CH 1-10

Summary

The worst kind of heartbreak isn’t cheating, falling out of love, or even death. It’s choosing to walk away from the person who felt like home. Fifteen years ago, Anaïs Fleury did exactly that. Now Sebastian’s mother is gone, and Anaïs is flying back to Switzerland for the funeral of the woman who was more mother to her than her own. She could walk away. He should keep the door shut. But Greta’s dying wish has other plans. What follows is a month-long trip through Portugal with a suitcase full of ashes and fifteen years of unfinished business. What begins as a reluctant road trip quickly becomes something far more dangerous. Between hotel rooms, stolen nights, and the slow unravelling of every reason they once walked away, Anaïs and Sebastian are forced to face the question they never answered at twenty-three: Can two people who are perfect for each other, but terrible at love as it’s supposed to be, build something new? Or are they destined to remain each other’s favorite disaster? A steamy romantic comedy about second chances, unconventional love, and the messy, imperfect relationships that refuse to fit into neat boxes.

Chapter 1. Unholy reunion

The family room at Müller & Sons Funeral Home smells like lilies and bad decisions.

I should be in the main parlour, paying respects to Greta Huber’s memory like a decent human being. Instead, I’m bent over the arm of a burgundy velvet couch in the family consultation room, my funeral-appropriate Balenciaga hiked up to my waist, getting thoroughly fucked by her son.

Grief makes people do stupid things. Apparently, lust makes us do stupider ones.

“We still fuck like we did in our twenties,” Sebastian grunts against my neck, his breath hot and urgent.

“No, we don’t,” I pant, one hand braced on the couch’s carved wooden frame, the other gripping his shirt hard enough to wrinkle the expensive fabric. “I’ve got an IUD, and you got snipped. I can let you go raw without spiralling at the end of the month, wondering if I’m growing your spawn.”

“Jesus Christ, Fleury.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

He pulls back half an inch, just enough to look at me with those stupidly intense brown eyes, like he’s weighing a retort, then decides his brain doesn’t have enough blood flow for clever comebacks.

“I’m too turned on to speak in full sentences.”

“Yeah, yeah. Stop talking and fuck me before somebody walks in looking for tissues or whatever the hell people need at funerals.”

He does. Honestly, he’s not entirely wrong about the twenties thing, we were never good at appropriate locations.

Back then it was youth hostels with paper-thin walls, his ancient Volkswagen with the seat that never quite reclined enough, and that flimsy tent we swore had a broken zipper when really, we just liked the risk of being caught.

Some things never change, but at least we’d graduated from semi-public to semi-private.

The other difference now is that he’s stronger, all that offshore engineering work has been good to his arms. And I’m still bendy, morally and joint-wise, but with significantly better lingerie underneath.

I arch my back, digging my nails into the couch upholstery, keeping one eye on the door like some sexed-up meerkat. The thrill of potential discovery only makes everything more urgent, more desperate.

Then he grabs my hip with one hand, my carefully constructed chignon with the other, and suddenly I stop caring who might walk in. Let it be the funeral director. Let it be the priest. Hell, let him bless this unholy reunion and throw in a Hail Mary for my thighs while he’s at it, because baby, I’m ascending.

I cross my ankles tight, locking him in place, making everything tighter, more impossible to escape.

“I’m coming, Sunne,” he growls against my nape, his lips brushing that spot that makes me shiver. That old nickname vibrates through me and still makes my spine melt.

“Good,” I breathe, my voice barely there.

“Where?”

“Inside me,” I command, clenching around him with a pulsing grip that makes his eyes roll back. “But if you get a single drop on this dress—” I hold down a whimper as he hits exactly the right angle.

“Do you know what Balenciaga costs these days?”

He makes this sound—half laugh, half groan—that I remember from fifteen years ago, right before he used to completely lose his mind.

“Your priorities are fucked, Fleury.”

“Look who’s talking,” I snap, tightening my inner walls around him just to make my point more literal.

“Don’t—” he starts, but then I do this thing with my hips that I perfected sometime around 2015, and whatever moral crisis he was about to have gets shelved next to the rosary beads and inherited guilt. Probably forever.

The noises in the hallway get louder; footsteps, distant chatter, and you’d think we’d have the sense to disengage. But no. We’re locked together, bodies and histories inseparable, and the only thing more mortifying than getting caught would be admitting that neither of us wants to stop.

Then we both shatter, his forehead pressed against mine, and for thirty seconds the world narrows to just this;two bodies remembering what fifteen years tried to make them forget.

The couch creaks ominously. I briefly wonder if Müller & Sons has insurance for furniture damaged during inappropriate sexual encounters, then decide that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Today’s problem is the fact that Sebastian Huber still knows exactly how to make me forget my own name, and we’re about to attend his mother’s funeral together like civilized adults who definitely haven’t just desecrated a room typically reserved for discussions about casket upgrades and flower arrangements.

The man has always had terrible timing. Apparently, so do I.

Which is probably why we’re perfect for each other.

And exactly why this will never work.

Chapter 2. Three weeks ago

I finally walked out of the veterinary nutrition company I co-founded after years of watching my vision get systematically buried by market research and profit margins.

My name was still on the walls—Dr. Anaïs Fleury, DVM, MSc in Animal Nutrition. My signature still inked half the contracts. But the place had stopped feeling like mine the moment we pivoted from “evidence-based nutrition for every pet” to “artisanal wellness for discerning pet parents.”

The problem is, there’s no money in feeding regular dogs owned by regular people. The money’s in catering to women with $200 manicures and Lululemon yoga sets who treat their goldendoodles like designer accessories.

Don’t get me wrong, my nails are fake, and I’m literally wearing my favorite matcha green Align set right now. I look exactly like our target market. What pisses me off is that we’re charging them sixty dollars for dog food that’s nutritionally identical to the twenty-dollar version, just because we can.

Food is food. Nutrition is science. Neither should be a luxury item.

Anyway, I’m spiraling. Again.

I sat on a bench across the street from what used to be my building, trying not to vomit. The rational part of my brain was calculating the effort I have put into this company. The other part, the part that remembered why I went to vet school, felt lighter than I had in months.

It helped that I wasn’t about to starve. Growing up with a solid safety net meant the fall would sting my pride more than my wallet. Which, annoyingly, made quitting both easier and harder to justify.

Instead of having an existential crisis in public like a normal person, I did what any emotionally mature, self-aware thirty-something would do when facing a major life transition.

I opened LinkedIn.

I hadn’t updated my profile since… Jesus, probably 2019. My tagline still said “Caffeinated Visionary | Sometimes Functional Adult”. I was halfway through deleting that embarrassment when the algorithm served up a name I hadn’t seen in fifteen years.

Sebastian Huber has a new role: Lead Structural Consultant, North Sea Offshore Systems GmbH.

His profile photo looked like it had been taken mid-hurricane: professional, windswept, grim. He hadn’t changed much. Still that perpetual frown, like smiling in a photo might compromise his engineering credentials. Some people age into warmth; Sebastian aged into granite.

We hadn’t spoken since the breakup. Since that awkward “we’ll stay friends” phase that quickly devolved into mutual avoidance because staying friends when you still want to fuck each other is just slow torture dressed as maturity.

Neither of us had social media apart from LinkedIn, thanks to professional pressure. No digital breadcrumbs to obsess over during wine-drunk Saturday nights, wondering if he ever thought about me.

I stared at his name for a full minute, thumb hovering like it might burn me.

His job title might as well have been “Sebastian Huber, Professional Storm-Tamer.” I could picture him there—standing on some wind-battered platform in the middle of nowhere, clipboard in hand, calculating load-bearing capacities while waves crashed below. The man who once explained fluid dynamics to me during sex had finally found his place; among steel beams that wouldn’t dare be a millimeter out of place.

