Fuck.
This is a girl I never thought I’d be with—not like this. Not nine-inches deep between her legs. Not warm metal on my ring finger. Not two little girls with our features.
I thought for fucking sure I’d be alone.
I thrust with purpose, knowing what it’d lead to—she comes with a sharp inhale, pulsating around my erection.
“Fuck.” I come, pushing hard into Dais.
Not long after, exhaustion sinks her shoulders, her eyelids, and I pull out and carry Daisy in my arms to our bed. Eyes closed, she sleepily whispers one last thing.
“Say that again.”
I don’t say fuck. I lean down, my mouth against her ear, and I tell my wife, “I fucking love you, sweetheart.”
She glows like a million suns.
*
I’m not that fucking tired, so I check my email on my cellphone. Daisy has already rolled onto my chest, off my chest, and now back onto my fucking chest. Her legs are tangled with mine, arm across my abdomen and head nestled towards my shoulder.
I don’t shift enough that I’d wake her.
I squint at the bright light of the screen and click into an email from Celebrity WorldWide Entertainment. I have no fucking idea what this could be, but the subject line reads, congratulations. That entrainment site isn’t as salacious as Celebrity Crush.
I know because Celebrity WorldWide Entertainment rarely posts negative articles about anyone. Most of their time is spent marketing fucking movie franchises and actors in whatever television shows Lily and Lo watch.
I read the first line of the email.
Dear Ryke Meadows, Congratulations, Celebrity WorldWide Entertainment has picked you as this year’s Sexiest Man WorldWide!
“What the fuck,” I mutter, skimming the rest of the email that basically says you’re welcome and this is a huge honor. I don’t keep up with this shit—so I’m just really fucking confused.
Why me?
I rub my mouth and then group-text my brother, my sister, Lily, Connor, Rose, and Garrison. I type out: did any of you fucking get this email? I remember how to take screenshots on my phone, thanks to Daisy showing me, and I send them the image and message.
Not a second later, my phone buzzes so rapidly and loudly that I have to mute it. “For fuck’s sake,” I mumble.
Sexy motherfucker – Lo Clearly I wasn’t in contention – Connor There’s only one Sexiest Man WorldWide of the year. It’s a big deal – Willow Remove your ego from the thread, Richard. You weren’t the chosen one. – Rose I’m the only qualified one to judge this contest, and guess who I’d choose, darling? – Connor Are they really flirting in the fucking group text? I can’t shut them out, and here comes Lily…
IS THIS REAL?!?!?! – Lily I don’t even have time to text back. Someone else does.
Clearly – Connor It wasn’t that clear. – Rose This is a mess – Garrison *Garrison leaves the group* a notification pops up in the text thread. I’d do the same fucking thing, but I’m not sure how.
How is Ryke Sexiest Man WorldWide before Loren Hale???? – Lily I believe you meant me – Connor I can’t take it anymore. I just ignore it, but I can’t even use the fucking internet without text messages popping up every two seconds. I gently lift Daisy’s arm and legs off me, really fucking careful not to wake my wife. I want her to sleep as many hours as she can.
I want her to fucking dream.
I’ve seen her do both more than I ever thought I would.
She stirs, just enough to roll onto her side and fall into a deeper slumber. I stand, scrolling through rapid-fire texts between Connor and Rose. I pull on track pants before I step into the hallway.
FTFY Lily – Willow My sister photoshopped an image for Lily that says: Loren Hale Sexiest Man WorldWide!
My brows scrunch at that acronym, not understanding. Down the hall, I reach Lily and Lo’s door first. I rap my knuckles and then open.
Lily and Lo are beneath the covers, the room so fucking dark, I only make out their faces. Lit by their cellphone screens.
“Stop fucking texting.”
“Congratulations,” Lily says before registering what I said. “Wait…you texted us.”
“Yeah, well I changed my fucking mind.”
“He can do that now, Lil,” Lo says. “He’s the Sexiest Man WorldWide. He’s got eight-pack powers. His abs can kill.” My brother just starts laughing so fucking loud that I flip him off. I’m not sure he can see.
Before I shut the door, I ask, “What’s FTFY?”
“Fixed That For You,” Lily answers, nose pressed to her cellphone screen.
I glance at my phone, but the only people left in the thread are Rose and Connor. Fucking flirting. I don’t read the messages. I shut my brother’s door and cross the hallway to Connor’s.
I knock once and open.
I freeze.
Fuck.
Rose is handcuffed in a black nightgown, no more than a slip, cupping her cellphone, and Connor straddles his wife, his phone in one hand, other hand on her fucking hip.
Before I can even blink, they see me. Rose’s eyes flame like she could castrate me.
I immediately turn my back for her privacy. “Stop fucking texting.” I’d like to leave it at that, but Connor never would let me.
“No,” he says the word with severe finality. “Shut the door. Hopefully you can manage that simple task.”
I flip him off without facing their bed, but I don’t leave. “I’m fucking serious.”
“So am I.”
“I will put your balls in acid,” Rose threatens, less hostile because—believe it or fucking not—they’re still texting. While in the same fucking room.
“Fuck this.” I power off my phone and shut their door.
Only halfway down the hall, what just happened slaps me across the face. I walked in on Rose and Connor about to have sex. We all lived together, and I avoided that accident.
I mean, fuck.
We rarely even catch those two making out. And the strangest fucking thing? After tonight, I’m pretty sure their foreplay isn’t the typical kind of foreplay.
I’m pretty sure their foreplay is words.
[ 51 ]
August 2026
Dalton Elementary Philadelphia
CONNOR COBALT
“Charlie!” I race after my eight-year-old son, who just stormed out of the principal’s office at ten a.m., backpack slung over his shoulder. He indignantly and resentfully pushes through the double doors, not slowing, and the moment I’d seen coming for years has finally arrived today.
The front of the school is quiet except for the American flag dinging the pole. I quickly read his body language, angled diagonally like he plans to step off the path and cross the grass—opposite the parking lot. Charlie goes where he wants to go, and usually it’s nowhere at all.
“Charlie, stop,” I say vehemently, my voice trembling with more emotion than I typically show.
It forces his feet to a complete and sudden halt. He stands directly in the center of the path, breathing heavily, still dressed in his prep school uniform: navy slacks, button-down, Dalton emblem and tie. I left work just to pick him up after the principal called.
I walk closer, only a few feet away.
And then he swings around. “Why didn’t you tell me?!” His reddened face pumps with fury. “Why didn’t you tell me it’d be like this?!” He grabs at his short brown hair, as though trying to reach for his brain and say take it back. I don’t want it anymore.
“Because you wouldn’t have wanted me to spoon-feed you. You would’ve rather drawn the conclusion yourself in time.”
He angrily chucks his backpack onto the grass. He usually has no trouble using words, but I know besides his own family, no one has been listening to him today, yesterday, and most days before that. He’s been treated like his age. The principal patronized him five minutes ago, and that’s what pushed him to rush out.
“You can talk to me. I’ll always listen.”
Charlie stares at the bright blue sky, quiet for a long moment. And then he says, “It takes them forever. To think, to solve the stupidest problem, to see what’s right in front of them.”