Page 11 of Second Sin

“It’s not pity,” she says. “It’s awareness.”

For some stupid reason, that stings more.

She doesn’t ask what broke me. Doesn’t need to. And maybe that’s why I think about her—Elise—for the first time in months.

“I used to be better at this,” I say before I can stop myself. “Shutting shit down. Locking it out.”

My leg bounces. The pressure in my chest keeps climbing.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t push. Just lets me fill the silence.

““Lately it’s just...showing up where it shouldn't..." I drag a hand through my hair. "Fuck. Forget it.”

I push to my feet too fast, the chair dragging loud and sharp against the floor like it’s calling me out. I take long, desperate strides to the exit, and she follows, stepping toward the door just as I do.

We both freeze.

"Your session isn't over." Her voice is soft—steady on the surface, but there’s a thread of tension beneath it.

Her gaze finds mine, and for a second, the room narrows to nothing but the space between us.She’s beautiful in that quiet, unshakable way—like she doesn’t know it, or maybe just doesn’t care.And those fucking eyes. Soft golden brown, drawing me in before I can stop it.

I’m too close—close enough to see the way her breath hitches, to watch her pupils dilate.Her gaze flicks to my mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to light something dangerous in my chest.

She shifts back—just an inch. Straightens her shoulders, like she’s forcing herself to be the professional in the room again. Her expression goes blank, but not before I catch the flicker of something that says she felt it too.

"We still have twenty minutes left," she says, voice calm, but the flush in her cheeks betraying her.

I pull back, jaw tight. “Yeah…I’m good on the soul-searching for one day.”

And I walk out before I do something reckless.

Down the hallway, my pulse is still kicking like I just took a hit on open ice.

One more second and I would’ve made it worse.

Got too close. Said too much.

So yeah. I walk. Fast.

CHAPTER 5

OLIVIA

The restaurant glows with candlelight, shadows dancing on brick walls as soft jazz drifts overhead. The air is warm with rosemary, garlic, and the hum of comfort.

Beth sits across from me, cheeks flushed from wine. Her eyes crease with amusement—hazel, like Ethan’s. Same golden flecks. Same quiet weight.

Ron’s beside her, steady and relaxed, his arm draped around her shoulder like it belongs there—which, after nearly forty years of marriage, it does. The way he looks at her—like she’s still the best part of his day was everything I pictured for Ethan and me. A future we never got the chance to grow into.

“One more glass,” Beth says, topping off mine without asking.

I laugh, shielding the rim. “That’s enough, or you’ll be carrying me home.”

Ron chuckles. “That’s Beth—overpouring and fussing. It’s her love language.”

Beth bumps his arm. “And yours is being a smartass.”

He grins. “Consistent, though.”

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