The smart thing would be to update my own profile, close the app, and move on with my life like a well-adjusted adult, instead, my thumb betrayed fifteen years of carefully maintained distance with a single, catastrophic tap.

It clicked Message.

What do you say to someone who used to know the exact spot on your neck that made you melt, but whom you haven’t spoken to since flip phones were relevant?

Congratulations felt too formal. ‘Hey, remember me?’ felt pathetic. ‘Want to discuss how we are still dysfunctionally functional adult?’ felt accurate but wildly inadvisable.

So I went with honesty.

Hi Sebastian. It’s me, Anaïs Fleury. Yes, I’m the same person who used to steal your hoodies and leave coffee rings on your textbooks.

I saw your name pop up in my feed and couldn’t scroll past without saying something.

First—congratulations on the new role. Lead Structural Consultant sounds exactly like the kind of job that would make your systematic, problem-solving brain ridiculously happy.

Second—and this is the real reason I’m bothering you after fifteen years of radio silence—I wanted to thank your mom. She probably doesn’t remember this, but years ago, she told me something that’s been my North Star through every major transition since: “You either grow together, or grow apart. Either way, you must grow as your own person.”

I didn’t understand it then. I was twenty-three and thought growth meant compromise, and compromise felt like death. But that quote has saved my ass more times than I can count. Today especially.

So if you get the chance, please give her a hug from someone she may not remember but whose life she changed with one perfectly timed piece of wisdom.

I hope you’re well. I hope the North Sea isn’t too brutal. I hope you’re still terrible at taking vacations and excellent at overthinking engineering problems.

Warmly (and slightly mortified by my own honesty), Sunne.

I stared at the message for another ten minutes.

Then I thought about his mother’s face when she’d said those words after she found out we broke up. How she’d looked at me with sadness and understanding—Sebastian and I didn’t understand why we couldn’t make it work or why our separation hurt so bad, but she got it. We had grown apart. Our better versions were no longer fitting to walk side by side.

Three days later, my phone buzzed.

‘Mom passed Tuesday. Funeral Friday, 23rd. Müller & Sons, Zurich, 2pm.’

I booked a flight from Montreal that night.

Three weeks later, I’d be bent over a couch in his mother’s funeral home, learning that some kinds of growth happen in the most inappropriate places imaginable.

Chapter 3. The what now?

Back in the viewing room, present.

After the euphoria fizzles and our libido finally stops screaming louder than common sense, post-coital clarity kicks in, approximately twenty minutes and three orgasms after making the worst decision of my life. Or the best. Jury’s still out.

We both look at each other while he’s adjusting his tie.

“We just—” he starts.

“Yep.” I say while smoothing my dress.

“At my mother’s funeral.”

“Yep.”

“And we’re both—”

“Fully aware of how fucked up this is? Yes.”

We make eye contact. Just long enough to silently agree we’ve both lost our damn minds.

“Okay then.”

“Okay.”

I head to the washroom to freshen up, leaving him to process what we’ve just done. When I join him at the viewing room before the crowds arrive, Sebastian’s still fiddling with his already perfect tie.

“Sit down, Fleury!” Sebastian barks.

“Can’t!”

Sebastian’s voice drops to that low, frustrated register I remember from arguments about thermostat settings and whether we needed to leave for the airport three hours early. “Why?”

I gesture vaguely toward my lower half while keeping my eyes on the memorial program someone left on the side table. Greta Huber, 1954-2025. Beloved mother, grandmother, friend to all who knew her kindness.

“First, no panties. Second, the last drops of your sticky little donation still trickling. Third, don’t want to ruin my dress, remember?”

“For fuck’s sake, I’ll buy you another one.”

“Good luck with that. Limited edition spring collection 2023. Now shut it and let me air myself out quietly before someone comes looking for us.”

He runs his hands through his hair, messing up whatever careful styling he’d attempted for his mother’s funeral. The irony isn’t lost on me that we’re having this conversation in a room decorated with sympathy flowers and tissue boxes.

“Next time, stop being so willing.”

I turn to give him my best are you serious right now look. “Excuse me? You’re the one who cornered me in here like some grief-horny teenager.”

He squints his eyes ready to fire back but footsteps in the hallway cut him off. I smooth down my dress and try to look like someone who definitely hasn’t just been thoroughly fucked in a funeral home family room.

The door opens.

“Anaïs? Oh my God, is that really you?”

Astrid Huber—now Astrid something-else, based on the wedding ring—stands in the doorway looking exactly like I remember, just with better highlights and laugh lines around her eyes.

“Astrid.” I step forward for a hug, grateful for the excuse to move away from Sebastian and the scene of our recent crimes. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She holds me tight for a moment, and I remember why I always liked her. No pretense, no social games. Just genuine warmth.

“Thank you so much for coming. I can’t believe you’re here.” She pulls back to look at me properly. “Did Sebastian ask you to come?”

“No, he just… told me about your mother, and I had some time, so I thought I should pay my respects. I loved her like my own.”

It’s not entirely a lie. The part about loving Greta is completely true. The part about having “some time” is technically accurate if you consider “unemployed by choice and emotionally directionless” as having time.

A blonde woman appears behind Astrid, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Mid-thirties, probably. Pretty and very pregnant.

“Astrid, I can’t believe Mom’s gone.”

Mom?

I glance at Sebastian, who’s decided now is the perfect time to check his phone. A cold, familiar dread starts spreading through my chest.

I don’t remember another sister. I thought Sebastian and Astrid were the only siblings

“Oh!” Astrid’s face brightens with the particular expression people get when they’re about to introduce two people who definitely should have met before now. “Anaïs, meet Lara. Sebastian’s wife.”

Hold up a second!

His WHAT now?

The words hit me like a slap, I might actually vomit, but I keep my face neutral. Professional smile. Steady eye contact. Years of veterinary training have taught me how to deliver bad news without flinching, and thank God those skills transfer to receiving it.

Lara extends her hand with a warm smile that makes my stomach twist. “It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve heard so much about Sebastian’s university friends.”

University friends. Right.

I shake her hand, hyperaware that Sebastian’s semen is sliding down my thighs while she carries it in the far more socially acceptable way. The deluxe version, incubating it into a whole human being. Irony doesn’t get darker than this.

“Likewise,” I manage, because what else do you say to the wife of the man whose semen is currently defying gravity under your Balenciaga dress?

“Long story,” Astrid says, glancing between us with obvious curiosity. “I hope you’re staying for the reception. So much to catch up on.”

Long story feels like the understatement of the century.

I nod and smile and make appropriate sounds while my brain tries to process this information. Wife. Sebastian has a wife. Sebastian, who twenty minutes ago was calling me Sunne, while coming inside me, has a fucking wife.

“Of course,” I hear myself say. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Lara beams at me like we’re going to be best friends, and I wonder if it’s possible to die from irony poisoning.

“Wunderbar! We should definitely chat. I’d love to hear more about how you knew Sebastian’s family.”

Oh, I knew them very well. Biblically, in Sebastian’s case.

“That sounds lovely,” I lie, already calculating how quickly I can escape this conversation, this building, this entire situation.

Sebastian still hasn’t said a word. He’s standing there like a statue, probably hoping the floor will open up and swallow him whole. Join the club, asshole.

I blink at him, rapid fire, full Morse code, hoping my eyelashes translate into what the actual fuck?

Decode that, genius.

Astrid links her arm through mine before I get a read on his face. “Come on, let’s get you some coffee. The catering is actually decent for once.”

As she steers me toward the door, I finally catch Sebastian’s eye for just a second. Yep. We’re both going to hell.

Chapter 4. Rock bottom

I needed air. The reception room was shrinking, filled with too many people offering condolences while Sebastian’s donation crept toward my knees so I escape to the parking lot before anyone can see my face.

