Guilty Pleasures

After an accident, Skila finds love while uncovering her past and confronting deception.

Chapter 1 - Guilt
The rain had started before sunset, a low steady hiss that pressed against the windows and softened the edges of everything. For once, the house didn't feel empty. The air smelled of roasted garlic and rosemary--his favorites. B smiled to himself, the kind of small, tired smile that came from relief more than joy. Maybe she remembered. Maybe tonight would be the reset they both needed.

He dropped his keys on the counter. "Amelia?" he called, hopeful. No answer. Just the clatter of a pan, the quiet hum of a playlist he didn't recognize. His brows arched. He followed the sound through the hallway, already picturing her in the kitchen--hair up, apron on, laughing at how surprised he looked. Maybe he'd finally tell her what had been weighing on him, that he was scared of the distance growing between them, that he still loved her even when it felt like they were two ghosts passing through th...

He turned on the light switch, ready to wrap his arms around her. "Raven?" he questioned the woman by the stove who was not his wife, but his coworker. She was barely dressed, lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Hey," she said lightly. "I thought you might like a surprise."

For a moment, B just stared. His mind refused to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. Candles. Wine. Two plates. Her.

"Raven," he said slowly, voice scraping his throat. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

She tilted her head, all innocence. "You looked like you could use a home-cooked meal. I remembered your favorites."

"This isn't your home."

She continued to smile as if that wasn't a problem. "You're welcome, you know. After the week you've had, I thought--" she moved closer to a still shocked B in the doorway.

"Stop." He stepped back, pulse thudding. He felt sick, angry, confused all at once. "You shouldn't be here."

She moved closer instead. "You don't have to pretend, B. You told me how lonely you are. How Amelia never makes time anymore." She reached him, adjusting his collar.

"That doesn't mean--" But before he could finish, she kissed him. He froze, too stunned to push her away. It lasted a second--maybe less--but it was enough. Because that's when the door opened.

"B?" He heard his wife Amelia call from the entrance. Her voice--soft, hopeful. He turned, seeing Amelia now in the kitchen doorway, dripping rain, eyes wide and hollow.

The candles flickered in the draft. Raven's lips were still on his. He reached out, but Amelia was already gone. The sound of the front door slamming cut through the house like a gunshot. Silence. Then the world tilted.

"Raven, leave," he said hoarsely, finally stepping back. "Dinner will get cold and Amelia needs to cool off," Raven murmured, trying to recover the situation.

"Leave, Raven!" B shouted, anger boiling over. He shoved the door open, nearly pushing her out himself. "Get out of my house!"

She hesitated--hurt flickering across her face--then slipped into the rain without another word.

He stood there for a second, chest tight, listening to the storm swallow her footsteps. Then he grabbed his keys from the counter and bolted into the night.

The rain came down in sheets, blinding and cold, flooding the road faster than the wipers could clear it.

"Come on, Amelia," he muttered, scanning every slick stretch of asphalt.

She wouldn't take the bridge; not in this weather. She hated that thing. Everyone did. The county had been promising to replace it for years, but no one trusted it--not after the last flood.

If she went anywhere, it would be their spot.

Miller's Hill. The overlook above the valley. The place where he proposed. Where she said yes through tears and laughter, in the glow of the dashboard light.

That's where he went.

The dirt road was half washed out, the truck fighting through the ruts, mud slapping against the wheel wells. Lightning cracked across the sky, lighting the hilltop for a heartbeat--empty.

No car. No Amelia. Just the wind and the steady hiss of rain on the hood.

He got out anyway, soaked through before he reached the edge of the overlook. The valley stretched below, drowned in mist.

"Amelia!" he shouted into the storm.

Nothing answered. Not even an echo.

He stood there until his throat burned, telling himself she was safe, that she'd never be stupid enough to cross that bridge in weather like this.

Then he got back in the truck, shifted into gear, and pointed the headlights toward the only place left.

The bridge.














Chapter 2 – The Aftermath

I barely saw the road through the downpour, the windshield wipers flailing at full speed and still losing ground. It was past midnight, the storm at its worst, the blacktop unspooling before me like the edge of a nightmare.
I should have taken the detour, but I’d been awake since 3 a.m., running on coffee and stubbornness, desperate to get home before the river breached its banks and my cabin filled with water. Everyone else in the county had the sense to stay off the road, but I’d always been carved from another kind of caution—one that looked like recklessness from the outside and felt like necessity from the inside.

I kept my eyes on the taillights ahead, the only other idiot out here tonight. They belonged to a little red sedan, hugging the shoulder like a frightened animal. I wanted to flash my brights, warn the driver to slow the hell down, but the moment was already gone.

Lightning lit up the world in a single sheet, and for a split second, every detail sharpened: the sedan fishtailing, the blur of roadside trees, the glint of water pooled on blacktop. Then came the sound—metal on metal, a scream of tires, the brief howl of a horn. The car skidded sideways, missed my bumper by a miracle, and plowed through the guardrail as if it were paper.

