“Layla.”
I shake my head. I can’t handle kindness yet.
“I became a teacher because I love it,” I say. “But it also gave me somewhere to put all the love I thought had nowhere else to go.”
The silence stretches. When I finally look at him, his jaw is tight, but there’s no pity in his eyes. Only something steadier. Angrier on my behalf.
“I’m sorry it hurt you,” he says quietly.
The words hit exactly where they need to. My eyes sting.
Hudson reaches across the space between us and covers my hand with his. He doesn’t pull. He just stays there, warm and solid.
“I don’t want children,” he says after a while.
I go still.
“Not because I dislike them,” he continues. “I just know myself. I move every few months. I follow work and weather. I don’t want to be the kind of father who’s always leaving, and I won’t promise roots to a kid when I know I’d feel trapped by them.”
The honesty of it settles over me. Hudson is honest – just being Hudson.
“How do women usually react when you tell them that?” I ask.
“Some say it’s fine. Then they wait for me to change.” He looks at me. “You didn’t ask if I’d change.”
“I don’t want you to,” I say before I can soften it. “I think children deserve parents who actually want that life.”
His hand tightens over mine. “Exactly.”
We sit with it for a while. The lake turns amber as the sun drops lower. Somewhere nearby a child laughs, and for once the sound doesn’t only land in the hollow place inside me.
Eventually Hudson stands. My stomach drops before he even speaks.
“I should go,” he says.
I don’t want him to. The realization is immediate and embarrassing.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He holds it out to me.
“My address,” he says. “The cabin where I’m staying while I’m in Cady Springs.”
I take it carefully. His handwriting is clean and spare. Follow the lake road past the second bend. Blue mailbox. Porch light stays on.
“That’s where I’ll be tonight,” he says. “And every night for now.”
I look up at him. “You’re inviting me over?”
“I’m telling you where I am,” he corrects gently. “You decide if you come. Not because of a storm or because things got heated in a cabin. You decide.”
My throat tightens. He steps closer and brushes a strand of hair off my cheek.
“I want you sure, Layla. Not just caught up.”
I can’t speak, so I nod. He leans down and kisses my forehead -- soft, deliberate, and careful in a way that makes my heart ache.
“I’ll leave the porch light on,” he says.
Then he turns and walks down the steps into the trees. I stay on the porch long after he disappears, holding the folded paper against my palm. Harold’s text is still on my phone. My old life is still waiting. But the paper in my hand feels heavier than all of it. For the first time, Hudson doesn’t feel like the reckless thing I did after my marriage ended. He feels like the first honest thing I’ve wanted in a very long time. And tonight, if I go to him, it won’t be because a storm pushed me. It will be because I chose to walk through the dark on my own.