I’m here for Greta, I really am, though you skeptics in the back might be thinking, ‘uh-huh, sure you are.’

But Greta was like a mother to me. The only real one I ever had.

She opened her home to foreign exchange students, and yours truly spent what was supposed to be a summer internship under her roof. Astrid and Sebastian had fled the nest the moment they were legally allowed to sign rental agreements, so I guessed Greta wasn’t ready for the empty house blues. She didn’t just host me, she adopted me in every way that mattered.

I met Sebastian when he came home one weekend to collect some engineering textbooks he’d forgotten. After that? He started finding excuses to visit twice a week. That little internship turned into a full university transfer and a complete life overhaul. I was supposed to become a pastry chef, if you can believe that ridiculous career choice. Turned out my love for croissants was strictly limited to the consumption side of the equation.

Seeing Greta in that open casket earlier hit me like a physical blow. Every memory crashed back at once. I never really had a mother growing up, so when I showed up in Greta’s kitchen all awkward and lost, speaking terrible German and burning everything I touched, she just… got me. She welcomed me with open arms and the kind of unconditional care I’d never had before.

We did more actual mother-daughter activities than I ever experienced with my biological mother. Like that mortifying afternoon she dragged me to her hair salon and gave the hairdresser extremely detailed instructions about what to do and what absolutely not to do to my hair, like I was five years old and had no fashion sense. It should have been humiliating. Instead, I let her fuss because it felt so good to be someone’s priority.

She even grounded me once. For smoking weed. That her son had given me. And when she caught on that Sebastian and I were dating, which took about thirty seconds because we had the subtlety of horny teenagers, she just sighed and said she’d figured it out weeks ago. It definitely wasn’t her Älplermagronen dish bringing him home twice a week.

That’s what made breaking up with him so fucking devastating. I didn’t just lose my boyfriend of four years, I lost the family that had become mine. Telling Greta goodbye hurt more than the actual breakup conversation.

I didn’t have to cut them off completely. Greta made it clear I’d always be welcome. But I knew I couldn’t heal if Sebastian was still orbiting my life, showing up for Sunday dinners and holiday traditions like we were all just friends now. So I disappeared. Clean break. No contact. And three months after, I moved back to Quebec City.

And now I’m back. For Greta. But it feels like I’m the only one actually falling apart. Astrid and Sebastian look suspiciously composed for people who just lost their mother. Meanwhile, everything’s crashing down on me simultaneously, Greta’s death, my career implosion, and the fresh realization that I just enthusiastically fucked a married man at his mother’s viewing.

That’s a new personal low. I’m no saint, I’ve made plenty of questionable decisions involving attractive men and poor timing. But someone else’s husband? That’s always been my hard line. The one boundary I’ve never crossed.

I try not to cry. Blink it back. Do that ridiculous facial yoga thing where you stretch your eyes wide and blink fast to stop the tears. Sniffle as quietly as possible.

“Anaïs, are you okay? I’ve been looking for you.”

I inhale sharply, trying to inject some steel into my voice. “What do you want, Sebastian?”

“Anaïs, I need to—”

“No. Stop talking. I just need a moment to process the fact that I’m apparently a home-wrecker now, okay?”

“I can explain.”

“Explain what, exactly? That you somehow forgot you had a wife? That marriage vows are more like guidelines?” I shake my head, tasting the bitterness in my own voice. “You know what? I don’t actually need an explanation. And for the record, I’m not jealous.”

“That’s exactly why I need you to listen—”

I look at him properly for the first time since Astrid’s introduction. And I realize I am jealous. Not of the wife specifically. Of the life he built. The one I walked away from. The family I gave up because I couldn’t handle the scheduling conflicts and the offshore assignments and the constant compromise.

He got married. Had a life. Meanwhile I’ve been treating relationships like sample sales, trying everything, keeping nothing.

And suddenly I’m that pathetic character in a bad romantic comedy, holding back tears at a funeral, dressed in discontinued designer fashion, with the physical evidence of my terrible judgment slowly making its way toward my knees.

My eyes start burning but I refuse to let him see me cry.

He steps closer, those familiar brown eyes full of something that looks dangerously like tenderness and wraps his arms around me, pulls me against his chest.

I try to push away—I should push away—but he just holds tighter.

His scent hits me first, something indefinably him that used to be my favorite smell in the world. Then his warmth, the solid comfort of his chest, the way his hand automatically finds that spot between my shoulder blades that always made me melt.

The memory of every night we spent curled up exactly like this crashes over me. Safe. Understood. Whole. Like I belonged somewhere, with someone, instead of just floating through life making bad decisions and pretending I preferred it that way.

It breaks me completely.

The sob that escapes is ugly and raw and absolutely mortifying. Then another one. Then I’m crying into his funeral suit like the pathetic mess I apparently am, while his pregnant wife is probably inside wondering where her husband wandered off to.

“I hate you,” I mumble into his chest, even as I’m gripping his jacket like he might disappear.

“I know.”

“I hate that you got married.”

His arms tighten around me. “Anaïs—”

“I hate that I still fit against you like this. I hate that you still smell exactly the same. I hate that I just had the best sex I’ve had in years with someone who belongs to someone else.”

“She’s not—”

“And I really, really hate that your mother is dead and I can’t call her anymore when I’m having a crisis and need someone to tell me I’m being an idiot but they love me anyway.”

That’s when I completely lose it. Full-body sobbing, the kind that makes your chest hurt and your nose run and ruins expensive makeup. All the grief I’ve been holding back for years, for Greta, for the family I lost, for the life I thought I’d have, pours out of me while Sebastian holds me in the parking lot of a funeral home like we’re teenagers again instead of adults who should know better.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into my hair.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? After fifteen years of incommunicado, he’s still the only person I know how to fall apart with. The only one who’s ever seen me like this and didn’t run.

I hate that. And I hate that I don’t want him to let go.

Chapter 5. The cremation

“Sebastian, is everything okay?”

I try to twist around to see who’s calling, but Sebastian’s hand tightens at the nape of my neck, keeping my face pressed against his chest like he’s trying to hide me from view. Which, given the state of my mascara, is probably a mercy.

“Just give us a minute, Lara,” he says, his voice steady in that calm way that used to make me want to throw things at him during arguments.

Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. Now his pregnant wife gets a front-row seat to me having a complete emotional breakdown in her husband’s arms. This is like a masterclass in how to be the other woman without even knowing you’re the other woman.

“We’re leaving for the crematorium in five minutes,” Lara adds, her voice as crisp and unruffled as her perfectly pressed linen blouse.

I risk a glance over Sebastian’s shoulder. She’s standing there, so clean and composed, radiating the kind of serene confidence that suggests she’s never had a day of self-doubt in her entire well-organized life. She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t demand explanations. Doesn’t even look particularly surprised to find her husband consoling a sobbing brunette in a funeral home parking lot.

Is this peak Swiss emotional regulation? That legendary neutrality extending to finding your spouse in potentially compromising positions?

Or does she pity me so much that I don’t even register as a threat?

Because if the roles were reversed and I found my man holding another woman like this—even if she was crying about dead pets—she’d be losing hair extensions and he’d be sleeping on the couch for a month.

“You should go,” I mumble. “Be with your family. I’ll figure out how to put myself back together.”

Before he can respond, something tugs on his trouser leg.

“Onkel Bas? Mama said to find you. Time to go say bye-bye to Oma,” a sweet little voice chirps and somehow makes Swiss-German sound melodic.

Sebastian crouches to scoop up a tiny blonde girl who wraps her arms around his neck with the easy confidence of someone who’s never doubted her place in his world.

“This is Clara,” he tells me, switching to English. “Astrid’s youngest.”

