Faith stood in the kitchen that morning, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the sizzle of bacon, a comforting hum that contrasted sharply with the storm inside her. As she flipped golden pancakes on the griddle, her mind reeled-yesterday's moment replaying like a scratched vinyl record, beautiful and broken.

The memory of their kiss still lingered, vivid and tender, yet it pressed against her chest like a thorn. Ian had grown distant, the space between them stretched taut with tension. He sat at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the newspaper, but Faith could sense the stiffness in his shoulders, the silence that spoke more than words ever could.

It wasn't just a kiss-it had been a step over a fragile boundary neither of them had prepared to cross. And now, the weight of it hung in the air like mist, clinging to every glance, every breath.

Inside her, guilt twisted and pulsed. How could she fall for him-her sister's husband? A year had passed since Hope's death, but it still felt like yesterday. Her mother had once told her love could be chaotic and cruel, beautiful and bewildering all at once. But no wisdom could dull the sting of what Faith now felt.

She remembered the way Ian's expression had shifted during the kiss-from surprise to surrender-and how, just as quickly, the spell had broken. Had it meant something to him? Or had it only deepened his grief? Did he resent her for crossing that line, for awakening emotions he'd buried beneath his sorrow?

As she poured orange juice into two glasses, her stomach knotted at the thought of pretending it hadn't happened. Maybe, when he was ready to speak, she could pass it off as a mistake-an impulse born from shared grief and vulnerability. Yet the idea of dismissing that moment felt like denying the truth that had flickered between them, however fleeting it was.

She sighed, quietly, and set the glasses down. If there was a right time to talk, it wasn't now. But even as she turned back to the stove, the ache in her chest told her that moment wasn't going anywhere.

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With each passing moment, the silence between them grew heavier-thick with unspoken truths, tangled emotions, and the fragile weight of what had been shared. Faith steeled herself, knowing that whatever came next, she would have to tread carefully through the shifting tides of love, loyalty, and memory.

Upstairs, Ian sat on the edge of his bed, already dressed, yet unmoving. Though his body was ready for the day, his heart remained rooted in hesitation. The memory of their kiss played in a relentless loop, equal parts comfort and torment. How was he supposed to look her in the eyes after that? Had it meant something to her-or was he clinging to a feeling that never should've existed?

"Hope..." he whispered into the quiet, running a hand through his hair, "...is it truly right for me to love your twin sister?"

The silence responded like a ghost, until in his mind, her voice emerged-not scolding, but soft, steady, loving. "Follow your heart, Ian. It's okay."

But the words, imagined or not, brought little peace. "I still love you," he breathed, voice trembling with the weight of it. "I don't know how to let you go."

He buried his face in his hands, the ache in his chest growing heavier with every conflicted beat. The idea of moving on felt like betrayal, yet staying rooted in the past was tearing him apart. Could loving Faith ever feel anything but wrong?

"Being with her does not mean you are forgetting about me. Our son needs a mother. Faith is the right person."

The thought struck him with quiet force, reverberating in the hollow spaces of his grief. He lifted his head slowly, a flicker of clarity breaking through the storm. His son-their son-deserved love, stability, and the kind of warmth only Faith could give. Maybe this wasn't about moving on. Maybe it was about building something new from the pieces left behind.

Just then, Faith's voice rose from downstairs, light and inviting.

"Ian... breakfast is ready."

Her words pierced the fog of his thoughts, grounding him. There was a tremble in his chest-fear, yes, but also something else: hope.

"Moment of truth," he murmured. "Say it now... or regret it forever."

He stood, each movement deliberate. Before heading down, he paused outside August's room. Cracking the door open, he found the boy sleeping soundly, cocooned in blankets, his tiny chest rising and falling with peaceful rhythm. A soft smile touched Ian's lips. Just watching him, he felt the world still for a moment.

This was why he had to try.

With a deep breath, Ian descended the stairs. Every step was a heartbeat louder, a quiet promise echoing in his mind. When he reached the dining room and met Faith's eyes, the air between them shifted-charged with unspoken truths and the quiet bravery of two souls still learning how to live with loss... and maybe, just maybe, how to love again.

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Ian sat at the small kitchen table, watching Faith as she poured steaming coffee into his cup with quiet precision. The rich aroma filled the room, but it did little to soothe the tension coiling between them. The silence felt brittle-like glass that might shatter with the wrong word.

He inhaled deeply, willing courage into his lungs. "We need to talk about yesterday," he said at last, his voice low, steady-yet laced with a shadow of uncertainty.

But before he could continue, Faith cut him off, her words hurried and trembling, as if she feared what might surface if he finished his thought.

"Don't worry about it," she said quickly. "It was a mistake. Just... a fleeting moment where we both lost ourselves."

Her voice faltered at the end, but she pressed on, eyes fixed anywhere but on him. "We can forget it ever happened."

