October, The Odd Ones

One Year Later,

It's strange how a year can pass without you noticing until you do. Until you're standing in the kitchen barefoot, pouring coffee for a woman who still makes your chest ache with how much you love her, and you realize you've somehow built something soft and solid out of what was once rubble.

The morning I got the call, thirty years for my father, ten for Laura, something inside me exhaled for the first time in what felt like years. Charges of fraud, conspiracy, corporate corruption... it was all real now, official. The damage had been done, but justice had landed. I didn't celebrate, not exactly but I did close my eyes and breathe, long and steady, like someone finally released from a weight they didn't realize they were still carrying.

The company, surprisingly, had survived. Thanks to interim restructuring, external audits, and a few loyal board members who stepped in when everything came crashing down, we'd managed to stabilize operations. There was talk of "good faith receivership," and though the brand took a hit, the core business remained intact. Once it became clear that the crimes were isolated to my father and Laura, not systemic, were able to present a recovery plan and retain most of our investors.
Any profit that comes from it now goes directly to October and the kids. She didn't ask for it, never expected it, but it felt right. They deserved something clean, something reparative, even if the past couldn't be rewritten. I never want her to feel trapped in this marriage again because of money, never again.

As for me, I built something different. I focused on the shelter. On making something from the ground up that felt honest, that gave back. That place became my second home, my reminder that healing isn't abstract, it's concrete, visible, daily. Most days, when I'm not at the shelter, I'm at home with October, with the kids. That's the center of my life now. Not boardrooms or bottom lines. They're all gone now. My father. Laura. The chapter closed, filed away where it belongs.

Things with my mom were... different. Healing, slowly. October had said something, weeks after the sentencing, when I admitted I didn't know whether to let my mother back in.

"If you want her in your life, that's okay," she said gently, her thumb brushing the inside of my wrist.  "you're allowed to miss her you know?"

"I have you and the kids," I said.

She smiled. "And if there's room for more, that doesn't take away from us. I know your heart."

Maybe she did. Because now, once a month, I take my mom to lunch. We sit in some quiet place and talk about the girls, about Jimmy's teenage mood swings, about her therapist, her regrets. She's not perfect. But she's trying. She's always been a good grandma, and she's beginning to be more than that. It's cautious but it's real.

The nights are my favorite.

Lola's asleep on her stomach with her butt in the air like a tiny mountain. Alice insists she's too old for lullabies now, but still hums along when October sings in the hallway. Jimmy, taller than ever, plugs in his phone and calls his Carissa.

We go to bed together now. Every night. Some evenings we read. Sometimes we just lie there, her head on my chest, my fingers in her hair. We talk about the kids, the perfume shop, the new dogs snoring at the foot of our bed, and sometimes, we say nothing at all. Just exist beside each other.

Sex... hasn't happened. Not in the way it used to. But closeness, that we have. That we've rebuilt in quiet, patient steps. Nights where her body curled around mine, skin to skin beneath the sheets, her breath steady against my collarbone. Mornings where she'd linger in my arms, half-asleep, fingers tracing lazy lines along my ribs. There's still desire. Still the pull but it's different now, slower, deeper, waiting for safety to settle.

Because for October, it was never just about touch. Never just about release or routine. For her, sex has always been something sacred, something built on trust, emotional truth, presence. Love, translated through skin and silence and breath. After everything—after the distance, the betrayal, the heartbreak, she needed time. Not just to want again, but to feel safe wanting. To believe the wanting wouldn't hurt her.

So I never pushed. Never asked. Not once. I would've waited forever.

And then one night, she reached for me.

I was folding laundry in the bedroom, humming without thinking, half-distracted. She came up behind me, quiet as a breath, and pressed a kiss to the middle of my back, lips barely touching the fabric of my shirt. I turned to look at her, and something in her gaze stopped me still—open and bright, but edged with nerves. Like a hand held out across a bridge not fully rebuilt.

"I want to," she whispered.

I didn't ask what she meant. I knew. I set the basket aside. I took her face in my hands and I touched her the way she deserved, gently, reverently, like every inch of her mattered. Because she does. Because no matter how long it had been, no matter how much we'd had to relearn each other, loving October felt like discovering home all over again.

When October touched me that night, it wasn't just want. It was trust. A trust I hadn't always earned, but one she was offering anyway, like a new kind of vow. I followed her lead, letting her body guide mine, and when she kissed me, it felt like coming home to a place I thought I'd lost forever.

It wasn't urgent. God, no. It was tender. Full of pauses. Our mouths finding each other again and again, like we had all the time in the world to relearn every curve and breath and sound. And we did. I would've spent the rest of my life in that moment if she asked me to.

Afterwards, we didn't move much. Just stayed close. Her skin on mine, her breath slowing against my chest. Then she said softly, hesitantly.

"Can I tell you something?"

I looked at her, and something about the way she asked made me feel like this wasn't just pillow talk. It was something deeper. I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"I used to be scared to say what I wanted," she said. "Even in bed. Especially in bed."

I didn't say anything. Just watched her, waited.

"I have these fantasies," she went on. "Things I never told anyone. I didn't think I was allowed to want more than tenderness. To want to take the lead. To be bold. To tell you exactly how to touch me, or what to say."

I felt my heart slow into a different rhythm, but I didn't speak because this wasn't about me. This was about her opening a door she'd kept shut for years.

She laughed, but it was shaky. "I sound ridiculous."

"You sound brave," I said.

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, and in that instant, I saw her. Really saw her. The woman she'd always been, under the layers of shame and silence and self-protection. Fierce. Desiring. Soft and powerful at once.

"I didn't think you'd want that version of me," she whispered.

"I want all of you," I said. "Especially the parts you've hidden."

She kissed me again then, different this time. Slower, but with intention. Her hands moved with certainty, and when she rolled on top of me, her eyes never left mine.

"I want to try," she said. "To show you who I've always been... when I'm not scared."

In that moment, I would've handed her anything. The moon. My soul. Every inch of my body, just to prove she was safe now. Loved. Wanted. When we made love again, it was different. She told me what she liked. Took her time. Took me. and I followed gladly, gratefully, like she was both compass and destination.

Her voice didn't tremble as much this time. Her eyes stayed open and fixed on mine with a kind of quiet intensity that left no room for doubt. She moved with certainty, as if she was finally stepping into a space that had always belonged to her.

There were still quiet moments, her hand cupping my jaw, my fingers tracing her spine, her lips finding mine again and again between whispers. It lit something up in me I hadn't felt in years.  Not just the pleasure of skin or climax, but the deeper joy of seeing her come alive again in my arms. Of watching her reclaim this part of herself with no shame and no fear.

She kissed me harder then more demanding, more sure and I let her take me wherever she wanted to go. Her hips guiding the rhythm. Her hands on my chest. Her voice telling me what felt good, what she needed, what to keep doing. It wasn't a performance. It wasn't about being good. It was about being real.

After, we didn't rush to pull away. She stayed curled against me, her leg draped over mine, her cheek resting on my shoulder.

"I didn't know it could be like that," she murmured. "Not just soft or sweet, but... free. Fun."

I kissed her forehead. "You can have it any way you want. Every version of you is welcome here."

She looked up at me, eyes still bright, still open. "Even the version who might want to pin you down next time?"

I grinned. "Especially her."

For the first time in a long time, I saw it, the mix of mischief and trust in her smile. Not the mask she used to wear to seem okay, but something genuine. Something healed. She held onto me like she was drowning and being saved all at once. And when it was over, she buried her face in my chest and laughed through tears.

"I missed you," she said.

"I am here love," I whispered.

We didn't speak much after that. We didn't need to. She fell asleep with her fingers still laced through mine, and I lay there, holding her, breathing in the quiet miracle of being chosen again—fully, bravely, without conditions.

In the dark, after she fell asleep, I made a quiet promise: I would never let her forget this feeling. The safety. The joy. The power of it all. After a while, I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her. I went to the study, sat down in the low lamplight, and opened the worn leather notebook that held the collection of letters I'd been writing her,

Dear October,

Tonight, after you fell asleep with your fingers still tangled in mine, I lay there in the dark for a long time. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to break whatever spell the universe had placed around us. I just held you and listened to your breath, like a prayer answered in real time.

Eventually, I got up because something inside me needed to be written down. Maybe so I could remember this night for the rest of my life. Maybe so I could prove to myself that it happened. That you let me back in.

October... making love to you again; it wasn't just closeness, or relief, or desire finally given space to breathe. It was everything. It felt like stepping back into a home I thought I'd lost forever. Like wandering through a storm, half-alive, and finding my way by the memory of your skin, your voice, the way your eyes stay open now when we touch.

You held me tonight with your body and your trust. That's what undid me.

I didn't know how much I missed being known by you like this, how much I missed the sound you make when you're somewhere between laughter and tears, the way you tilt your head into my neck, like you're making room for both of us in the same breath. I didn't know how much I longed to feel welcomed again.

I carried so much shame into this room. Shame for the damage I caused. For the ways I left you lonely even when I was beside you. For how I treated something sacred like it was ordinary. I'll never stop wishing I could undo those things but tonight—you—you reminded me that love isn't about undoing. It's about choosing and you chose me again.

Do you know how holy that is? To be trusted by you? After everything?

Your bravery takes my breath away. Your softness undoes me and your love—this love—is the safest thing I've ever known.

I will spend the rest of my life honoring what you gave me tonight. I won't forget. I won't take it for granted. I'll hold this moment like I held you: gently, fully, with everything I have.

We are still writing this 온라인카지노게임. And tonight was a new chapter.

For October. For always.

Love,
Thomas

I woke to the faint sound of laughter, October's, light and bright, curling through the room like music I hadn't realized I'd been missing. For a second, I thought I was dreaming. Then I turned my head.

She was perched on the edge of the bed, knees tucked beneath her, wearing one of my old t-shirts, her hair still sleep-messy and wild. Her eyes sparkled with that mischievous glow that used to undo me in a heartbeat. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she said, voice playful as she nudged me with a pillow.

I groaned, rubbing my eyes like I hadn't just spent half the night hoping she'd still be there when I woke up. "You're early."

"Am I?" she grinned, tugging the blanket down a little so she could see me better. "Or maybe I just couldn't wait to see you again."

Her fingers brushed against mine, soft, unhurried, and suddenly the bed felt too big without her curled up beside me. I reached for her hand and gave it a gentle tug, wordlessly inviting her back into the space I'd been saving for her.

She crawled under the covers without hesitation, settling against me like she belonged there. Like she never left. We lay like that for a while, just breathing each other in, skin warm against skin, hearts beating in sync. She looked up at me, her voice low and drowsy. "You know," she murmured, "we should probably get up but I don't want to move yet."

I kissed the tip of her nose and smiled against her skin. "Me neither."

So we stayed like that, tangled in warmth and memory, the world quietly waiting on the other side of the bedroom door. It was the kind of morning we'd only dared to dream about during the harder months, uncomplicated, quiet, full of promise.

Of course, the universe had other plans.

Without warning, the door flew open with a bang loud enough to make us both flinch.

"DAAAD!" came Alice's voice, shrill with excitement as she barreled into the room like a tiny whirlwind.

I instinctively grabbed at the sheets, yanking them up to my chin like I was starring in some sort of awkward sitcom. "Morning, sweetheart!" I croaked, voice cracking slightly. "Could you maybe—uh—give us a second?"

Too late. She was already on the bed, bouncing, tugging at the edge of the covers like it was a curtain she fully intended to yank open. "Come ON! I made a drawing and you have to see it now or it disappears!"

October was laughing so hard her shoulders shook, offering zero assistance as I scrambled to keep the blanket securely around me.

"Sweetie," she managed between giggles, "Daddy's just... not ready to get up yet."

"Not ready?" Alice frowned. "Is he in trouble?"

"No, no trouble," I said quickly, my voice half-muffled by the pillow I was trying to disappear into. "I just need a minute, kiddo. Grown-up stuff. Very serious blanket-related business."

Alice tilted her head, clearly unconvinced. "You look weird."

"That's because I'm hiding," I said, trying to sound mysterious rather than mildly panicked. "It's part of a very important game. The Stay-in-Bed Challenge. Very advanced."

October snorted. "He's losing."

Alice looked at both of us suspiciously, like we were trying to keep the best game a secret from her. "Can I play?"

"Maybe later," October said, sliding off the bed and gently guiding her toward the door. "Right now, why don't you go check on Lola? I think Jimmy made her breakfast."

"He did," Alice said proudly. "He said 'Madam, your juice awaits,' and bowed like this—" She gave a dramatic, wobbly bow, nearly toppling over.

"Perfect. Go make sure he doesn't drink all the juice."

"Okay!" she chirped, and darted out of the room, slamming the door behind her with all the subtlety of a marching band.

I exhaled loudly, flopping back onto the pillow. "Well. That was terrifying."

October climbed back under the covers, grinning. "You handled it with such grace."

"I was five seconds away from throwing myself out the window."

She kissed my cheek. "Next time, maybe sleep with at least a little dignity."

"Dignity's overrated," I murmured, wrapping my arm around her. Then I burst out laughing. It started with a giggle, half panic, half relief, and then I just let it out, pressing my face into the mattress.

I reached for her hand under the covers. "I know it's chaos. I know we're a mess half the time. But I don't think I've ever been this happy."

She leaned in and kissed my forehead. "Me neither."

Just like that, beneath the muffled sounds of cartoon voices and waffle negotiations drifting down the hall, and broken stuff, I felt it again, pride, contentment, the overwhelming certainty that despite the madness, we'd finally built something worth holding onto.