Relief floods through me so fast I nearly stumble. Niece. She’s his niece, not some other secret family I didn’t know about. “Hi, Clara,” I manage, dredging up my rusty German. “Du bist ein sehr hübsches Mädchen.”

Clara beams at me with gap-toothed pride. “Danke schön!”

Sebastian’s entire face transforms when he smiles at her, soft and genuine and completely unguarded. The kind of expression I haven’t seen from him in… well, fifteen years. It hits me right in the chest that this is probably how he looks at his own future children. The ones he’s going to have with Lara.

“And where are your big brothers?” he asks Clara.

She nods solemnly, like she’s delivering crucial intelligence. “Already inside. Mama says no running or the priest will be mad.”

Right. Fifteen years. People grow up, get married, reproduce, buy houses with actual equity and kitchen islands. Even Sebastian has built a whole life, complete with nieces who adore him and a wife who’s growing his child.

I used to think being unattached was a superpower. But standing here, watching Sebastian with Clara while his pregnant wife waits patiently nearby, it’s starting to feel less like elaborate avoidance with really good luggage

“Let’s go inside,” I say, gently extricating myself from Sebastian’s arms. “I can’t promise I won’t have another emotional episode, but I want to be there. For Greta.”

He shifts Clara to one arm and extends his free hand toward me.

“I don’t think we should—” I start, meaning to say something responsible about boundaries and appropriate funeral behavior, but he grabs my fingers and threads them through his with the kind of certainty that suggests this conversation is over.

He doesn’t let go.

And I let him lead me up the steps like it’s still 2010 and my heart hasn’t been in intensive care ever since.

The crematorium service is mercifully brief. Quiet, reverent, painfully civilized. Sebastian keeps glancing at me like I’m a live grenade that might detonate at any moment, which isn’t entirely inaccurate. Everyone else maintains that Swiss emotional composure that makes them look like they’re attending a particularly solemn board meeting rather than saying goodbye to someone they loved.

I don’t make it three steps toward the reception area before Astrid materializes beside me like a grief-counselor fairy godmother with zero respect for personal boundaries.

“Anaïs, you’re coming to Mom’s house,” she announces, not asks. “We’re having tea and telling stories. That’s what she wanted.”

“Oh—no, really. I should let your family have this time together. Maybe we can grab coffee sometime this week, just the two of us?”

“Absolutely not.” She waves off my objection like I’ve suggested something ridiculous. “You are family. Mom always said so.”

“Take her with you. I’ll meet you both there in twenty minutes.” she turns to Sebastian, ignoring my objection.

Then she winks. At both of us.

A knowing, conspiratorial wink that suggests she’s been shipping this reunion since before I walked through the funeral home doors.

Like she doesn’t know her brother is married. Like she didn’t just watch me sob all over him in front of his pregnant wife. Like I didn’t commit adultery in a consultation room thirty feet from flower arrangements spelling out “BELOVED MOTHER.” Well, okay, that part she doesn’t know. Maybe. I hope.

What the actual fuck is happening here? Why is everyone acting like this is normal?”

“I really should—” I start, but Astrid is already walking away, leaving me standing there with Sebastian and approximately seventeen different levels of confusion.

Why am I apparently the only person here who thinks fucking someone’s husband at his mother’s funeral might be ethically problematic?

Sebastian is watching me with that same patient expression he used to get when I’d spiral about whether we should stay in or go out for dinner, like he’s waiting for my internal chaos to reach its natural conclusion so we can move forward with the obvious plan.

“Your wife—” I start.

“Will understand,” he finishes, which explains absolutely nothing and somehow makes everything worse.

“Will understand? Sebastian, I think you’re seriously underestimating how pissed off pregnant women can get. There are hormones involved. Territorial instincts. I’ve seen documentaries.”

“Trust me.”

“I’ve never trusted anyone less in my entire life.”

He laughs, actually laughs, like I’ve said something charming instead of identifying a fundamental character flaw.

“Come on, Sunne. It’s just tea.”

And there it is. That stupid nickname that turns my spine to jelly and my common sense to static.

I should walk away. Get in my rental car, drive to the airport, take the next flight back to Montreal or wherever at this point, just away from here, from him, and pretend this entire day never happened.

Instead, I hear myself saying, “Fine. But if your wife murders me with a cake server, I’m haunting you for eternity.”

“Deal.”

This is either going to be the most awkward afternoon of my life, or I’m about to discover that Swiss people have a very different definition of marriage than the rest of the world.

Either way, I’m letting a married man lead me back into his mother’s house like nothing’s wrong. Which might actually be my new rock bottom.

Chapter 6. Greta’s Last Wish

Being back at Greta’s house is like stepping into a sealed time capsule, familiar to the point of ache, though I still feel like an intruder in Sebastian’s new life.

She used to give me Astrid’s old room when I first arrived as an exchange student, all flowery wallpaper and twin beds like we were at summer camp. But after a few months of pretending Sebastian was just “helping me with my German homework” at two in the morning, she quietly moved me to his father’s old office at the back of the house. The room had its own garden entrance, matching curtains that actually closed properly, and, because Greta was both perceptive and merciful, what I’m pretty sure was some kind of acoustic treatment.

It was mortifying to realize your boyfriend’s mother had essentially given you a private soundproof sex dungeon.

But also deeply appreciated.

Nothing says maternal support quite like acknowledging your son’s and his girlfriend’s sexual needs while maintaining plausible deniability about the rhythmic thumping coming from the back room every night. Literally thumping. Sebastian had zero regard for headboard placement when he was, let’s say, enthusiastic.

The house hasn’t changed much. Still meticulously clean in that Swiss way that makes you feel guilty for existing in shoes. Still smelling faintly of rose soap and whatever magic wood floor polish makes everything gleam like a furniture showroom. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear Greta yelling at someone for leaving muddy boots on the stairs or putting dishes away in the wrong cabinet configuration.

The only noticeable difference? The dining table is much more crowded now.

Greta would’ve loved the chaos.

Astrid sits next to Charles, her perpetually constipated-looking British banker husband, who I’m pretty sure has never experienced joy in his entire forty-three years of existence. Their three kids are engaged in what appears to be a diplomatic crisis over meatball distribution. Sebastian sits to my left, and Lara sits to his right.

Next to Lara is a man I don’t recognize. A tall, gorgeous, with an accent that screams South African and cheekbones that could probably cut glass. If we’re being scientifically accurate, he’s what I’d classify as chocolate muy caliente level attractive.

Next to him sits Franz, the family notary. Bald, sharp-suited, and holding what appears to be official paperwork like he’s about to deliver either very good news or very devastating news. My suspicion says both.

Astrid had given me the abbreviated version earlier while helping me repair my mascara damage. Greta had leukemia. They’d tried every treatment available, but her body eventually stopped cooperating. So, in typical Greta fashion, she’d faced it with unrelenting organization and refused to let cancer determine her timeline. When the doctors said there was nothing more they could do, she had chosen assisted death.

Typical Greta, even her death was thoughtfully planned and executed with Swiss precision.

But for me? There’s no such thing as being prepared to lose the only real mother I’ve ever had. You can’t rehearse that kind of grief, no matter how much advance notice you get.

Franz stands and gently taps his water glass with a butter knife. The room falls silent immediately, the universal response to official document holders.

“Thank you all for being here. Greta would have loved seeing everyone around her table like this.”

He reaches into his briefcase and extracts a piece of pink recycled stationery that looks suspiciously like the kind Greta used for grocery lists and passive-aggressive notes about proper dishwasher loading techniques. It smells faintly of rosewater, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from losing it again.

“The will and estate documents have been handled separately with the immediate family, but I’ve been asked to deliver something far more important. A letter. From Greta. To everyone.”

He unfolds it carefully, like it might disintegrate if handled improperly.

