Page 15 of A Silenced Midlife

Inside, Winston was still and quiet. "Hey, Winston," I said. He banged a kitchen cabinet in response. I tossed my keys on the counter and headed straight for the bathroom. This house hadn't been this empty since before I moved back. As I twisted the faucet, steam began to rise from the water's surface. Pouring in a generous amount of bubble bath, the scent of lavender filled the air, inviting me to unwind.

I sank into the tub, letting the hot water envelop me, muscles unwinding from the tension of the day. The book I had grabbed sat on the edge of the tub, but my eyes were too heavy to read. For now, the soothing warmth was all I needed.

"Finally," I whispered to myself. "Some peace."

After staying in the tub until the water cooled, I stepped out of the bathroom, skin all pruny. The house was still quiet, the only sound was my feet padding softly on the cool hardwood floor. I wrapped the towel tighter around myself, water droplets trailing behind me.

The sound of the front door opening and closing was followed by Drews magic spiking through our bond. Oh, good, his shift was over.

"Hello?" he called out.

"Up here," I replied, leaning against the bedroom door frame. My hair was damp, clinging to my shoulders, and I was acutely aware of how little the towel actually covered.

Drew appeared in the hallway, his sheriff’s uniform slightly askew, signs of another long day. He paused, teal-blue eyes scanning over me. There was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Long day?" I asked, keeping my tone light.

"You could say that," he said, stepping closer. His hands found my waist, fingers gently brushing the edge of the towel. "But it looks like yours is ending on a high note."

"Definitely improving," I admitted, the tension melting away under his touch.

"Good." Drew leaned down, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that started soft but grew more insistent. The towel slipped an inch, and I pressed closer to him, not caring.

"Let me take care of you," Drew murmured against my lips, the promise in his voice sending shivers down my spine.

"Sounds perfect," I whispered back.

Heck, yes it did.

8

OLIVIA

I paced the living room for what the hundredth time, my gaze flicking to the dark windows. No sign of Sam. He should've been home hours ago. My phone lay abandoned on the coffee table, its screen illuminating the silent room every time I checked it, which was about every thirty seconds.

"Sam, where are you?" I muttered, thumbing through our messages again. All sent, none read.

My legs were heavy, every muscle screamed for rest, but worry fueled me. The bar was his usual haunt, his second home almost, but he always texted. Always. With each passing minute, I spun wild scenarios, none of them good.

"His phone better be dead," I whispered to the empty room. "Or he better have one hell of an excuse."

Sighing, I slumped onto the couch, the cushions cold against my skin. My body was a contradiction—exhausted yet tense, craving sleep but refusing to shut down.

"Come on, Sam." I didn't know who I was pleading with. The universe, maybe, or just the part of Sam that should have been next to me on this couch.

I closed my eyes, still half-hoping to hear the turn of the lock, his footsteps, his voice apologizing. But silence was a thick blanket, and despite the knot in my stomach, it pulled me under. Sleep took me, begrudgingly, into uneasy dreams.

* * *

Sunlight pried my eyes open, the false calm of morning jarring against the panic that rushed back in an instant. I grabbed my phone. No new messages from Sam. One from Hank though.

Hey Olivia, have you heard from Sam? Didn't show up for his shift.

"Dammit, Sam." I tossed the phone on the couch, my fingers twitching. "Where are you?"

"Luci." I called out, hoping my dad would appear with some divine insight or at least comfort. No such luck.

With a frustrated breath, I stormed into the kitchen. Mom was flipping pancakes, Sammie perched at the table, syrup already painting his face.

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