Sienna.
God, Sienna.
She makes me laugh in ways I didn’t know I could anymore. She challenges me, calls me on my shit, and kisses like she was born to start fires with her mouth.
And I love her. Not in some half-hearted way like the way I expected to eventually find love.
I fuckingloveher.
Her intelligence, her humor, her self-deprecation. Even though she’s the perfect woman, she doesn’t see herself that way. And the woman can move! She’s my dancing queen.
Then there’s Jake.
My first true love.
He never knew, but he felt it.
I’m still amazed that we might have been able to have something all those years ago.
But I mourned him. Grieved him.
Let him go.
I had to.
I’ve spent my life compartmentalizing. It was the only way to survive, to thrive, to build my empire.
And now?
Jake is back.
He’s handsome, and good, and he has secrets that must be eating him alive.
But he’s still the Jake I remember.
I hate comparing them. It feels wrong. Like choosing between two songs written in different keys. Two kinds of fire. Sienna is the future I want to deserve. Jake is the past I never stopped bleeding over.
And maybe that’s the problem.
They both see me.
Sienna sees the man I want to be—better, braver, open to love without fear of what it will cost me. Jake sees the boy I was, the wildness and the ache, and maybe even the pieces I thought I had to kill off to become the man I am.
What if I don’t have to choose?
What if loving them both doesn’t make me a monster?
But that’s a question I can’t afford to ask.
I sit with that thought longer than I mean to until the sun shifts lower.
Time to party.
I drag myself up and into the shower. Scalding water, rough lather, rinse and repeat. It doesn’t fix anything, but it dulls the ache. For now.
I scrub my face harder than I need to. Try to wash away the guilt. Try to reset my heart. But the images stay. Sienna’s tear-bright eyes. Jake’s mouth, swollen from our kiss. The look in both of their faces.
I towel off and pull on a tropical shirt, cool against skin still burning from the day. The linen pants are clean enough, creased from the chair I tossed them on. A leather cuff around my wrist, scuffed sandals on my feet. I don’t bother with cologne, just run a hand through my hair and call it good. I look decent. Put together. And if I can pass for fine on the outside, maybe no one will see the wreck I am underneath.
