cups my jaw like he’s memorizing me all over again.

I gasp against him, the sound breaking, and that’s all it takes for restraint to slip. His tongue slides against mine, hungry now, and I answer with everything I’ve kept locked inside for decades.

The coffee is forgotten, cooling on the porch rail as he pulls me closer. The chair scrapes against the wood, and then we’re standing, hands roaming, the kiss rougher now, less careful.

We stumble inside, into the living room still littered with boxes and dust. None of it matters. His hands are on my waist, tugging me flush against him, and I’m lost in the feel of him, solid, warm, achingly familiar.

“God, Vanessa,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice rough with something I recognize too well, longing stretched thin.

I thread my fingers into his hair, tugging him closer. “Don’t stop.”

We don’t. Clothes fall away in pieces, urgency breaking through years of restraint. His hands map me like he’s reclaiming something lost, determined in their hunger.

On the couch, the cushions give beneath us, but his body is a steady weight, grounding me. His mouth moves down my throat, teeth scraping lightly at my collarbone, and I arch into him, heat rolling through me.

Every touch is layered, grief, forgiveness, and want, all tangled together. There’s nothing careless about it. But nothing rushed either. Just two people who thought they’d lost this chance forever, clinging to it like oxygen.

He shifts above me, his weight pressing me into the cushions, one hand braced by my head, the other guiding himself lower. The blunt head of his cock nudges against my entrance, hot and insistent, and I jolt at the contact.

“God,” I whisper, clutching at his shoulders. “I’ve thought about this, about you, for so long.”

His eyes darken, his chest heaving as he strokes the tip through my slickness, circling but not pressing in. “You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and strained. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

“I do,” I breathe, my hips arching, chasing him. “I want all of you. I always have.”

He groans, the sound ragged, forehead dropping to mine. “Then I won’t hold back.”

When he finally pushes into me, it steals the air from my lungs. The stretch is sharp at first, then gives way to a fullness that makes my head tip back against the cushions. A broken sound slips from me, half gasp, half moan, as my body takes him in.

He groans low, the sound vibrating through his chest where it presses against mine, and the depth of it makes me shiver. My walls clench around him, greedy for every inch, and the ache twists instantly into something that feels unbearably good. His hips still, like he’s holding himself back, but my hand finds his and squeezes tight, urging him closer.

“Vanessa,” he whispers, my name rough on his tongue, like a prayer he’s been saving for years. The sound unravels me. I breathe his name back, softer, needier, my thighs tightening around his waist.

Then he starts to move. Slow at first, dragging out of me until I feel the loss, then sliding back in, deeper, harder, until my nails are biting into his shoulders. Every thrust is deliberate, steady, building, and the slick heat between us makes it impossible to think about anything else.

I clutch him closer, my body clenching with every push, every retreat, the friction sparking through me like fire. His mouth finds mine again, swallowing the sounds he drags from me, and when he finally drives harder, hips snapping against mine, I break for him, moaning into his kiss, body trembling as he fills me over and over.

The world narrows to this rhythm, to him, to us, like it was always supposed to be this way.

When it’s over, we don’t rush to move. We stay tangled, breath slowing, the morning light spilling across the floor like it belongs to us.

His hand finds mine again, fingers lacing through in quiet certainty. “I never stopped thinking about you,” he says, the words barely above a whisper.

I press my forehead to his, eyes stinging but not with sadness. “Me either.”

We sit there in the afterglow, no fences, no walls, no weight left between us.

For the first time, I don’t just feel like I’m rebuilding the house. I feel like I’m rebuilding myself. And maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to do it alone.

The sun shifts higher, catching on his silvered hair, on the dust motes dancing in the air, on the coffee gone cold. And still, I can’t stop smiling.

Maybe love doesn’t always knock loudly. Sometimes, it crosses a fence at sunrise and changes everything.

The End

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: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

The fence isn’t the only barrier between them. In Part 3 of The Way Back to Us, decades of silence break as Vanessa finally asks the question that’s haunted her since prom night. Evan’s answer isn’t what she expected—but it’s the truth she needed. With honesty comes relief, with relief comes a touch that speaks louder than words, and with that touch comes the chance to begin again.