’Dear Astrid and Sebastian, my beloved children, and everyone else who’s made my life infinitely more interesting than I probably deserved.

I’m writing this the day I received my final appointment, and I find myself oddly delighted. Not because I’m eager to leave you all—God knows you still need supervision—but because now I know exactly when I’ll see your father again. He’s been waiting very patiently, probably shaking his head at how you’ve all turned out. Especially you, Astrid, with that yoga obsession that’s clearly gotten out of hand.

I’ll make sure to pass along all your hugs. I know you miss him.’

Franz pauses to clear his throat, his eyes scanning the table before landing on my tear-streaked face. Sebastian’s hand finds mine under the table. Warm, familiar, yet completely inappropriate given the circumstances.

I give it a quick squeeze before extracting myself. Your wife is literally sitting right there, you absolute disaster of a human being.

Franz continues reading.

’Now. I want you to do something for me. Both of you, and anyone else who feels like honouring a dead woman’s wishes. Every year on this date, I want you to take a break. A real one. Not a long weekend or a staycation or whatever ridiculous thing people call not-actually-travelling these days. Go somewhere. Rest. Explore. Eat food whose name you couldn’t even pronounce.

Use my death as an excuse to live. I’m serious about this.

And when you do travel? Take my ashes with you. Scatter a little bit at every destination. That way, I’ll always be on the move, just like I used to be before I got sensible and settled down.

I refuse to spend eternity in one place. It sounds dreadfully boring.’

“Are we going on vacation, Mama?” Clara pipes up, her eyes round with the kind of hope that only a kid can muster.

Astrid’s face softens. “Ja, meine Schatz. Oma wants us to travel.”

“Jippi!” Clara cheers, then immediately launches into animated planning with her brothers about whether they should go to Legoland or Disneyland.

“Sebastian, don’t you think you should tell everyone about our situation? Since we’re all here?” Lara’s voice cut the intense vacation discussion.

Our situation. That sounds ominous. Did she somehow figure out that the crinkle on his suit came from my fists clutching it as he pushed me over the edge?

“Oh, good point, Lara.” Sebastian sets down his water glass and nods. “Since we are all gathered here, and most of you already know the situation between me and Lara, we would like to mention that we have finally finalized our divorce.”

My head snaps toward him so fast I probably gave myself whiplash.

Wait. What?

He’s divorcing his pregnant wife? Over a twenty-minute hookup with his ex-girlfriend?

Jesus Christ. Fifteen years away and he’s turned into the kind of man who abandons pregnant women? What happened to the guy who used to rescue spiders instead of killing them?

But Astrid’s already chiming in. “Thank you both for being so patient about the timing. I know it’s been a long process. And Jayvin, thank you for being so understanding about everything.”

Jayvin?

South African Dreamboat leans over and presses a soft kiss to Lara’s temple, his hand settling protectively over her definitely-pregnant belly like it absolutely belongs there.

I squint, trying to decode whatever the hell this scene is supposed to be.

Okay. I don’t understand what just happened, but I’m listening with renewed interest.

“We’ll definitely keep in touch,” Lara says with genuine warmth, reaching across to squeeze Astrid’s hand. “We’ll always be a family.”

“Of course we are,” Astrid replies like this is the most natural conversation in the world.

Sebastian and Franz excuse themselves to handle some paperwork in the next room. Lara follows with Jayvin, their fingers intertwined like they’ve been doing this for years.

I sit there blinking like someone who’s just witnessed a magic trick and missed the crucial moment where everything made sense.

Astrid turns to me with barely contained amusement. “He didn’t tell you?”

I blink again, slower this time. “We didn’t exactly have time for extended biographical updates.”

“Right. The family room incident.”

My face burns. “You know about that?”

“Honey, the entire funeral home probably knows about that. You weren’t exactly subtle.”

I want to disappear into the floorboards. “Oh God.”

“Relax. I’m just messing with you… maybe.” And that knowing wink of hers again. Astrid, you menace. Now I’m low-key panicking that everyone knows what happened in the family room.

“Long story short, Sebastian and Lara have been separated for over a year. They figured out pretty early that they were better as friends than spouses. Then Mom got sick, and Sebastian didn’t want to pile divorce paperwork on top of it.”

My brain is still buffering. “But she’s pregnant.”

“Yes, with Jayvin’s baby. They’ve been together officially for eight months.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t overthink it.” Astrid waves it off. “Sebastian’s actually relieved Lara found Jayvin, though he’d never admit it. He knew he was never cut out for marriage, at least not that marriage.”

I’m pretty sure my jaw is still hanging open. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this earlier?”

Astrid shrugs. “Because watching you have a moral crisis was entertaining? Plus, Sebastian probably enjoyed the drama. He’s always been a little twisted that way.”

“I thought I was a home-wrecker.”

“You were never a home-wrecker. That house wrecked itself long before you came.”

All that panic. The guilt. My mental self-flagellation about crossing moral lines. All that for nothing. No wonder Lara was so calm when she saw me in Sebastian’s arms.

Astrid sips her tea like she hasn’t just completely revolutionized my understanding of the last several hours.

“Anyway. What about you? Boyfriend or husband? Or still too busy helping cows in labour at 2 AM?”

“I’m in what I like to call a minimalist phase.”

She snorts. “Which in Anaïs Fleury terms, if I still know her correctly, means jobless, boyfriendless, and probably living out of suitcases.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds pathetic.”

“No, I got you. You need a break. Everyone do. And Sebastian definitely needs a break. I can’t remember the last time he took actual vacation time. He’s been working offshore so much I suspect he has grown gills.”

She leans forward with that familiar grin of hers that suggests she’s about to say something either brilliant or catastrophic. “You know what, you two should take mom’s ashes somewhere warm. Let her haunt a beach bar or something.”

“What?”

I definitely underestimated the meaning of that grin because, what?!

“I’m not saying get back together—God knows why you broke up in the first place, you were perfect for each other—”

“We had very valid reasons.”

“I’m sure you did. But right now, the way I look at it, you both have time. You both need to decompress. And you used to love travelling together. AND, mom’s last wish.”

I stare at her. “Astrid, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Come on… you’re the one with all the flexibility, and you need a trip more than anyone. Plus, this is the first real vacation Sebastian’s taken in years.”

Sebastian reappears in the doorway just as I’m about to object.

“Flexible about what?”

“Anaïs is going to help you honour Mom’s vacation mandate,” Astrid declares.

“Hey, wait a minute, I didn’t say that.”

Sebastian and I lock eyes, the air between us thick with every bad decision we’ve ever made.

“Astrid,” he sighs, rolling his eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s exactly what I just said,” I nod.

But Astrid and her stupid little grin, wiggling her eyebrows like ridiculous is exactly what we need.

And damn it, she might be right.

Chapter 7. Sippy cup wine

Sebastian insists on driving my rental car to drop me at the hotel, which is exactly the kind of take-charge behaviour that used to leave me torn between wanting to tear his clothes off and strangle him.

“You should’ve told me,” he says, already adjusting the seat and mirrors like he’s planning to keep it. “I can lend you one of mine. You can choose between off-road muscle or sleek performance. Not this tiny metal tin with wheels.”

Let me guess, both come equipped with every safety feature known to Swiss engineering. Premium, efficient, meticulously maintained, like Sebastian in automotive form.

“Gosh, you haven’t changed,” I huff, already settling into the passenger seat like the hypocrite I am.

“What do you mean?”

“That. What you just did. Taking care of everything and treating me like a passenger princess.” I gesture vaguely while simultaneously changing the radio station and sipping my to-go sangria from Clara’s enormous sippy cup.

Sebastian glances over. “Is that Clara’s—”

“Don’t start.”

“Fleury, you’re drinking sangria from a toddler cup.”