Ian blinked, her dismissal landing like a quiet slap. Something in her tone-too rehearsed, too hollow-tightened his chest. Did she really believe that?

"You meant that?" he asked, searching her face, hoping-needing-to see something more than denial.

Faith finally met his eyes. "Yeah," she said, soft but firm. "I am."

A pause stretched between them like a chasm.

Ian nodded slowly, as if absorbing a blow he hadn't been prepared for. "Okay then," he said. "We're settled on that."

He tried to sound composed, detached, but the words tasted like ash. Part of him had hoped-selfishly, irrationally-that she might confess to feeling the same strange spark that had ignited in him. That the kiss hadn't been an accident, but a beginning. Instead, he was left with silence and a growing ache.

Maybe she's already in love with someone else.

The thought crept in uninvited, coiling around his heart. And before he could stop himself, the question slipped from his lips.

"You have someone?"

The room stilled, the question hanging heavy in the air. Faith blinked, clearly caught off guard. He'd never pried into her personal life before-never dared. And now, here he was, shattering that boundary with a single breath.

"Yeah," she said finally, her voice a little too smooth, a little too practiced. "I do. Maybe one day I'll introduce you to him."

A tight smile followed, but Ian saw the tremor in her eyes-the part of her that couldn't quite keep the act together. He swallowed the bitter lump rising in his throat, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Yeah... I'd like that."

Faith stood abruptly, her chair scraping softly against the floor. The sound of August's cries drifted in from the next room, offering her a convenient escape. She excused herself gently, disappearing around the corner like a breath slipping through a closing door.

Ian remained behind, staring at the untouched plate in front of him. He pushed his food around with the edge of his fork, appetite lost to the swirl of disappointment and confusion tightening in his chest. The silence she left behind seemed louder than her presence.

The kiss hadn't been nothing-not to him. But maybe to her, it was already just another memory to bury.

And for the first time in a long while, Ian felt utterly alone.

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How could he have overlooked it?

The question echoed through Ian's mind like a persistent shadow, circling with a rhythm too cruel to ignore. Had he been so blind? So foolish to believe their moment had meant something more?

A wave of frustration surged in his chest, and he leaned back in his chair with a heavy, resigned sigh. Was it truly a mistake to her? The idea twisted inside him like a dull blade-slow and merciless.

He thought of the kiss again, the fire of it, the softness of her lips against his, the way time had felt like it stilled just for them. It hadn't felt wrong. It had felt... real. Consuming. And now, all that warmth was vanishing, leaving only an aching void where hope had once dared to bloom.

He took a slow sip of coffee, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue. It suited the moment-harsh, unforgiving, lingering long after it should've faded. Her words kept replaying in his head, colder each time: "It was just a mistake."

And yet-was it really someone else? The thought latched onto him, tugging at loose threads of doubt. "But... why hasn't she gone on any dates these past few months?" he muttered under his breath, confusion clashing with insecurity. "She's always with Auggie. Always."

His eyes narrowed, thoughts racing. "Is she... bringing him along?" The possibility made his stomach turn. The image of August curled up beside some man who wasn't him-laughing, bonding with the man Faith might love-it felt unbearable.

"So Auggie's met her boyfriend," he whispered to himself, the words settling over him like a heavy fog. A part of him wanted to laugh, but only bitterness came. He rubbed a hand over his face, weariness pressing in from every side.

Pushing back from the table, he stood and walked outside into the garden, seeking air, distance-clarity. The scent of blooming flowers wrapped around him, but even nature's calm couldn't reach the storm inside.

"Ian..." he muttered bitterly. "You're just an unlucky guy."

A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips, sharp and hollow. He stared up at the sky, letting the silence close in around him. The garden was alive, full of colors and light-but inside him, everything felt gray.

Maybe his chance with Faith had ended before it ever truly began.

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Faith was in the midst of her morning routine with August-her little bundle of joy. She gently lifted him from the warm bath, wrapping him in a soft, fluffy towel. His tiny limbs squirmed playfully, droplets of water glistening on his skin like morning dew. After drying him off, she dressed him in a cozy onesie, carefully sliding on a pair of socks that looked comically large on his tiny feet. The faint scent of baby lotion filled the air, soft and familiar, tugging a small smile from her lips.

Once August was settled in his high chair, humming to himself between happy babbles, Faith made her way downstairs to prepare his breakfast. Her eyes scanned the room instinctively, searching for Ian. But the space felt too quiet.

"Where did he go?" she murmured, brows knitting together in concern.

Yesterday's memory surfaced-of Ian's quiet resolve, of how he'd once given up smoking the moment Hope told him she was pregnant. That sacrifice had moved her more than she'd ever admitted aloud. But lately... there had been a shift. A heaviness in him. And though she hadn't smelled anything on his clothes, she feared the temptation had returned.

