3. Wynter

CHAPTER 3

WYNTER

The car’s tires crunched over the snow as I drove through Aspen Ridge. Twenty-one months away hadn’t changed the place. It was still as picturesque as I remembered, the kind of town that felt suspended in time, where everyone knew everyone, and news traveled faster than the wind whipping down from the mountains. The streets were lined with snowbanks, untouched save for a few tire tracks and footprints.

As I passed Mabel’s Sweet Treats, I slowed the car. Taran had mentioned he still worked there, even after everything. I hadn’t asked much more than that—just hearing him say it had pulled at something in my chest. The little bakery, with its frosted windows and wreath on the door, looked the same as it always had. Cozy. Inviting. It was the kind of place you’d go with friends to share coffee and pastries, the smell of sugar and cinnamon clinging to your clothes long after you’d left.

I could still picture the three of us, three best friends—Royce, Taran, and me—sitting at the counter, laughing about something stupid. That was before… everything. Before Royce and Taran became a “them.” Before I stepped aside and buried whatever I thought I felt for Taran under layers of friendship and loyalty. But now? Now it felt like all those layers were being pulled back, one by one.

But seeing Taran now? It was like stepping back in time, a jolt to the chest that I wasn’t prepared for. The way he opened that door—effortless, like nothing had changed, like I hadn’t been gone for almost two years. Clean-shaven, his face still had that youthful, almost innocent look, framed by that windswept mess of sandy-blond hair that looked like he’d run his hand through it a dozen times just to make it fall like that. He was lean, still wiry, but there was muscle under it—a kind of strength that didn’t scream for attention. He didn’t need to. The way he carried himself, it was quiet, like he didn’t have to prove anything.

But underneath that softness, there was always something tougher. Something I knew wasn’t easily broken. His blue eyes still held that warmth, the kind that could make you forget how harsh the world was for a second. It was like stepping back in time, only now, Royce wasn’t there. It was just me standing in front of him, wanting things I had no right to want. But there was something different now, something dimmed in those eyes. The spark was still there, but it had been buried under grief. You could see it, if you knew where to look.

I’d always admired how he didn’t try too hard to be something he wasn’t, never putting on airs. But this? This was different. This wasn’t just the Taran I’d known. This was a man who had carried more than his fair share of weight these last five years. And damn if that didn’t hit harder than anything I’d faced on the front lines.

What had I even said to him? Something about cupcakes? God, it was awkward, like I couldn’t find the words. Like I didn’t know who I was anymore.

I clenched the steering wheel, the cold leather biting into my skin through my gloves.

I shouldn’t have gone to Taran’s place. What was I even thinking, showing up like that after five years? It wasn’t normal. But then again, nothing about the last five years had been normal for any of us. I told myself it was to check on him, to see how he and Rory were doing, but deep down, I knew it was more than that.

I remembered the first time I realized it wasn’t just girls who had my attention. Fourteen years old, and I had this… confusion. That’s when it started—realizing I wasn’t only crushing on girls, but boys too. I tried to ignore it, tried to shove it away, tell myself it was just a phase. It didn’t make sense, not in the world I grew up in.

And then came the night I realized—really realized—that I was attracted to my best friend, Taran. Eighteen, standing there beside him as I always had, and suddenly, everything about him—the way he laughed, the way his eyes lit up—hit me like a freight train. I could barely breathe when I saw him—when I really saw him—and my world shifted on its axis. But I shoved that down too. I’d enlisted to be a soldier. I had a duty. I couldn't be that guy.

And then at twenty-four, it hit me all over again, but this time it wasn’t something I could ignore. That was the night I’d finally worked up the courage to tell Taran the truth, about everything. About how I felt. I’d thought maybe he felt it too, maybe we could finally talk about it. But before I could open my mouth, Royce—goddamn him—beat me to it. He told me, right then, that he’d always been gay but had never been able to admit it. Not because of me, not because of Taran, but because of his homophobic family. Then, like it wasn’t enough, he dropped the bomb. He was in love with Taran.

Royce had looked at me then, waiting for a reaction, but I couldn’t give him one. Not when he’d just taken such a huge step, not when he was laying his heart bare. How could I? How could I say that I, too, was in love with Taran? That I’d spent years hiding it, too afraid to even admit it to myself?

I wanted to tell him. God, I wanted to tell him. But seeing Royce there, vulnerable and honest, I couldn’t ask Taran to choose between Royce and me, the two people he loved most. It wasn’t fair.

So, I stepped back. I told Royce to go for it, that if he truly loved Taran, he had to. Watching them fall for each other, watching Taran look at him with that light in his eyes—gutted me. But I knew I’d made the right choice. They were perfect for each other.

