Page 108 of Dissonance

Thea

The drive from the airport takes no time at all this early in the morning. No traffic, no distant hum of the city, just stillness and trees. The car’s GPS lost signal somewhere on the mountain road, refusing to find it again. I navigate the last stretch from memory, the familiar route he took months ago, the world narrowing to a single-track road.

I barely slept on the plane, watching the dark night sky give way to dawn, telling myself I’m doing the right thing by coming here. I want to know why he left, want to know what’s going on. Cooper turning up with Gunner was probably the only thing that kept me from spiraling—watching his poor bodyguard building furniture and getting rid of the packaging, while Cooper went through the baby clothes he’d bought. Without them, I would’ve spent the whole day pacing my apartment, going out of my mind.

The cabin comes into view around the bend, my hands tightening on the wheel, my lips parting as I near. It looks different. Not dramatically, or in a way I can pinpoint from inside the car, but there’s something in the bones. Cleaner, brighter, the same structure but changed underneath.

Two figures move on the porch. One I recognize instantly, but the other…

I narrow my eyes, taking in the second man as he gestures around him. He’s broader, older, gray threading through dark hair, sleeves pushed up with ink covering both arms. And even before I’ve pulled to a stop, it’s obvious. The resemblance. Not just in the face, but in the way he holds himself.

His dad.

I cut off the engine, and both men turn to look at me. His dad says something, pulls him in briefly, then jogs down the porch steps.

Our eyes meet through the windshield as he passes, holding my gaze for a beat like he already knows exactly who I am. I push the door open and step out, the gravel crunching under my shoes.

“You must be Thea,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’m John.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

He smiles, that same half-twitch as his son, and nods toward the porch where Lockie’s already moving.

“He’s been waiting for you,” he says, then steps back, continuing to his truck parked at the side and giving us space.

I cross my arms loosely over my chest, no greeting, no softening, lips slightly pinched, letting him see what this cost me to come here. The redeye, the entire day I lost waiting on the doctor to clear me to fly, the rental car, the fact that I’m standing here at all instead of waiting for him to decide when he’s ready.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I can see the difference from the last time we were together. He looks tired, but it’s not from lack of sleep. It’s the look of a man who’s been slowly setting down the heaviness he’s been carrying for years and hasn’t quite finished yet. It throws me, and damn him for making me want to reach out before I’ve said a word.

“Mo Chridhe.”

His hands come up, warm and solid, framing either side of my face, thumbs stroking slow arcs across my cheekbones, eyes searching mine. I want to hold on to the frustration I drove up here with, I’d rehearsed it the whole flight here, but it fractures the second he touches me, looks at me like there’s nothing else worth looking at, and I understand before he’s said a single word. He’s still here. He never left the way I thought he did.

“Lockie—”

I don’t get the rest out before he closes the distance, lips finding mine. It isn’t soft, or rough, it’s…anchoring, grounding, like he’s been holding his breath for days, and this is the first time he’s been able to let it out.

My hands find his chest, his grip tightening slightly, his mouth desperate in a way I’ve never felt from him before. One hand slides into my hair, cupping the back of my head, keeping me exactly where he needs me. There’s nothing hesitant about it, nothing careful, just this consuming certainty as his tongue sweeps over mine. The sound that leaves me is unintentional, swallowed by him as the kiss deepens, his chest rising with every rough breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says, breaking the kiss, forehead resting against mine. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have spoken to you.”

“You should have,” I say, hands staying where they are, feeling the thudding of his heart beneath my palms. It’s not steady, not the way it usually is. My fingers press in a little. “I need you to tell me now.”

His touch lingers on my face, the weight of his answer moving behind his eyes. Then his grip falls, and my heart stutters as I brace for it; the same shift, the same distance, the silence creeping back in. Only, it doesn’t come. His hand catches mine instead, fingers threading together.

“Come here.”

Turning, he pulls me with him up the porch steps and through the front door. He doesn’t let go as the smell of fresh varnish and paint hits my nose, mixing with the natural scent of wood. My breath catches, my gaze drifting slowly around the space.

The ceiling is the same, those high, dark beams exactly as I remember. The wall I’d pressed my hand against is gone, or mostly, opened up enough that the morning light spills through uninterrupted, filling the room the way I said it would.

“Lockie…”

I place my hand on my heart as I step farther inside, my other slipping from his as I take it in. The alcove by the stairs fitted with recessed lighting. An oversized chair layered with cushions, a thick blanket draped effortlessly over one side.

He remembered. Everything. Every specific, throwaway detail I’d mentioned while moving around this space like I had the right to redesign it.

My fingers brush the edge of the chair, the fabric of the throw, soft under my touch, before I turn to the windows. Nothing in front of them, not a single thing. The view stretched out, green and endless, the stream twinkling through the trees.