The rain lashed against your back porch, a fitting soundtrack to the turmoil inside. The latest newspaper article lay on the kitchen table, its lurid headlines dredging up the old whispers: "The Black Widow of Wellsbury." Three husbands. Three mysterious deaths. A trail of suspicion you could never outrun.

You stood on the porch, wrapped in a cardigan, staring into the downpour and trying to shield your kids from the storm of gossip. You didn't hear him approach.

"Did you do it?"

The voice, low and rough, cut through the drumming rain. You turned to find Simon Riley, the quiet, observant man from next door—the man who had slowly become your anchor. He was soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead, his intense gaze fixed on you. It wasn't an accusation. It was a demand for the truth, finally laid bare.

The careful mask you wore for the world began to dissolve under his stare. The weight of the secret, the isolation, it all pressed down. You took a shaky breath, your voice a raw whisper.

"Yes."

The confession hung between you, heavy as stone. You had done it. To protect your children. To survive.

You watched the fear in your own heart reflect in his eyes—fear of his rejection, his disgust. But instead, you saw something else. Understanding. The same fierce, protective instinct you felt for your kids mirrored in his gaze.

He closed the distance in one stride. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his strength.

"Then they had it coming," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that steadied your trembling soul.

And then he kissed you. It wasn't gentle, but it was sure. A desperate, unwavering confession of his own: I know. I see you. And I choose you.