Still, she chose not to judge him. Everyone had their way of coping. And if he needed air, space-an escape-then she would give it to him.

As she fed August slow spoonfuls of oatmeal, his delighted giggles filling the room like sunshine, she finally heard footsteps behind her. Ian entered the kitchen, hair tousled by the breeze, shoulders slightly slouched. He looked worn, as though sleep had barely brushed him.

"Where were you?" she asked lightly, keeping her tone casual as she guided another spoonful into August's eager mouth.

"Outside. In the garden," he replied, voice distant. "And don't worry-I'm not smoking. Just needed some fresh air."

He moved toward the fridge, grabbed a bottle of orange juice, and drank deeply, as if trying to wash something down that couldn't be swallowed.

Faith caught the subtle tension in his words, the chill threading beneath the surface. Had she said too much yesterday? Or not enough? Her mind whirled. Maybe what she thought had been clarity... had only caused confusion.

"You okay?" she asked gently, eyes flicking up to meet his. "You don't look like it."

"I'm fine. Don't worry," he said, but the lie sat heavily in the air. He tried for a smile, but it crumbled before it could fully form.

A moment passed before he added, "I was thinking of taking August to the mall later. If you're free, you could come with us."

It sounded so normal. So routine. And yet, beneath the words, she could hear something quieter-a hope.

Faith hesitated. "I'm sorry. I actually promised someone I'd meet them today," she said, the guilt landing sharp in her chest. She hated disappointing him. Hated the way his eyes dimmed just slightly at her answer.

Ian nodded slowly, offering a thin, understanding smile. "It's okay. I'll just take August by myself, then."

His voice was calm, but she caught the catch in it-the little fracture of emotion he tried to bury. It pierced something deep within her.

"I'm sorry, Ian," she said quietly, not even sure what she was apologizing for.

He shook his head. "No, it's okay. Really. You have your own life. It's not just about us." His voice softened, gaze dropping to the floor. "I should be the one apologizing. I've already troubled you more than I should've."

Faith opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. Because in truth, she didn't feel troubled by him. She felt something else-something far more dangerous. Something she hadn't allowed herself to name.

Ian looked at her for a heartbeat longer, and she wondered if he could see it too-the thing neither of them dared to say out loud.

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The mall buzzed with weekend life-families, couples, friends weaving through the open spaces, the air thick with the scent of coffee, buttery pretzels, and perfume. Ian walked slowly, pushing August's stroller through the wide corridors, the little boy wide-eyed and curious, his tiny hands reaching for the air with uncontainable wonder.

Ian offered a faint smile each time August pointed at something-a brightly colored balloon vendor, a small fountain that glittered under the skylights, a stuffed animal in a shop window. His son's delight was contagious, and for brief moments, Ian let himself forget the heaviness lodged in his chest.

They stopped near a small children's play area, where laughter echoed from toddlers bouncing on padded floors. Ian lifted August out of the stroller, settling him down gently. The boy crawled eagerly toward a small toy car, giggling as he pushed it with both hands. Ian knelt nearby, watching him with soft eyes.

"You're so much like her," he murmured, almost to himself. "That same spark. That same joy."

He sat back on the bench, elbows on his knees, eyes following August as he babbled to a stranger's toddler with pure, innocent friendliness. Ian's heart ached. Hope should have been here-laughing, chasing August around, telling Ian to take more pictures. And maybe, just maybe, Faith should've been here too, sitting beside him with that knowing smile that always soothed him more than she realized.

But she wasn't.

A notification buzzed on his phone. He pulled it out half-heartedly, then hesitated when he saw Faith's name. A simple text.

"How's Auggie doing?"

He stared at the message for a moment, then typed a reply.

"He's good. Made two new friends in five minutes. Clearly gets his charm from me."

He hit send, trying to play it off light, but his chest tightened.

After a while, he picked August up again, brushing a kiss to his hair. "Come on, buddy. Let's go find something sweet. Ice cream's on me."

They wandered into the food court, and Ian ordered a small vanilla cone for August and a coffee for himself. He sat down at a corner table, balancing August on his knee as the boy leaned toward the melting ice cream, eager and messy.

Ian let out a quiet chuckle as the baby got cream on his nose.

"You know," he said softly, brushing it off with a napkin, "I used to imagine what it'd be like. To be a dad. I thought I'd be terrified. And maybe I am... sometimes. But I never thought I'd do it like this. Without her."

His voice faltered.

He looked down at August, who was now humming to himself, clearly satisfied with his treat. Ian's heart swelled.

"You make it worth it," he whispered. "Even on the hardest days. You always make it worth it."

Just then, a couple walked by-young, carefree, arms linked, laughing about something only they shared. Ian glanced up, the sight catching him off-guard. For a split second, he imagined himself and Faith in their place.

He quickly looked away.

Maybe he was foolish to hope.

Maybe some people only get one great love.

And maybe he had already lost both.