The Way Back to Us - Part 3: Reconnection & Quiet Reckoning

The truth can hurt—but sometimes, it heals.

The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why didn’t you come?”

Evan’s head lifts, startled, though I don’t clarify. We both know what I mean.

For a long moment he just stands there, one hand curled around his mug, eyes fixed on the fence between us. His jaw works like he’s chewing on words that don’t want to come, the kind that scrape on the way out. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and steady, but the words feel like stones dropping into still water.

“My father had a heart attack the night before prom.” He swallows, gaze shifting to the ground. “We didn’t have a phone in the hospital room, and when I tried to get back the next day—” He stops, jaw tightening. “It was chaos. My mom packed us up within a week. We left town before I even knew what was happening.”

The air feels heavier, the space between us thick with years I can’t get back.

“You never called.” My voice betrays me, softer than the ache behind it.

“I didn’t have a way,” he says, looking up at me finally. His eyes are steady, not defensive, just worn with the weight of carrying it too long. “And by the time I could… it felt too late.”

The truth hangs there, fragile, almost unbelievable. But there’s no anger in his voice, only quiet honesty. And for the first time, I realize the story I told myself all those years, the betrayal, the rejection, was never his to begin with.

I stand there with my hands wrapped around my mug, letting his words sink in. A heart attack. A hospital. Boxes packed before he could even find the right way to explain.

It isn’t the story I carried with me all these years. In my version, he simply didn’t care enough. I replayed it like a film on loop, me in that dress, him choosing not to show, proof I was never enough. He left me waiting, humiliated, forgotten. But looking at him now, I can see the truth in the lines carved into his face, the steady weight in his voice.

We were just kids. Kids caught in something too big for either of us to fix.

The anger I always thought I’d feel if I ever asked him, that rush of bitter, deserved fury, never comes. Instead, there’s this quiet softness. Relief, almost. Like putting down a bag I didn’t realize I’d been dragging around for decades.

I search his face and, for a fleeting second, I see the boy I knew, the boy who swore he’d never let me go. It flickers there, in the set of his jaw and the way his eyes don’t shy away from mine now.

I exhale, the weight finally shifting. Maybe I hadn’t been abandoned after all.

The silence that follows isn’t the same as before. It doesn’t weigh me down or make me scramble for words. It settles, softer, like the quiet after a storm when the air still hums with what just passed through.

Evan shifts, setting his mug on the rail between us. His hand lingers there, knuckles brushing against the wood. 

Without thinking, mine drifts closer. It isn’t intentional, not really, but when my fingers graze his, neither of us pulls away. His skin is rougher now, callused, carrying years I never knew, but the heat of him is startling in its familiarity. I used to dream of this, just reaching across and finding him still there.

The touch is nothing and everything at once. A warmth that spreads from my hand through the rest of me, steadying in a way words never could.

He doesn’t look at me, not directly, but the line of his shoulders eases. A breath leaves him slow, controlled, like he’s been holding it for years.

I let my hand rest there, against his for just a moment longer, memorizing the feel of his skin, the quiet strength in it.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to. That single point of contact says what neither of us has been brave enough to: we’re still here.

And somehow, after everything, that feels like a beginning.

The next morning, I open the porch door expecting the usual routine, my mug, my side of the fence, the familiar space between us. But when I step outside, Evan’s already there, walking across the yard with two mugs in his hands.

He pauses at the fence like always, only this time he doesn’t stop. The latch creaks as he pushes it open, a sound so ordinary but it rattles through me like a warning bell. My breath snags when his boots hit my porch, solid and certain, as if this was never a question for him.He unlatches the gate, pushes it open with a quiet creak, and climbs the steps to my porch.

For a moment, I just stand there, sweater wrapped tight around me, unsure what to say. He hands me one of the mugs, the warmth seeping into my palms before I even thank him.

“Figured we could save ourselves a fence today,” he says, settling into the chair opposite mine. His voice is calm, almost casual, but the air feels different, closer, less guarded.

I sit too, the wood cool beneath me, and for the first time since coming back, it doesn’t feel like I’m occupying the house alone.

We sip in silence, not because we don’t have words, but because this, the shared space, the steam rising between us, the distance gone—is enough.

No sides. No barriers. Just us.

The sun climbs higher, spilling light across the porch, warm against my skin. The house behind me is still a mess, dust in the corners, paint peeling at the edges, a thousand things waiting to be fixed. But for once, I don’t feel like I have to carry it all on my own.

Evan leans back in his chair, mug balanced in his hand, quiet in a way that feels steady instead of distant. The silence between us isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Companionable.

I realize my smile isn’t for the coffee warming my hands or the old boards beneath my feet. It’s for the possibility humming under my skin, the unspoken promise that tomorrow he might show up again, and the day after that, and maybe one day soon

It’s for this—two chairs on a porch at sunrise, the comfort of not being alone in it anymore.

Maybe love doesn’t always knock loudly. Sometimes, it sits with you at sunrise and makes the world feel possible again.

Morning coffee. A nod across the fence. Silence that slowly shifts into something almost comfortable. In Part 2 of The Way Back to Us, Vanessa and Evan find themselves caught in a quiet ritual neither expected, where small talk turns into companionship and long-buried memories refuse to stay hidden.

The Way Back to Us - ​​Part 2: Fence Line Conversations

Sometimes the hardest conversations start with nothing at all.

The mornings come early here, sunlight streaming through the thin curtains before I’m ready for it. I make coffee anyway, clutching the mug like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, and step onto the back porch. The boards creak beneath my feet, the air cool enough that I pull my sweater tighter around me.

It’s quiet. It was always a little too quiet. The kind of silence that presses in when there’s no one left to fill it.

I’m halfway through my second sip when movement catches my eye. Next door, Evan steps out with a hose in hand, the arc of water darkening the soil around a row of plants.The set of his jaw is familiar, even with the years carved into it, the kind of steady presence that makes it too easy to remember who he used to be. For a second, it feels like I’m seventeen again, waiting for him to glance my way.

I clear my throat, forcing out a quiet, “Morning.”

His eyes flick to mine, cool and unreadable. For a heartbeat his eyes meet mine, then he turns away, silence doing all the talking.

The next day, it’s the same. And the day after that.

I sip my coffee, say hello. He nods, goes back to whatever task has his attention. Civil. Predictable. Like a script neither of us bothered to change.

Still, there’s something in the space between us, awkward, charged, a pull I don’t want to acknowledge. Every nod feels both like rejection and recognition, as if he’s keeping a wall up while reminding me he knows exactly who I am.

…………

It happens on a Tuesday. I’m halfway through my coffee when a scrabbling noise makes me look up. A tan blur bolts across the yard, his dog, tail wagging, ears flying as he barrels toward the hydrangeas like they’re his personal playground.

“Duke,” Evan calls, voice sharp but not loud. He strides across his lawn, hands firm on his hips, and for a second I just watch him, the way he fills the space like he’s always belonged there.

The dog trots back only halfway, tongue lolling, before veering toward me. I crouch automatically, scratching behind his ears. “Friendly,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

“Too friendly,” Evan says, stopping at the fence. His arms cross over his chest, that closed-off posture I’m starting to recognize.

“He’s fine,” I answer, letting the dog sniff at my hand before he lopes back toward his yard. “Better than fine, honestly. He brightened my morning.”

Something flickers in his expression, quick, gone before I can name it. “Sorry about that.”

I shake my head. “No harm done.”

The silence stretches, but this time it isn’t absolute. It feels like an opening, small and fragile. And for the first time since I came back, it doesn’t feel impossible to cross.

…………

The next morning, I step onto the porch with my coffee, not expecting anything more than another nod. Instead, Evan is already outside, hose coiled neatly at his feet. He glances over, then asks, “Settling in?” The words are plain, but they hit like more than small talk.

“As well as anyone can in a house that hasn’t been touched in years,” I answer, wrapping both hands around my mug.

His mouth shifts, not quite a smile. “That old place will keep you busy.”

I glance at the row of tomatoes behind him, their vines staked in perfect order. “Looks like you’ve got it figured out.”

He shrugs, eyes on the plants. “Keeps me out of trouble.”