And me? I was just a shadow in the background, quietly loving someone who would never look at me the way I wanted him to. Never love me the way I loved him. But that was okay. I could live with that. Because sometimes loving someone meant letting them go.

I swallowed hard, forcing the thoughts down where they belonged.

This was ridiculous. Taran was still grieving, still trying to hold his life together for Rory. And me? I was married. Lisa was waiting for me. She deserved my attention, my commitment. My loyalty.

But why did it feel like my chest tightened more the further I got from Taran’s house?

Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, covering the streets in a fresh blanket of white. I drove past Jesse’s Pub & Grill, the neon lights glowing faintly in the afternoon light, reminding me of too many nights spent in that smoky corner booth with Royce and Taran, laughing until our throats were sore. And Hank’s Auto Repair down the road, where we used to drop by to chat with Hank the owner about cars and life, all of it feeling like a lifetime ago.

The heater in the rental car barely kept the chill at bay, but it wasn’t just the cold outside. It was the weight in my chest, the way my thoughts kept circling back to Taran. How he looked when he opened the door, the way his lips curved into that soft smile that had always knocked the breath out of me, even when I tried to ignore it. I hadn’t seen him in so long, and yet, standing there on his doorstep, it was like no time had passed at all.

Except for the ache. The grief behind his eyes that never seemed to fade.

I swung onto Birch Avenue and a couple minutes later, pulled up in front of the house—Lisa’s and my house—and shut off the engine. The house looked the same. Too perfect, really. It was a large colonial-style home, with white-painted brick and a sprawling porch that wrapped around the front. Lisa’s parents had given it to us as a wedding gift, and it always looked like it belonged in a magazine spread. Tall windows lined the front, each one framed by elegant shutters, and the roof was dusted with a thick layer of snow, adding to its pristine, almost unreal appearance. It was the kind of house people stopped to admire, but it never felt like home . Like it had been frozen in time, waiting for me to come back and pick up where we left off. But nothing felt right. Not the warm lights glowing from the windows, not the familiar wreath hanging on the front door.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the house, feeling the weight of what I’d just left behind at Taran’s. The door I should’ve walked away from years ago but never fully did.

A sharp gust of wind rattled the windows, and I snapped back to the present. This was ridiculous. I was home now. Lisa was here. And that’s all that mattered.

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the cold, my boots sinking into the snow as I made my way to the front door. The flakes swirled around me, settling on my shoulders. I had my keys in my pocket, ready to unlock the door, but something made me hesitate. I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated again, my chest tightening for reasons I couldn’t explain. Without fully knowing why, I knocked twice. The sound echoed in the stillness, and I felt my heart thud against my chest.

Seconds ticked by. Footsteps approached, light and familiar. Before I could prepare myself, the door swung open. And there she was.

Lisa.

My beautiful wife.

Or the woman I thought I knew. The surprise that painted her face would almost be laughable if it wasn’t paired with the kind of shock that ripped through me like a bullet.

She squealed, her hand flying to her chest. Champagne-blonde curls framed her slim face, and her hazel eyes—those eyes I used to drown in—were now wide, staring back at me in horror.

We stood there, both frozen. A thick, uncomfortable silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the loud pounding in my chest. It was like time had stopped. My mind refused to work, refused to comprehend what I was looking at.

But my eyes… they knew. They locked onto her midsection, where a reality I wasn’t prepared for sat heavy and undeniable.

Her belly. Her very pregnant belly.

What the hell?

I hadn’t been home in almost two years.

My heartbeat roared in my ears. My blood turned cold. I forced my feet to move, stepping inside and letting my bag hit the floor with a dull thud against the steel-gray rug. The house— our house—was just as perfect as I remembered. The landscape painting on the wall, the glass jar overflowing with white roses on the foyer table, all of it screamed familiarity. To anyone else it would feel like home… but to me it was a lie.

I folded my arms over my chest, the fury building like a tidal wave. “Whose baby is it?”

Lisa’s face drained of color as her hand fidgeted with her hair, a nervous habit I knew too well. The delicate features that once stirred desire in me now only disgusted me. She stood there, pregnant with another man’s child, like a living, breathing betrayal.

“I—Wynter, what are you doing here?”

Of course, she was surprised to see me. Thoughts raced in my head. Did she think I wouldn’t come home? That I’d never find out? Was she shacking up with the father of this baby? Was the asshole in our house right now? My ears pricked as I listened for any tiny sound that would betray the presence of her lover, but there was no noise. Either he was smart enough to keep quiet, or else she was alone.

Either way, I wasn’t going to stick around for long.

My jaw clenched so tight I thought it might snap. “Yeah, I bet you were happy to see the back of me. Maybe you were hoping I’d die out there in some desert so you could live your life in peace.”