“Don’t judge. It might sound ridiculous, but it works. No spills, easy grip, unbreakable, perfect flow rate. It even keeps the wine at the right temperature. Sometimes, children’s products are just superior design.” I take another sip to demonstrate.

“Astrid gave it to you so you wouldn’t have to return it. Clara’s grown out of it.”

“Even better, we recycle!”

He shakes his head, clearly exasperated. Clearly didn’t consume enough sangria. “For fuck sake, Fleury. Do I even want to know why you rented a tiny convertible Fiat?”

“That’s the only car they had available.”

“No, that’s what you get for booking things last minute and expecting the universe to accommodate your spontaneous lifestyle.”

Well, it looks like we didn’t just fuck like we were twenty-three again; we’re also bickering with the exact same rhythm. Some muscle memory never fades.

I crumple up a tissue and launch it at his forehead. Direct hit.

“Hey! That’s dangerous!”

“Relax, it’s tissue. What’s it going to do, give you a paper cut?”

“I’m driving. You could have caused an accident.”

“With a Kleenex?”

He gives me that look, the one that says he’s calculating whether it’s worth continuing this argument or if he should just accept that I’m going to be chaotic and inappropriate no matter what.

Miley Cyrus starts blasting “Flowers” on the radio while we get off the high way, which feels either perfectly timed or deeply ironic. Zurich at night is always gorgeous. All those old European buildings lit up like a fairy tale, mixed seamlessly with sleek modern architecture. It reminds me of home, Quebec City. That same blend of European historical romance and contemporary accessibility.

“Do you regret it? Us reconnecting?” he says, suddenly.

The question catches me off guard. I take a long sip of sangria while I consider my answer.

“I’m still processing the fact that this morning I thought I was a home-wrecker and you were a cheating bastard. It’s been a day, Sebastian.”

“So,” I say, deflecting, “you were married.”

“Yes. I was.”

“Tell me about it. The real version, not the sanitized family dinner version.”

He’s quiet for a moment, steering us through a roundabout gently.

“I met Lara at an engineering convention in Cape Town. She’s a geologist at mining operations in South Africa.”

At the stop sign, he does that textbook left-right-left check they teach in driver’s ed. Some people grow out of their rule-following phase, while Sebastian made it a personality trait.

“We spent a few months emailing and video calling. She had the same schedule I did. Our work make us spend lots of time in the field, taking weird hours, and constantly travelling. It seemed… practical.” He continues while pressing the gas.

“Practical,” I repeat. “You married someone because it was practical?”

“We thought it made sense. Same lifestyle, similar career demands. We both understood what it meant to be offshore for months. I thought matching schedules would make things… easier. Less compromise required.”

Silence. That one lands.

I take a long sip of sangria. “So you connected over mutual workaholism and thought that was marriage material? That’s like two drowning people sharing a life preserver.”

“You have a gift for making everything sound pathetic.”

“I’m not trying to be mean. I’m trying to understand how someone as methodical as you ended up in a marriage that was apparently doomed from the start.”

“It wasn’t doomed. It was just… Not the best move. For both of us.”

“Then Jayvin happened?”

“Something like that.”

“I can’t blame her. I mean, have you seen that man? He’s like a Calvin Klein ad come to life. Chocolate muy caliente doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Can you please stop calling him that?”

“What would you prefer? South African Adonis? Geological eye candy?”

“His name is fine.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. I’m glad she found someone who makes her happy.”

“That’s very mature of you. Suspiciously mature.”

He pulls up to a red light and looks at me properly for the first time since we got in the car.

“We filed for divorce months ago. Quietly. Astrid knew, but I didn’t want Mom worrying about it on top of everything else. She was already concerned about me ending up alone and miserable.”

“So you two kept up appearances?”

“Sort of. All Mom knew I came to visit during my off-time, and that Lara visited me in Dubai where I was stationed for the Arabian gulf project during hers. She didn’t need to know that Lara was actually spending her time off with Jayvin while I was working overtime and avoiding my empty apartment.”

The light turns green. He drives in silence for a few blocks.

“And the baby?”

“Anaïs, I’m snipped. You drove me to the clinic, remember? You held my hand and made inappropriate jokes to the nurses.”

“I know that. But vasectomies are reversible. And there are other methods. IVF, sperm retrieval, whatever. Science has options.”

“It’s not mine. It’s Jayvin’s. And no, Mom didn’t know about the pregnancy either. Lara thought it was better to keep that private too.”

“Jesus. You two really committed to this charade.”

“We wanted her to die peacefully.”

The words hang between us, heavy and simple. For once, I don’t have a joke loaded, no sarcastic comeback on the tip of my tongue. I just look at him, this maddening, methodical man who gave up his own happiness so Greta wouldn’t have one more burden, and feel the sting of it. Of how much he loved her. Of how much he still loves like that.

I turn my gaze back to the window before he can catch me staring, but the thought lingers, warm and painful at the same time: Goddamn it, Sebastian Huber. You’re still exactly the kind of man I can’t unlove.

“What about you?” he asks as we pull into the hotel’s circular drive. ” Anyone I need to know about?”

I give him the abbreviated version of my current life status; the career transition, the intentional singleness, the general state of productive chaos I’ve been cultivating like it’s an art form. Just the bullet points, nothing too detailed. He doesn’t need to know about the string of disappointments that read like a catalog of commitment-phobic patterns.

And he definitely doesn’t need to know that I made almost the exact same relationship mistake he did, except mine came with a proposal and a panic attack. I bolted a week before my wedding to Brian Johnston, the venture capitalist turned mad scientist.

But that’s a story for another time. Or preferably never.

He parks, but neither of us moves to get out.

“Do you want to come up?” I ask, then immediately shake my head before he can answer. “Actually, no. Scratch that. I’m rescinding the invitation.”

“Why?”

“Because I have zero self-control where you’re concerned, and I’m drinking wine out of sippy cup. Sending you home is the only smart decision I’ve made all day.”

“Probably wise.”

We sit in silence for a beat. Both knowing if he comes up, we’re doing this again. Both knowing we probably shouldn’t. Both knowing we probably will anyway.

“Pick me up tomorrow at ten. And pack a bag.”

“You’re leaving already?”

“No, we’ll see how I feel when I wake up tomorrow. Either I go home and you can start your solo grief tour as per your mother’s instructions, or we’ll figure out how to honor Greta together. Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds like your plan. But okay.”

“Good. Because that’s exactly what it is.”

I lean over and kiss his cheek—quick, friendly, the kind of kiss you’d give a coworker at NY office party. Except coworkers don’t usually make your entire nervous system light up like a Christmas tree.

“Goodnight, Sebastian.”

“Goodnight, Sunne.”

Through the hotel’s glass doors, I watch him drive away in my rental car.

Tomorrow I’ll either be on a plane back to Montreal, or on a plane to somewhere warm with his mother’s ashes in my carry-on.

We shall see.

But we both know which one I’m going to choose. The stupid one. Always the stupid one when it comes to him.

Chapter 8. A pair of gumdrops

After a scalding shower to rinse off the entire day, and more importantly, eliminate any lingering traces of Sebastian’s cologne that might be clinging to my skin like olfactory evidence, I wrap myself in the hotel’s overpriced terry cloth robe and open my laptop.

The usual digital debris awaits: work emails I no longer have to care about, invitations to philanthropic galas where rich people eat tiny food and congratulate themselves for writing checks, and one message that actually matters.

Dr. Gagnon. Subject: “Can we talk? (Please don’t delete this)”

Not exactly a job offer. More like a desperate plea disguised as professional correspondence.

Dr. Gagnon, the shelter’s house vet who also its founder and resident grumpy cowboy who exclusively wears Crocs regardless of weather, has been running the operation solo for over a decade. Needs a temporary second house vet before he burns out completely.