It’s nothing, weather, gardens, walls that still smell faintly of dust. Yet it feels like something. His voice is low, careful, and the way he avoids holding my gaze says as much as the words he does offer. I sip my coffee, studying him when I shouldn’t.

We fall into silence again, but this one feels different. Easier. Almost comfortable.

And later, when I step back inside, I catch myself already looking forward to tomorrow morning.

It doesn’t happen all at once. A nod turns into a question. A question turns into a few more words. Before long, the rhythm of our mornings changes.

I find myself stepping outside with my coffee just as he does, mugs in hand on opposite sides of the fence. The steam curls upward into the cool air, drifting between us like a secret we haven’t decided to share.

Some days we talk about nothing, rain in the forecast, the stubborn squirrel raiding his tomatoes, the way the light flickers in my kitchen. Other days we don’t talk at all, just stand there, leaning against the fence like it’s enough to be in the same space again.

The silence doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It stretches, but it doesn’t suffocate. There’s a strange comfort in it, like an old song I’d forgotten the words to but still remember the tune.

One morning, I catch him watching me over the rim of his mug. For the first time in decades, his mouth curves into the faintest smile, brief, barely there, but real.

It’s nothing. And somehow, it’s everything.

…………

The morning starts like the others, two mugs, two shadows leaning against the fence. But the conversation drifts into a lull, the kind that feels different. Not empty. Waiting.

Evan clears his throat, gaze fixed on the dirt at his boots. “My wife… passed three years ago.” His voice is even, almost flat, but the weight behind it is unmistakable.

I set my mug down on the rail, fingers tracing the grain of the wood. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

He nods once, like he expected as much, and doesn’t add more.

The silence holds, and before I can stop myself, words slip free. “My marriage ended about a year ago. Mutual, technically. But it felt like it was fading. Like I was disappearing while the rest of the world kept going.”

His eyes lift then, meeting mine. No pity, no judgment, just understanding.

We don’t press. We don’t need to. The quiet settles between us, not heavy this time, but grounding.

For the first time since I came back, I don’t feel like I’m carrying it all alone. But the quiet between us scratches at old wounds, ones I’ve tried to forget. The prom dress hanging untouched on the closet door, mocking me with its promise of a night that never came. The phone ringing into silence while I sat frozen, certain I’d hear his voice if I just waited one more minute. My father’s shouting downstairs, sharper than usual, angrier than I’d ever heard him, every syllable thick with disappointment. The slam of a door so hard it rattled the frame, leaving me trembling in the dark.

What I’ve never said out loud is how long I stayed there, curled on the edge of the bed, every car that passed making me hope it was him. How the clock kept ticking, each minute stealing something I couldn’t get back. Hoping he would show up and say sorry he was late, he got caught up in something. But that never happened and he never came back.

And now when Evan finally looks up, it’s impossible not to wonder if he’s remembering it too. That one night neither of us ever speaks of, the night that broke us before we even had a chance to begin.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

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: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

At forty-five, Vanessa returns to the house she hasn’t set foot in since she was a teenager. Newly divorced, kids grown, she came back to rebuild what’s left of her life. What she didn’t expect was to find her old heartbreak living next door. The Way Back to Us is a tender, second-chance romance about grief, reconciliation, and the kind of love that lingers even when you try to leave it behind.

The Way Back to Us - Part 1: Returning and Remembering

                            Some Doors Never Stay Closed Forever    

The gravel crunches beneath my tires as I turn into the driveway, the sound louder than I remember, like the house has been waiting for me. It rises in front of me, sunlit but worn down, shutters hanging crooked and porch boards bowed with age. The paint is duller than I thought it would be, though maybe that’s just my memory painting it brighter than it ever was.

I kill the engine and sit for a moment, staring through the windshield. The air smells faintly of pine and old dust, a scent carried on the breeze that feels like it belongs here as much as the chipped shutters. Weeds snake up through cracks in the path, tangling where my mother’s roses used to bloom.

When I finally push the front door open, it groans like it’s reluctant to let me in. The air inside is thick, stale, carrying the weight of years being closed off. Dust glints in the afternoon light, drifting lazily through the entryway. I drop my keys onto the side table, and the clatter echoes too loud in the silence.

