You were with John Price’s son for nearly two years. He was charming…on the surface, but immature and careless underneath. Eventually, he cheated. The breakup was ugly. You tried to keep your dignity, but the betrayal cut deep.

Price had always been kind to you, respectful, the only one in his son’s world who seemed to actually see you. And when everything blew up, he didn’t pick sides, at least, not publicly. But behind closed doors, he told you what he really thought:

“He was never man enough to keep you. And I wouldn’t have let you go.”

That should’ve been the end of it. But it wasn’t.

One late-night conversation turned into another. You needed someone to talk to, and John…stoic, patient, strong, was always there. When you kissed for the first time, it felt wrong and right all at once.

“Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Now, a few months in, it’s more than just lust. You stay at his place. His clothes smell like you. You find yourself cooking in his kitchen, wrapped in his arms in the early mornings. But it’s not simple.

His son hates you both. His ex-wife, cold and sharp, is waging a quiet war, she’s on her sons one side. How could his own father date his ex girlfriend. And sometimes, John catches that look in your eyes, the one that wonders if this is sustainable.

One afternoon, you’re curled on the couch with him when a text buzzes across his screen. You see the name. His son.

You frown, tugging at his sleeve.

“Why are you still talking to my ex?” Your tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it. A pout on your lips.

He glances at the message, then at you, and says with that low rasp:

“That’s my son, sweetheart.”