It had been two full days since Lucien spent the night at Jack’s cabin.
Since then, Jack had gone back to his usual routine — splitting logs with his bare arms in the misty mornings, sanding the edge of a new oak bench, the scent of cedar and sweat thick in the summer air. But Lucien’s presence lingered. Not just in the house — in the scent still faint on the flannel he’d worn, or the barely disturbed pillow on the guest couch — but in Jack’s mind. In the way Lucien had looked up at him that night, lips parted, unsure and aching for direction. There was a vulnerability in that man that stirred something deeper in Jack than he cared to admit.
Evelyn had returned twice since then. Once in the afternoon, with strawberries and bourbon. The second time, in the dead of night, slipping into Jack’s bed without a word, as if she belonged there. She did — for a time. But Jack noticed it now: her eyes flicked to the guest couch. She hadn’t asked. But she knew.
Still, she came. And when she did, she was all fire and control — until Jack’s mouth found that sweet spot below her collarbone, and her moans melted her into submission.
But on the third day, just after dusk, as the fireflies began to blink against the trees and Jack stepped out shirtless to stoke the firepit, he heard the low crunch of gravel beneath boots.
He turned, expecting Evelyn.
But it wasn’t Evelyn.
A tall figure stood at the edge of the clearing, silhouetted by the sinking sun. The walk was familiar — confident, lean, with the kind of tension in the shoulders that spoke of someone carrying old words unspoken.
“Elena?” Jack blinked once, lips twitching at the corner.
The woman stepped into the light. Her hair was darker now — chestnut with flecks of silver. The years had done little to dull her beauty; in fact, she had aged into it. A high school literature teacher from over a decade ago, Elena had once been his mentor… and for one complicated summer, something more.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” she said, voice low, warm. She wore fitted jeans and a navy blouse that clung to the generous curve of her chest, a deep V revealing the smooth line of her cleavage — subtly, but not accidentally.
“You’re a long way from the city,” Jack said, trying not to smirk as he wiped his hands on a rag.
“Maybe I missed the trees,” Elena replied. “Maybe I missed a certain lumberjack who used to flirt outrageously during poetry readings.”
Jack chuckled, stepping closer. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything, Jack.”
There it was again. The shift in the air. Like memory had stepped out of the past wearing tight jeans and a push-up bra.
He offered her a drink — bourbon, neat — and she accepted it without hesitation, brushing past him to settle into one of the Adirondack chairs by the fire. Jack followed, watching the way she moved. Controlled. Commanding. But beneath that… something pulsed. Hunger, maybe. Regret. Or the familiar pull of unresolved heat.
They talked as the fire crackled — about old times, books they’d passed between them, long-ago glances in empty classrooms. And then silence fell.
Elena leaned forward, setting her glass down.
“I thought about you,” she said quietly. “More than I should’ve.”
Jack’s gaze lingered on her mouth. “Why didn’t you come back?”
“I thought it was just… a phase for you. Something younger. But when I heard about the cabin, the furniture business, the way you stayed here… I realized I’d been waiting for you to come to me.” She smiled faintly. “But you never did.”
“I didn’t think you wanted me,” he said, voice low. “But I never forgot.”
She stood then, walked around the fire and knelt beside his chair — her hand on his knee. Jack’s muscles tightened.
“I want you now, Jack. Just once. Or maybe again and again. I want to remember what it’s like to be undone by you.”
Before he could answer, the headlights of a car crept down the lane. Jack’s head snapped toward the drive.
Elena blinked. “Are you expecting someone?”
Jack stood slowly. “No.”
The engine cut. A door opened. He saw the familiar silhouette of Evelyn stepping out of her car. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the other car — Elena’s — in the drive.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Of course,” Evelyn muttered, slamming her door with more force than needed.
Jack met her halfway, shirt still off, sweat catching the edge of his collarbone.
“Evening, Evelyn,” he said.
“Don’t ‘evening’ me.” Her gaze flicked past him. “She’s here.”
“Just arrived.”
“She’s your past, Jack.”
Jack met her eyes with calm steel. “And you think you’re my future?”
Evelyn’s breath hitched. Behind him, Elena had stepped into the doorway, her silhouette framed by the golden light from inside.
“I can leave,” Elena said, voice soft but unwavering.
“No,” Jack said, holding up a hand.
Evelyn crossed her arms. “You really going to juggle us both, Jack?”
He stepped toward her, close, his scent washing over her — woodsmoke, sweat, and the faintest touch of bourbon.
“I’m not juggling anyone,” he said. “But I am tired of pretending like I have to choose.”
Evelyn bit her lip, caught between fury and desire.
Elena watched them both from the porch, breath held.
This triangle wasn’t done pulling tension tighter.
And Jack? He thrived in it.
Jack’s Page