He hit the driveway just after dusk, the big house lit up like a stage set with no players. Her car wasn’t there. The lock on the front door clicked open too easily. Inside, the silence felt wrong.
He tossed his keys toward the bowl near the entryway and missed. She was gone. Not unusual. Not unexpected. But the kind of absence that sparked the same dull, electric worry every time.
She’d been restless this week — he’d heard it in her voice when he called from Chicago, felt it in the way she cut their last phone call short. She got that look in her eye sometimes, the fox sensing the hound turning onto her trail, and she’d slip into the night like it called her by name.
He loved that about her.
He hated that about her.
It was the only thing that had ever scared him.
He’d married the wrong woman once — a sweet, conservative, careful girl who soothed everyone else’s nerves but did nothing for his. They’d lasted three years before the boredom calcified into resentment. After the divorce, he’d gone back to the life he understood: anonymous hotel sheets, regular lovers in different zip codes, a rotation of pretty distractions who wanted nothing but a night or two.
And then she showed up—the first woman who matched his wildness and still felt like a woman he could bring home. The first who made his friends say, “You finally got serious,” while she snuck her hand down his shirt in the backseat on the way to dinner. A woman who could sit at a charity gala looking elegant and composed… and then whisper to him that she’d skipped her underwear—any underwear.
She’d been perfect.
Still was.
Even when she ran.
Especially when she ran.
Her Favorite Bar
He checked her favorite bar first—the little place with neon beer signs and a jukebox older than either of them. When he stepped inside, he caught it immediately: her perfume, drifting through the room like she’d walked past him seconds earlier.
She’d been here.
And he’d just missed her.
The bartender, wiping down the counter, didn’t look surprised when he walked up.
“She was in,” the bartender said. “Didn’t stay long.”
One of the regulars—a wiry man with a silver beard and bright eyes—glanced up with a half-smile. The kind of smile that said I know something you want, but I’m not offering it.
“You know where she went?” he asked, quiet, controlled.
The regular shook his head and lied without blinking.
“Haven’t seen her.”
That was bullshit.
He knew it.
They both knew it.
But this was her territory—a border town in its own way. A Wild West of dive bars and dim corners where people minded their own damn business. They protected her because she belonged to the night long before she belonged to him.
And tonight she’d left with someone none of them recognized.
A stranger.
A man who’d only shown up once or twice before.
That raised the hair on the back of his neck. Not jealousy—never jealousy. He’d had sex two nights ago with one of his girls on his business trip; fidelity wasn’t the point. Safety was.
The wrong kind of man could do damage she’d pretend not to feel until the morning. Or worse—image she’d blame herself for.
He thanked the bartender, ignored the regular, and moved on to the next bar. Then the next. He knew it was pointless—her car was back at the first spot, which meant she’d left in someone else’s. But he couldn’t stop himself from circling through the places she might have paused for another drink, another flirtation, another reckless detour.
He texted her every thirty minutes.
Where are you.
Call me.
I’m worried, baby.
No response.
By one a.m., he started imagining old habits she hated talking about—the nights she’d once disappeared with a stranger and ended up calling him from a bathroom floor, shaking and sobered by fear. The time she’d woken up in a hotel hallway with no memory of how she’d gotten there. The night she picked a man who turned out darker and angrier than she realized and had to fight her way out the door. And every time he remembered those nights, something tightened deep in his chest.
She ran hot.
Too hot.
Sometimes too fast for her own good.
And he could feel the clock ticking the way it used to in those early months.
Around a quarter to three, after circling another useless stretch of bars, his phone lit up.
I’m Home
Her text: I’m at home.
He froze.
Home?
It had been hours since he’d checked the bar where her car was. He made the turn back toward it, half expecting—half praying—not to see her car still parked there.
It wasn’t.
Hope punched him hard enough to hurt.
When he pulled into the driveway, her car sat exactly where it should be. The front porch light glowed low and warm. The house didn’t feel empty anymore.
Inside, he heard the shower running upstairs.
The master bath.
His stomach tightened.
They had an agreement: no bringing anyone home. Not him. Not her. No matter how wild they got, the house was theirs—the only place where they were just each other’s.
But as he climbed the stairs, he braced for the possibility of a second silhouette stepping out of the steam. He wasn’t sure how he’d react. He only knew it would hurt in ways he wasn’t prepared for.
The shower shut off.
She stepped out of the bathroom a moment later, naked, hair dripping, towel in her hands. She rubbed the towel through her hair, her breasts bouncing with the movement, her skin flushed from the heat. When she saw him standing in the doorway, she blinked once, slow, surprised.
“You looked for me all night?” she asked.
Her voice wasn’t defensive—just puzzled, like he’d done something unnecessary.
“You were gone,” he said. “I got worried.”
She tilted her head, baffled. “You know I’ll come home.”
“I know,” he murmured, “but I worry anyway.”
She gave a soft, almost impatient laugh. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
He didn’t argue. They’d had this fight before. He never won it. She didn’t want to be tamed; he didn’t want to be her keeper. They walked that thin line together.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked.
She tossed the towel toward the vanity; it slid off the counter and hit the floor. She crossed to him and pressed her body against his, warm and slick, her arms sliding around his neck.
She whispered into his ear, “Yes. Do you want all the details?”
The spark hit low and fast beneath his belly.
Before he could answer, she backed him toward the bed, tugging at his clothes as she walked him backward. When he was naked, she pushed him gently onto the mattress.
She opened the nightstand, took out a condom, and tossed it near his feet.
Then she climbed over him in a slow, predatory crawl, turning herself so she straddled him in a 69 position. She teased him, took her time, scratching that itch that was never fully satisfied in either of them.
When she wanted more, she reached for the condom, tore the foil, rolled it onto him. Without turning around, without looking back, she slid down and onto him, easing him inside her with a raw, hungry sound.
And then they moved—fast, fevered, reckless—two people who had lived all night on different hungers—his on fear and uncertainty, hers on adrenaline and want. Two people who steadied each other only by crashing together. When she finally shuddered against him and he followed, the world narrowed to heat and breath and the slick press of her skin, all of it charged with the relief of having her here and not out there with some stranger who didn’t know how to hold her safely.
She collapsed onto the bed beside him, chest rising and falling, her hair damp with sweat and shower steam. Within minutes she was asleep, curled on her side like she’d dropped straight into a dream. The wildness that had driven her through the night softened to something quiet, almost delicate.
He lay back on his pillow, watching the slow rhythm of her breathing. The sheets still carried her perfume, sweeter now, gentler than the sharp trail he’d been chasing hours before. He knew—of course he knew—that another night like this would come. Another restless spark in her eyes, another chase, another hour of fearing he’d be too late.
But tonight she was here. Warm. Whole. Home.
He reached out, brushed his thumb over the curve of her shoulder, and let the tightness in his chest finally ease. She always came back to him in the end.
And he loved her too much to want her any other way.
Inside the world of Dana's Loves 