The position pays approximately nothing. I think it might equal my monthly coffee budget, and that’s being generous. It doesn’t start until October, after the summer vet interns disappear back to their fancy universities.

I know Marc Gagnon. We’ve worked together for years, back when my company sponsored his shelter and I made damn sure that relationship survived my dramatic boardroom exit. I still hold majority shares in the business, technically making me a silent investor watching from the sidelines, waiting for someone to make the right offer so I can finally wash my hands of the whole thing.

Marc’s shelter specializes in animals with physical deformities, the unwanted, unadopted ones that get passed over because they’re considered “too much work” or “not cute enough” for Instagram adoption posts. His shelter treats them all exactly the same, just straightforward medical care and matter-of-fact love. A barn cat with one eye gets the same attention as a perfectly healthy golden retriever. It’s refreshingly honest

I type back: “OK. Send details.”

Just like that, I’m no longer unemployed. I’m “between opportunities.” Try saying that with a straight face while drinking sangria from a toddler’s sippy cup.

Then I make the mistake of checking my phone.

René, my much younger, recently ex-boyfriend, has sent seventeen texts, four voicemails, and an email that starts with ‘My Dearest Anaïs’ like we’re in a period drama. Plus a thirst trap of him sprawled shirtless on my custom Italian leather sofa, the one where I used to straddle him every lunch break. Subtle.

I ended it two weeks ago when I realized I’d accidentally adopted a 26-year-old instead of dating one. The sex was enthusiastic, but I didn’t get an IUD just to raise a grown man who needed a life coordinator with benefits. It was like having a very tall, very expensive child who happened to be good at oral sex.

Okay, that sounds so wrong, but you catch my drift, right? If you don’t, it’d probably be best for you to stop reading this story.

The only time I actually enjoyed his baby tendencies was when he was being a hungry baby, worshipping my tits like they were the eighth wonder of the world and he was a devoted pilgrim.

Don’t judge me for that. I don’t have some weird maternal complex. I just happen to appreciate enthusiastic nipple attention. God didn’t sculpt them to look like perfect little pink gumdrops if they weren’t meant to be thoroughly appreciated with teeth and tongue.

Here’s the thing about my relationship preferences: I like being the baby. The bratty one who gets pampered and spoiled and treated like a precious commodity. Take care of me, worship me, make me feel like the center of your universe. But the moment a man tries to control me or limit my choices? That’s when things get ugly fast.

I text back: ‘Get a life, René. Literally.’ Then block him everywhere and spend five minutes removing his face from my iCloud photo memories because I don’t need his pouty selfies cluttering up my digital space.

The silence that follows feels like freedom.

I do hope the easy life I let him tasted inspires him to get an actual job instead of just being decoratively attractive. Look, I know how this sounds. But there’s a difference between being someone’s sugarmommy and being their mother-hen with benefits. And I’m no mother hen.

I fed his ego and paid his bills because he could make me forget my own name for an hour in bed (or couch for that matter) every other day. That’s not nurturing, it’s negligence disguised as romance. My therapist says I was enabling. I say I was just outsourcing serotonin at market price.

I raid the minibar and pour all three tiny “vodka bottles for ants” into Clara’s sippy cup, because apparently this is my life now. The combination sloshes around like liquid poor judgment, but it tastes like possibility.

My phone buzzes with a new message.

“I’m glad you came today, Sunne. Sleep well.”

Fuck.

I hate that I love hearing that name. I hate the way he says it like it’s something precious he’s been saving just for me. I hate that reading it makes my entire nervous system light up like a slot machine hitting jackpot.

My nipples immediately perk up, which is both embarrassing and inconvenient.

I stare at the message for a full minute, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I could send him my room number and wait for him wearing nothing but this hotel robe and whatever dignity I have left.

Instead, I turn off my phone completely and shove it into the minibar next to the overpriced champagne.

Because I’m exactly one more sip of vodka away from texting him my room code and ask him to come and find me on bed, self-tide up and ready like some emotionally compromised Christmas present with daddy issues.

And tomorrow, when I have to decide whether to go home or follow him to wherever he decides to go with his mother’s ashes, I’m going to need whatever working brain cells I have left.

Even if they’re currently staging a revolt and demanding I call him back immediately.

“Shut up,” I tell my traitorous libido out loud. “We’re making smart choices tonight.”

Chapter 9. Dyson brush

I wake up at 9:13 AM with a dry throat and a headache that suggests mixing tiny alcohol bottles with emotional upheaval wasn’t my smartest life choice. Exactly 47 minutes to make myself look like someone who didn’t spend last night arguing with her own libido.

After a cold shower that does nothing for my resolve, I give myself a pep talk while applying makeup like those beauty influencers who chat casually while contouring, except this is just me desperately trying to force logic into my hormonally compromised brain

“Okay, Anaïs,” I tell my reflection while dabbing concealer under eyes that have seen better decades. “It’s in everyone’s best interest if you just go home. Get on that flight back to Montreal. Get back to your actual life. Let Sebastian process his grief without you complicating everything with your… you-ness.”

I know it’s a flimsy excuse wrapped in fake nobility. I’m not even a hundred percent sure why avoiding him is the “right” thing to do, but it feels infinitely safer than whatever alternative is currently making my pulse race just thinking about it.

I examine myself in the mirror, trying to tame my cowlick with the stupidly expensive Dyson airwrap I bought during a 3 AM insomnia shopping spree last winter. Not terrible for pushing forty, I have to admit.

My reflection stares back with skeptical brown eyes that seem to be asking: Who exactly are you trying to convince here?

The terry cloth robe has come loose during my internal lecture, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. The sight triggers an immediate flashback to yesterday’s family room incident, specifically the part where Sebastian called me “Sunne” the first time after 15 years while his hands were doing things that definitely violated funeral home policies.

Which triggers an immediate physical response that I absolutely do not need right now if I’m going to stick to my “logical decision-making” plan.

Here’s the problem: family room shenanigans happened approximately thirty seconds after Sebastian and I meet again after our split. Which means seeing him again this morning, after I got reminded of how he smells like and how it feels to have his dick in me again, could result in even worse decision-making. The memory itself has gotten me wet.

I need to handle this situation before he arrives. Self-satisfaction as preemptive self-defense.

Yes, I’ve reached that part of the spiral where I’m medically treating my own horniness to avoid making catastrophic life choices.

I scan the sterile hotel room like a sex-deprived MacGyver. Nothing remotely useful. The shower head is that useless rain-style thing mounted directly overhead great for washing hair, completely useless for more targeted applications. The furniture is bolted down and aggressively unsexy.

I consider dry-humping the decorative pillow for all of two seconds before my vagina, deeply offended, reminds me she’s been spoiled rotten for over a decade with quality experiences. She will not be downgraded to throw pillow friction like some desperate teenager. Especially on hotel’s decorative pillow, God knows the last time it got washed. Eww.

We have standards, even in crisis situations.

Then a miracle falls from my hastily packed suitcase: a travel pack of plastic clothespins. You know exactly where this is going. Don’t pretend you don’t, you beautiful degenerates.

I pinch my gumdrops awake and they respond immediately. Then I brace myself and clamp the pins down near the base, one by one, savoring that perfect moment where pleasure and pain become indistinguishable.

It hurts like beautiful hell, just the way I like it. It also sends lightning straight down my spine to every nerve ending that’s been misbehaving since yesterday.

I catch myself in the mirror mid-process. Hair still damp and wild. Eyes already glazed with that particular look of focused determination. Clothespins decorating each nipple like the world’s most inappropriate tassels. Robe hanging open. One leg hiked up on the bathroom counter like I’m auditioning for a German indie film called Sad Widow Discovers Herself.

God, I’m a mess. A sexy, feral mess who’s about to pleasure herself with home supplies to avoid making bad decisions about her ex-boyfriend.

This is either rock bottom or enlightenment.

I grab what I can find, dignity has officially left the building, and the handle of my barrel brush will have to do. It’s ergonomically designed, appropriately sized although I could enjoy a slightly bigger size, and probably the most expensive sex toy I’ve never intentionally purchased.

[Time passes in ways that would make this story unsuitable for general audiences, probably include watching myself on the mirror jab that brush handle rhythmically intense into myself while hypnotised by the way my clothespinned tits jiggle with the movement until I spray onto the bathroom rug.]

Twenty minutes later, I’m significantly more relaxed, thoroughly satisfied, and probably running late, which means Sebastian is undoubtedly downstairs wondering if I’ve fled the country via bathroom window.

My phone buzzes: I’m in the lobby. Take your time. I’m early.

Take your time. Like he somehow knows exactly what kind of morning-after crisis management I’ve been conducting with travel accessories.

I throw on dark jeans and a soft cashmere sweater—practical travel clothes that don’t scream “I just spent my morning thinking about you inappropriately while abusing home supplies.” Then I text him: Come up. Room 412.

Because apparently I’ve decided to live dangerously today.

I catch my reflection one more time while waiting. Flushed cheeks, slightly glassy eyes, that particular glow that comes from recent satisfaction and impending poor judgment. The general appearance of someone who’s made questionable decisions but feels fantastic about them.

Perfect.

The knock comes exactly three minutes later because Sebastian is constitutionally incapable of being anything other than precisely punctual.

It’s 10AM.

I open the door before he can knock a second time, because that’s how ready I am now. Confident. Satisfied. Prepared for anything.

Until I actually see him.

He’s standing in my doorway looking like he stepped out of a Swiss tourism campaign, that perfectly pressed navy shirt, dark jeans that shape his butt just right, holding two coffee cups and wearing an expression that suggests he’s been mentally rehearsing this conversation since approximately 6 AM.

His hair is still slightly damp from his own shower. And I swear I he still smells like what used to be my favorite scent in the world. His eyes do that thing where they scan my face like he’s trying to read my entire emotional state in three seconds.

“Morning,” he says, offering me one of the cups with a small smile that makes my newly satisfied nerve endings immediately perk up with interest. “Thought you might need this.”

The coffee is perfect, it’s strong, slightly sweet, exactly how I used to drink it fifteen years ago when we’d stay up all night talking and fucking and talking some more. Because of course he remembers. Sebastian remembers everything.

“Thanks,” I manage, trying to sound casual instead of like someone who just spent almost half an hour having complicated feelings about travel clothespins and hair styling tools.

“So,” he says, studying my face with those annoyingly perceptive brown eyes that see way too much. “Where are we going?”

That quiet, confident tone. Both annoying as hell and devastatingly effective at making me do things that directly contradict logic, reason, and my own best interests.

I take a sip of perfect coffee and realize I’m about to make either the best or worst decision of my adult life.

But Anaïs, my rational brain tries to interrupt, remember the plan. Remember all the very sensible reasons why—

Shush now. I’m not looking for criticism at this moment.

That careful preparation I did, the strategic self-satisfaction designed to make me mentally and physically ready for this exact moment? The logical arguments I’ve been rehearsing about why I should go home? Flung directly out the window at the sight of him looking at me like I’m still the most interesting thing in his carefully organized world.

Chapter 10. Tiny ash sachets

I try to pay attention as he explains how he returned my rental Fiat and something about receiving his mother’s ashes this morning. Either the explanation is too absurd for my still-dehydrated brain to process, or I’m too distracted by other things to focus properly on cremation logistics. Other things mean the bulge under his jeans, right below his belt buckle.

“So, you got half of her ashes, and then you spent the morning separating her into tiny plastic bags with the exact same weight, like a cocaine sachet, but human bone powder?” I blink at him, trying to process this information.

“It doesn’t look like cocaine,” he says, far too defensively. “And it’s practical for travelling. I just grab afew and toss it in my luggage.”

He says this proudly, like a second-grader showing off his glitter macaroni project to the class.

Honestly, I’m not surprised. This man probably programmed precise GPS coordinates for each scatter spot to make sure no speckle of his mother overlaps. Cartography meets cremation, with a dash of Swiss efficiency that would make other people deeply uncomfortable.

I love that about him. And also want to shake him while asking what’s the hell is wrong with him.

He notices where my eyes keep drifting. “You’re not paying attention to anything I’m saying about the ashes, are you?“He notices my distraction and shakes his head. “Every time.”

“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all.

“Every time I try to have a serious conversation with you, you get that look.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re calculating the fastest way to get my pants off.”

“I mean…” I shrug. “You’re not wrong.”

“I could turn around.”

“That wouldn’t help. Different view, same problem.”

The air between us shifts, thickens. He takes a step closer.

“We should go to the airport,” he says, but his hand is already reaching for his belt. “Or you want this?”

Ugh, his voice calm, confident, criminal.

“We should,” I agree, dropping to my knees. “In a minute.”

Now listen. I love oral sex. And he is the reason for this lifelong passion. The man ruined me. I take more pride in my blowjob skills than in almost anything else in life. Including my degrees. Maybe even my investment portfolio.

Receiving oral is amazing (when done well), and his skill set in that department is magical. He has the right tongue that does the right thing in precisely the right spots.

But this is my canvas.

I kneel and help spring his dick free. It’s even better from this angle. It’s not just about the size, or the veining, or the stupidly perfect girth, it’s the hygiene. Always fresh. Always ready. And that was fifteen years ago when he was young and stupid. Now? Premium. Michelin-star dick.

As usual, I like to kick off a blowjob by starting slow. A teasing swipe over the tip to lick off that first salty bead of pre-cum. A flick of the tongue over the frenulum. A little pressure. A lot of eye contact.

I won’t walk you through every suction and swirl, I mean, unless you really want that, but let’s just say: enthusiasm makes all the difference.

After a few minutes of head-bobbing and deep-throating, his hand cradles the back of my head. Gentle. Worshipful. He’s as into this as I am, moaning softly while I deep-throat him with giddy joy.

“Mmm… fuck, Sunne.” His words are music to my ears because I know what it means.

Then he hold his breath as though stealing himself for a moment and asks, “Are we supposed to be doing this?”

“Mo,” I say. Or as close to “No” as I can say with his dick filling my mouth and I have absolutely no intention of pulling off just to answer his dumbass question.

“Then maybe we sh—”

I cut him off by taking every inch of him deeper, one hand cupping his balls, the other stroking that magic spot between sac and ass. Every squeeze, every rhythm, every breath synced to perfection.

They don’t call it a job for nothing. It takes practice to have everything synchronized and maintain a rhythm.

He comes hard, harder than someone who had intense public quickie in a family room just yesterday should. The jet hits the back of my throat so forcefully some shoots out of my nose.

When the twitching stops and his grip on my hair loosens, I let him fall from my mouth and rise slowly.

Swipe my lips with the back of my hand. Then kiss him, slightly cummy and smug. He doesn’t mind. He never did.

“So,” I say, grabbing my bag like nothing inappropriate just happened. “Airport?”

Sebastian is still adjusting his pants and looking like someone who’s been thoroughly distracted from his carefully planned itinerary. His hair is messed up in a way that suggests hands have been running through it, and there’s a slightly dazed expression on his face that makes me unreasonably pleased with myself.

“Right. Airport.” He clears his throat and checks his watch, probably calculating how much this detour has disrupted his precisely timed travel schedule. “We should probably… yes. Airport.”

I grin at him, completely unrepentant about whatever chaos I’ve just introduced to his morning.

“Lead the way, Huber. Let’s go scatter your methodically portioned mother somewhere warm and inappropriate.”