I drag my fingertips along the banister, tracing the carved wood. My younger self flashes in my mind, flying up these stairs two at a time, sneakers squeaking, my father’s voice calling after me. Now, the silence presses close, swallowing the memory whole.

It doesn’t feel like devastation. Just disorientation. Like someone peeled back a version of me I can’t put on anymore, leaving me raw and bare in a place that used to fit.

I stand in the entryway longer than I should, letting the silence settle around me. The kids are off at college now, busy with lives that don’t need me in the same way. My marriage ended without fireworks, just a slow unraveling until there was nothing left to stitch back together. No dramatic fight, no begging. Just two people who’d run out of road, staring at each other across a table that felt colder every night.

So here I am. Not because I wanted this house, but because there wasn’t anywhere else that made sense. My roots are buried in these walls, even if they’ve gone brittle with time. If I’m going to start over, it may as well be here.

I roll the suitcase farther in, the wheels catching on the worn rug. The sound carries through the empty space, sharp and lonely, bouncing off walls that haven’t heard footsteps in years. 

The word slips out before I can stop it, soft and almost questioning. “Home.” The walls don’t answer, only groan in the silence. And truthfully, it doesn’t feel like it yet, like I’m trying on a word that doesn’t fit anymore.

I leave the suitcase by the stairs and glance toward the living room. The dim space feels smaller with that armchair blocking the window, so I decide to start there. Maybe if I can clear the space, let some light in, it won’t feel so heavy.

I turn to the hall closet, hoping for something useful. The door creaks when I open it, and sure enough, the old toolbox is still tucked inside. A half-rusted thing, handles worn smooth, lid squealing when I pry it open. I haul it into the living room, already heavier than I expected, and set it beside the armchair.

The plan is simple, move the chair, let in some light. But the thing weighs more than it has any right to. I brace my shoulder against it, pushing with all the strength I have. It doesn’t budge. The sound that leaves me is half-grunt, half-groan, and when I finally step back, I can’t help but laugh under my breath. The sound dies in the empty room before it even has the chance to echo.

“Figures,” I mutter, brushing the hair from my face. If my ex were here, he’d find a way to make this about how impractical I am. He always did.

I look back at the chair, solid and immovable, and the truth settles low in my chest. No one’s coming to help me. Whatever gets done here, I’ll have to do it myself.

And that thought is heavier than the furniture.

By the time I give up, sweat prickles along my hairline. I head to the kitchen for a glass of water, letting it run, it’s cloudy, then clear, tasting faintly metallic when I take a sip. It isn’t refreshing, not really, but it’s something. Glass in hand, I push open the front door and step onto the porch, the wood groaning under my weight the same way it did when I was a teenager sneaking out after curfew. The late-afternoon sun is warm against my skin, but the breeze carries a sharp edge, crisp with pine and the faint tang of woods-moke from somewhere nearby.

I lean against the rail, sip slowly, and let my eyes wander across the street. That’s when I see a man.

At first, it’s just a figure, broad shoulders bent over something in the driveway, a pair of work gloves tugged on. He straightens, silver catching in his hair, movements deliberate and unhurried. My stomach drops before my mind can even catch up.

I know that profile.

Decades have passed, but it’s him. The boy who once swore he’d never let me go. Evan, the boy who left anyway.

Now he’s a man, older, weathered, with lines carved at the corners of his mouth. He glances over, eyes catching mine across the distance. The recognition is instant. His chin lifts slightly in acknowledgment, nothing more. No smile, no words. Just a nod before he turns, wipes his hands on a rag, and disappears into the shadow of his garage.

The glass shakes faintly in my hand. Old hurt rises sharp and fast, tangled with disbelief. Of all the places, of all the neighbors, why did it have to be him?

The sight of him lingers long after he’s gone, pulling me backward whether or not I want it. A flash of satin pink, the prom dress hanging on my closet door runs through my head. The phone ringing once, twice, then silence. My father’s voice, sharp as a whip, followed by the slam of a door that rattled the entie=re house.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the porch rail until the wood bites into my palms. The past presses close, but I shove it back down. Not now. Not yet.

Still, I know it’s waiting. And I won’t be able to outrun it forever.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

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: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix