Just This Once (Again) – Part One: The Funeral and the Fire

Before You Read: Let’s Talk About Grief, Guilt… and Crossing Lines

Grief doesn’t come with a rulebook.

It’s messy. Quiet. Loud. Lonely. Desperate. Sometimes it makes people reach for the wrong things—just to feel something.

This story explores what happens when two people cross a line they never meant to.
Not because they’re reckless. But because they’re human.
And hurting.

If you love a story that blends forbidden tension, emotional ache, and that one choice you can’t undo… you’re in the right place.

Please enjoy!

Just This Once (Again)

Part One: 

The Funeral and the Fire

The casserole is cold by the time I open the door. He doesn’t flinch when he sees me, just stands there, holding the foil-covered dish like it’s some kind of peace offering. Like lasagna can make up for the silence between us. The silence after that night.

My hands are shaking. Not from him. Not entirely. I’ve barely eaten. Barely slept. Tomorrow I’ll bury the man I married at twenty-two, and tonight the only person I don’t want to see is the one person who came.

“Hey,” he says, quiet. Rough.

I step aside without a word.

He walks in, toeing his boots off by the door, like this is just another visit. Like I’m not in the same clothes I wore yesterday, hair a mess, emotions unraveling by the second.

“Kitchen?” he asks, nodding toward it.

I nod. He disappears into the other room like he knows the layout by heart. He does.

He’s here a lot.

Before the accident. Before the funeral planning. Before the first tear ever fell.

Before I forgot how to breathe.

When I finally follow him into the kitchen, he’s already preheating the oven, rinsing his hands in the sink.

“You didn’t have to come,” I say.

He shrugs, glancing over his shoulder. “Didn’t feel right not to.”

My throat tightens.

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches and presses down on my chest. I break it first.

“I can’t eat.”

He nods again, slower this time, like he understands. And he probably does. He always has.

“Drink?” he offers, already reaching for a glass.

I sit at the table, hands in my lap, and watch him move through my kitchen like he’s trying not to make a sound. He slides the glass of water in front of me. I don’t touch it.

His eyes lift. “You’ve got people coming tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” I nod, voice hoarse. “A lot.”

He leans against the counter. He doesn’t ask if I’m ready. He knows I’m not.

“What about after?” he asks.

I meet his eyes for the first time. “After?”

“When everyone leaves. When they stop calling. When it’s just… quiet.”

I blink. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

His jaw clenches. “You will.”

He doesn’t say I’ll be here. He doesn’t say you’re not alone. He doesn’t say anything like that.

That’s the thing with him. He was never the soft one. My husband, his best friend, was. Light and easy. Affectionate. Always knew what to say.

But this man?

He’s silence and shadows. Stillness and stares. He doesn’t offer comfort, he becomes it.

And maybe that’s why I break.

“I haven’t been able to sleep in that bed,” I whisper. “Not since the night they called.”

He looks away like it hurts to hear it.

I keep going anyway.

“I sleep on the couch. I haven’t washed the sheets. I don’t want to, but I know I need to. And the smell is fading.” My voice cracks. “I didn’t think that would hurt so bad.”

Something shifts in him, in me, in the air.

Then he moves. Quiet and slow, like I’m a deer about to bolt. He crouches beside me, his hand resting on the edge of the table, close but not touching.

“I’ll wash them for you,” he says, low. “Tomorrow. When this is over.”

My eyes burn. “Why are you doing this?”

His gaze lifts to mine. “Because he would’ve.”

It’s the right answer.

It’s the worst answer.

Because he’s right. And because I hate him for being here. And because I want him to stay.

“Don’t you hate me?” I ask, barely a whisper.

For needing this. For needing him.

His stare doesn’t waver. “No.”

“You should.”

“I know.”

We sit in the stillness. The only sound is the low hum of the oven warming behind him. The smell of cheese and garlic lingers, but it doesn’t quite reach me.

He reaches for my hand instead.

And I let him.

Maybe it’s the grief. Maybe it’s the months of everything unsaid. Or maybe it’s just the memory of that one night three years ago, the one we never talk about.

The one we both remembered when I said I do to someone else.

He moves. Quiet and slow, like I’m a deer about to bolt. He moves beside me, his hand resting on the edge of the table, close but not touching. Then, without a word, he lowers into the chair next to mine, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.

I don’t stop him when he looks up at me like I’m breaking him just by existing.

I touch his face. He flinches like it burns.

“You should go,” I say.

He doesn’t move.

“You should go,” I whisper again, but I’m already leaning in.

He moves. Quiet and slow, like I’m a deer about to bolt. He stands beside me, his hand resting on the edge of the table, close but not touching. Then, without a word, he lowers into the chair next to mine, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor.

I don’t stop myself when I stand and step between his knees.

He looks up, slow, hesitant, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see in my face. Or maybe he already knows.

I touch his cheek. His stubble scrapes my palm, rough and real and grounding. His jaw tightens beneath my hand.

“You should go,” I whisper.

He doesn’t move.

“You should go,” I say again, even softer, but my thumb is already brushing over the edge of his lips.

He catches my arm. His fingers curl around my wrist, gentle, but firm. Like he’s giving me one last chance to pull away.

But I don’t.

And when he stands, he’s all muscle and restraint, his body crowding mine, heat pulsing between us like a second heartbeat. One of his hands finds my waist. The other slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair.

I exhale a shaky breath, just once, before his mouth is on mine.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s a collapse.

My hands fist in his shirt. He groans low against my lips, like he’s been holding this in for years, and maybe he has. His grip tightens at my hip, pulling me closer until we’re chest to chest, breath to breath, memory to memory.

He kisses me like he’s angry.

Like he’s starving.

Like he already regrets it but he’ll be damned if he stops.

And I kiss him back like I don’t care if this ruins us both.

We don’t speak. We don’t look at each other.

But when he kisses me, it’s like we’ve been doing it in secret for years.

To be continued tomorro2

To be continued… Come back tomorrow for Part Two.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix