Rekindled

Cassia

There’s something almost criminal about owning an immaculate Leila Katz original, only to spend yet another Friday night in an oversized hoodie that smells of last night’s Thai takeout, scrolling through Tinder.

Yeah, I know. It’s just for hookups. But I’m not after love.

Been there.

Survived that.

Barely.

And after much soul-searching—and an admittedly embarrassing amount of denial—I’ve finally admitted it to myself.

I want a baby. I believe it’s the missing piece—the one thing that would make my little life feel complete.

I just don’t want all the extras everyone insists come with it.

For example, the husband.

Fuck, at this rate, a sperm bank seems like the pragmatic choice, but where’s the pleasure in that?

After another minute of swiping, I don’t find a single dude worth slowing my thumb for.

Maybe I’m not as desperate as I thought.

I’m seconds from nuking my account when his face pops up.

My ex, Beau.

I stare at the screen, waiting for it to explain itself. Maybe it’s a glitch. Maybe he’s just visiting—y’know, spending one wild night in New York before flying back home to Louisiana.

His profile picture shows him lounging against a weathered dock on Lacey Bayou, shirt half-open, fishing rod in hand.

Apparently, Louisiana grows men the same way it grows cypress trees.

I swipe through the rest of his photos. In one, he’s raising a Heineken with his comrades, caught mid-laugh. In another, he’s staring straight into the camera in his dress blues, looking unfairly handsome.

Uff.

Those eyes. I can’t even imagine what they’ll be like in person.

And while I wasn’t surprised he joined the service, like all the Theriot men, I was shocked because he was never one for rules or structure.

He loved to cause trouble, stir people up, and keep everyone on their toes. The Marines just seemed so unlike him.

Either way, I appreciated the view.

Kneel for your troops indeed.

My thumb hovers over the screen. And before I can talk myself out of it or torch the app, I swipe right.

Shit.

A heartbeat later, my phone vibrates.

It’s a match.

And then one incoming message.

Beau: Well, damn.

Didn’t expect to find you here, darling.

Me: Same here.

What drags you into the Tinder trenches?

The little dots dance on the screen for a second.

Beau: Ellio’s idea.

But maybe it was good that he forced me on here.

Me: Is this where I say fate works in mysterious ways?

Beau: Maybe.

Before I can reply, another message pops up.

Beau: Wanna meet up?

Or are we just flirting with nostalgia?

Me: Let’s find out.

Beau: Girl, I’m fixing to board this plane.

Me: Perfect timing, huh?

Beau: Ain’t it always with us?

Me: When do you get in?

Beau: Late tonight.

But tomorrow? You call me when you’re ready.

Me: Bossy, as always.

Beau: Damn straight.

You know I never did like wasting my time, girl.

Me: Fine. I’ll call tomorrow.

Beau: Atta girl.

I roll my eyes, just as his following message pops up.

Beau: Alright, Cass, they’re calling my row.

Don’t you forget now.

I reply, keeping it snappy.

Me: Safe flight.

The dots do their thing.

Beau: Can’t wait to see you.

It’s been too damn long.

Crap.

I stare at the words on my screen because he’s right. It has been too long. Life doesn’t hand out guarantees.

Feelings aside, we’d have a gorgeous baby.

Damn. That sounds so toxic.

Adonai, what am I even thinking? Please help me.

This meet-up will fuck up my life. Like permanently. I mean, it’s been a decade. There’s no way he actually has feelings for me.

I mean... I don’t—

Well, I didn’t think I did, at least not up until about five minutes ago.

But that’s not the difficult part. The difficult part is finding an opening.

Hey, Beau. Hope life’s treating you well. Also, would you mind donating to my uterus? I promise it’s not as weird as it sounds.

I can’t.

Nevertheless, if fate is tossing him back in my path, it’s either gonna be a blessin’ or a lesson.

And honestly? With Beau, it could go either way.

The next day, I called.

Beau tells me he’s just gotten off the phone with his family and is stranded in an airport hotel, hoping to snag a standby flight back to Louisiana.

In two weeks, he starts a job patrolling Lake Charles.

Perfect. Hit it and quit it.

I tell him, “Good for him,” then cut straight to why I’ve called. I ease into my plan carefully—slow drips, not a full pour—bracing for hesitancy, even a flat-out no.

But to my absolute shock, he said yes.

Just—yes.

Which meant the panic could officially commence.

When it’s time to get ready for our meet-up, I crank up some Britney to get in the zone.

I don’t do much makeup—a swipe of mascara, a touch of blush, and my go-to neutral lipstick.

I catch my reflection and just... gaze.

Wow.

When did I start looking so... mature?

My dress is cute. Classy. A little scandalous, but nothing that screams desperate.

Not that the dress matters much when the goal is to take it off anyway.

I take one final look in the mirror.

Alright, Cass, let’s ruin your life.

But not before my phone dings.

I swipe it open.

A photo.

Fucking Beau.

Shirtless, soft abs and a trail of dark hair down his chest and stomach, leading to memories I remember vividly. Honey-brown eyes meet mine through the mirror, smug enough to know exactly what they’re doing.

It’s a crime to look that good.

And he knows it.

Hell, he depends on it.

Which is why I should run.

And exactly why I don’t.

Beneath the photo, a flirty text.

Beau: Thought you might want something to think about over dinner. 😈

Damn him to hell, and then drag me with him.

Obliging him isn’t difficult.

One tap opens the camera.

Cleavage?

Front and centre, babe.

If he’s gonna play dirty, I can play dirtier.

I snap the photo and hit send.

I immediately regret it.

I immediately don’t.

The three dots pop up almost immediately.

Beau: Damn, girl, you tryna kill me before I even get my grub on?

My thumb stalls over the keyboard, trying to think of something clever in response.

Before I can type, another text comes through:

Beau: You sure you’re gonna make it to dinner? Cos I can skip straight to dessert.

My face flushes.

Me: Be patient.

You promised me food first.

Beau: I could be your meal. lol. But you’re right. Grub first. Sweets back at your place. 😈

By the time I get to the restaurant, my nerves are shot. I step inside, scan the room once, and there Beau is.

Fuck.

He looks even better in person.

And me? I can’t even think straight, let alone put words to the thoughts ricocheting around my skull.

Beau’s eyes gleam like caramel, catching the light as if lit from within. His gaze, sweeping over me, is unapologetically bold.

“Well, look at you,” he says, tinkering with his dog tags. “Worth the wait. Every damn time.”

I try to stay chill.

“You clean up nice, too.”

Wow, Cass, tell him how you genuinely feel.

Beau draws out my chair, his hand brushing my lower back as I sit.

I shiver. Great. Is this already foreplay?

Beau sits across from me, fingers tapping on the tablecloth, eyes fixed on mine.

“We can make it through supper, yeah?” he asks, raising a brow.

“We’ll see,” I reply, clutching my ice water.