I barely had time to curse before my own truck slewed to a stop, mud and gravel pelting the undercarriage. The world went silent, except for the hammer of rain and my own heart. Then, below the road, fire bloomed—quick and hungry, orange in the teeth of the storm.

I didn’t think about what to do. I just did it—old training, drilled in by years of late-night emergencies and adrenaline. I yanked the parking brake, killed the engine, and lunged for the fire extinguisher behind the seat. The wind nearly ripped the door off the hinges as I spilled out onto the shoulder, boots sinking into sucking mud.

The embankment was steeper than I’d guessed, and I half-slid, half-fell down the hill toward the burning car, the fire’s heat slapping me in the face even through wind and rain. I got close enough to see the woman behind the wheel—a pale flicker, motionless, head lolling forward in the glow.

The hood was already ablaze; flames ran in ribbons beneath the frame, licking at the trunk. I set the extinguisher down and yanked at the battered door. Locked. I jammed my elbow through the window, felt the glass cut into my jacket, and reached inside. The handle gave with a pop, and I dragged the door open, the metal scalding my palms even through the denim.

Smoke poured out, stinging my eyes. I coughed and braced her limp body with both arms, praying she wasn’t already gone. She wasn’t. I felt the faint flutter of breath against my cheek as I dragged her out, the dead weight of her slumped over my shoulder. She smelled of chemicals and wet wool and some sweeter, coconut perfume—something that didn’t belong here. The world rang with sirens in my head, even though there were no sirens out here—only the sound of fire and rain and my own panting.

I carried her up the embankment, the extinguisher forgotten, and laid her on the running board of my truck. I checked her pulse the way I’d done a thousand times in another life: wrist first, then throat. Weak but present. The windshield was smeared with blood from a cut on her hairline, but when I pressed against her scalp, the bleeding slowed. Good.

I wrapped her in the spare blanket from behind the seat and cinched it tight, then ran down the hill again, this time with the fire extinguisher. I emptied it into the engine compartment, watching the foam sizzle and hiss. It wouldn’t save the car, but it might keep the fire from leaping to the dry grass.

I returned to the woman, slumped and shivering, eyes fluttering beneath the lids. She was younger than I’d thought, maybe late twenties, hair dark and tangled, face oddly familiar. I climbed in beside her, slamming the door on the wild weather, and tried to steady my own breathing. She groaned, a fractured sound, and I touched her cheek, careful.

“Hey,” I said softly. “Can you hear me?”

She didn’t answer. Maybe she couldn’t.

I looked at my hands—they were shaking. I hadn’t felt this alive, or this close to panic, since before I lost my wife.

Old instincts took over: check her airway, inspect the wound, elevate her feet. I muttered a string of low curses, half at myself, half at the universe. Why did it have to be me? Why tonight?

I got the engine running and cranked the heat, floors and dash both. The cab filled with the smell of wet wool and extinguished flame, but the woman’s lips grew less blue, her breathing steadier. I drove the last six miles home with one hand on the wheel and the other checking her pulse every few minutes, as if I could hold her in the world by sheer force of will.

The cabin appeared through the curtain of rain, its windows dark, the porch submerged in a pond of runoff. I backed the truck up to the door, killed the lights, and carried her inside.

The power was out, but the woodstove’s embers glowed faintly, and the kerosene lamp above the table was right where I’d left it. I fished for matches and lit the wick, careful not to wake her.

I laid her on the faded blue couch, stripped off her soaked jacket and boots, and wrapped her head in a clean towel. I hesitated with her blouse button, then steeled myself and undid it, just enough to check her ribs for bruising. I’d seen enough car wrecks to know how easy it was for a broken rib to puncture a lung. She was battered, but nothing moved the wrong way. I exhaled, a long, shaky breath.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “This is just first aid. I’m not a creep.”

I poured a glass of water and set it by her hand. Checked her pulse again. Slower, but steady.

The rain battered the roof in fits and starts. Somewhere in the dark, a branch snapped and thudded to the ground, but the woman didn’t stir. I sat beside her, elbows on knees, trying not to think about the other times I’d sat up through the night, willing someone to live.

The worst was the silence. No phones, no news, not even the hum of the refrigerator. Just the hiss of rain and the tick of ash settling in the stove.

I tried not to look at her, but I couldn’t help it. The wound on her temple was already turning deep purple. One eye was swollen shut, lashes glued together by rain or tears. Her lips were cracked and colorless. She looked as fragile as Sara had looked in that hospital bed, the night after the fire.

I told myself I’d left all that behind—left the city, the badge, the endless parade of emergencies. But the past didn’t burn away with the uniform. It followed me here, to this cabin in the woods.

Sara’s last night played in my head like a reel I couldn’t shut off.
He wasn’t even on duty that night—just out picking up supplies. Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took. Fifteen minutes while a power surge tripped the breaker, while the oxygen machine shorted and the wires caught. By the time he made it home, the street was full of flashing lights and smoke, and Sara was gone.

He could still smell it sometimes—burnt plastic, ozone, her perfume. He’d sworn he’d never let himself near another rescue again. But here he was, soaked in rain and guilt, saving someone anyway.

He went to the fireplace. Above the mantel was a photo of Sara: her smile, her eyes, the wavy hair she hated and he loved. He picked it up, thumbed the frame, and whispered, “Not this time.”

Then he turned to the woman on the couch. Her chest rose and fell in slow rhythm under the blanket. Alive. Against every odd, she was alive.

He sat down again and watched her, until the storm became nothing more than a lullaby of distant thunder and memory.




Chapter 3 — The Fallout

B

Three days.
Every clock in the house ticks louder when you’re waiting for a voice that doesn’t come.

I called her phone until the mailbox filled, then kept calling anyway, listening to my own silence echo back. I checked the door every few hours, like maybe she’d just… walk in. Maybe she’d say it was a misunderstanding.

But no one walks in after three days.
No one forgets home that long unless they want to.

The rain hasn’t stopped since she left.
Neither have I.

Raven showed up again — uninvited, like she always does.
Said she was worried. Said I shouldn’t be alone.
But her worry smelled like cheap coconut and even cheaper wine.

She moved through the kitchen like she belonged in it, like the house had been hers all along. She straightened photos, made coffee, touched things that weren’t hers to touch.
“You need rest,” she said.
“I need answers.”
She didn’t flinch. “You’ll get them.”

The way she said it made my skin crawl.

We talked briefly about that new job of Amelia’s before everything went to hell. She had to decide fast — a stepping stone, she called it. Something bigger, better.
I told her I was proud of her. I was.
But I don’t think I realized how much it would change us.
How much it would change me.

She worked later, came home quieter. I told myself it was just the adjustment period, the new schedule, the stress. But it started feeling like she wasn’t coming home to me anymore — just the house.

I used to think love could survive anything.
Turns out, it’s not the fights that kill you.
It’s the slow fade — the silence that builds between one goodbye and the next.


Raven

He looked wrecked when I came by this morning — stubble, circles under his eyes, the kind of man who needed saving and didn’t know how to ask for it.

I brought coffee and bagels, the way she used to.
He didn’t even notice.

The house was cold, smelled like wet paper and grief.
So I lit a candle. I couldn’t stand the silence.

He said I shouldn’t be here.
But then he let me stay.
He always lets me stay.

When I touched his arm, he didn’t pull away right away.
That’s something.
That means something.

He’s lonely. I can help.


B

We drove through the rain, hanging Missing posters.
Every red light was a prayer.
Every empty street felt like punishment.

Raven talked too much. About her car, her mother, about nothing.
I tried to ignore her, but she filled every silence like she was afraid of what I might think if it stayed quiet too long.

When I snapped at her, she laughed like it was foreplay.
I hated that.
I hated that it worked.


Raven

He barely spoke.
I kept the radio on just to fill the air. He asked me to turn it off.
I did.

He looked at me like he wanted to scream.
Like he blamed me.

I taped the flyers anyway.
Each one stared back at me — Missing: Amelia Bennet.
That smile.
That perfect, empty smile.

I pressed the tape harder than I needed to.
The paper tore.

The rain would ruin them soon enough.

She doesn’t know B.
Not really.
She doesn’t understand him like I do.

Yes, maybe he can be impulsive, but he spends every day buried under rules and deadlines, surrounded by people who don’t see him. Work’s a pressure cooker. Buttoned-up, corporate hell. So when he slips — when he says things, does things — it’s just him trying to breathe again.

Amelia never saw that. She’s too uptight. Too careful. Ever since she took that new joke of a job — what was it even? something she never talked to him about — she’s been shutting him out.

I’m not saying she deserved this.
I’m saying I get him.
And that’s more than she ever did.


B

When we got back, she was still here.
Laptop open, blue light slicing through the dark.

I asked what she was doing.
“Checking for updates,” she said.
Her voice was calm, too calm.
Search bar full of Amelia’s name, police reports, obituaries.

“Any news?” I asked.
“No,” she said, and smiled like that was good.

When she saw me looking, she cleared the history.
Just a click.
A clean slate.


Raven

No updates. No accident reports.
Not yet.

Maybe she’s out there.
Maybe she’s not.
Maybe he doesn’t need to know which.

He looks at me differently now.
Like I’m useful.
Like I matter.

That’s enough.
For now.


B

She left her perfume behind.
That cheap coconut smell clings to everything.
I swear I can still smell it when I sleep.

Maybe she’s trying to help.
Maybe she just wants to fill the silence.

Either way, the silence is winning.


Raven

I saw one of the posters tonight, flapping on a pole in the rain.
Her face was almost gone — the ink bleeding, her name sliding away letter by letter.

I peeled it down before anyone else could see.
The paper tore in my hands.
It stuck to my palms.

For a moment, I thought I saw her eyes looking through me.


B

I keep wondering what I missed.
If she ran.
If I drove her to it.
If maybe this is what happens when two people stop trying to save each other.

Sometimes, I still hear her voice.
Sometimes, I think I smell smoke.


Raven

He’s starting to look at me the way he used to look at her.
Tired, soft, afraid.

I can fix that.