Living in Sin
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 24: I've Looked At Life From Both Sides Now
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 24: I've Looked At Life From Both Sides Now - Two single-parent sheriff’s deputies move into a wealthy, uptight neighborhood and accidentally set off a storm of paranoia, lust, and suburban meltdown. As judgmental neighbors spiral, sexually frustrated housewives come calling. Amid threesomes, gossip, and chaos, Scott and Maggie discover their friendship hides something deeper. Darkly funny, raw, and fearless, Living in Sin is a satire of morality, desire, and the lies we live behind picket fences.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Illustrated
Scott opened his eyes to darkness. The room was still, quiet, the kind of silence that came before the world stirred. Only the red digits of Maggie’s projection clock glowed faintly on the ceiling: 06:30.
Too early for the kids. On Christmas break, they’d probably sleep until eight. Deserved it, too. Last night was the first time they’d actually made it to midnight for the New Year’s Eve ball drop instead of conking out and watching it on YouTube the next morning. Christopher—freshly seven, birthday just two weeks past—and Katie—ten in eleven more days—had been beaming as the confetti came down. He hadn’t had the heart to tell them it was a three-hour tape delay out of New York. Let them believe they’d witnessed it live.
Scott was in Maggie’s bed. He’d slept here a good part of the time since Christmas, slipping in so often it no longer felt like sneaking. She liked him there—said it made her feel safe, loved. And he liked it too. The comfort of a woman beside him, the warmth of her body close, sometimes just to sleep, sometimes not. He hadn’t had that since the marriage to the late Mrs. Scott Dover—and Maggie was much better at it. She never pushed him away complaining he was too hot. She seemed to like his heat. He certainly liked hers.
But this morning the bed was empty. Maggie had gone to work at 1930 last night, her New Year’s Eve shift, and still had not returned. He’d stayed up with the kids, tucked them in after midnight, and finally crashed here alone. He told himself it was because her bed was more comfortable than his—and it truly was. He was not fooling himself about what the real reason was.
The quiet broke. The garage door rumbled open below, then the thud of the side door. Footsteps crossed the hardwood.
Maggie’s steps.
He’d know them anywhere.
The bedroom door clicked and swung open. Light flooded in as Maggie hit the switch, making Scott squint against it. She stood in the doorway in her winter civvies—jeans, tennis shoes, a heavy jacket zipped up to her throat. Her hair was pinned back but already trying to escape, face pale and drawn from a long New Year’s Eve shift. She looked harried, tired, every line of her body saying she wanted nothing more than to collapse.
Scott shifted uneasily under the blankets. This was the first time he’d slept in her bed without her at least starting the journey with him. A flicker of doubt moved through him. Had he crossed a line?
He thought about everything they’d done since that first encounter with Lena on the couch downstairs. Maggie wanted to experience everything when it came to sex with a man. Once she got past the shock of her entire sexual identity being turned inside out, she’d embraced it—every difference between her life with women and the new fire she’d found with him. They’d done everything two women couldn’t do together without toys or props. She liked missionary best, confessed the weight of him above her, his control, turned her on. But she also liked the opposite—straddling him, taking that control for herself, grinding down until they both lost it. Two sides of the same coin, both burning bright.
It had been a hell of a week. But did that mean he could just climb into her bed whenever he wanted? He was about to find out.
Maggie’s eyes landed on him. She paused, then a small, tired smile curved her mouth.
“I was hoping to find you there,” she said softly.
Relief loosened the knot in his chest. “I was afraid I overplayed my hand,” he said. “Thanks for not giving me the what-is-that-cockroach-doing-in-here look while putting your hand on your gun.”
She giggled a little. “I totally should have done that. Started an argument. Pissed you off. Sent you to your own room. And then we could have had make-up sex. I’ve heard that’s good shit too.”
“Isn’t it with women?” he asked.
“It is,” she said, “but it takes a long time. You have to get through all the crying and emotions and talking it out before you get to the good part. Guys just go straight there, don’t they?”
Scott thought back to his marriage—the only real place he would have had the right sort of conditions for make-up sex to occur. He didn’t remember it happening. He remembered lots of fighting and arguing and withholding of emotional intimacy on both of their parts, but they’d always just kept fucking each other without the intimacy. Not as good, but still kind of hot. But this was not the time to disagree and go down a rabbit hole about how his marriage had sucked (but had really good sex).
“We do have a tendency to do that,” he agreed. “How was the shift last night?”
Maggie groaned and dropped her jacket onto the chair by the door. She pulled her off-duty Glock off her belt and set it down on her nightstand in easy reach. “Busy. Fourteen calls in ten hours, two jail transports. It felt like we never stopped moving.”
Working New Year’s Eve sucked ass. Scott had worked the last one on patrol and the one before that in booking at the jail. It was, in fact, the single busiest day and night of the year—hands down—for the last fourteen years running. The only time it had been edged out was the Fourth of July in 2011, the ten-year anniversary of 9/11 approaching, when every yahoo with a Roman candle and a backyard had felt compelled to make a statement. Even that had only barely nudged New Year’s Eve off the throne. It was the ultimate amateur drinking night mixed with explosives.
Maggie untied her shoes, kicked them off one at a time. “And I think all the gunfire at midnight broke the fuckin’ ShotSpotter system. El-tee called it at 00:30—told dispatch to stop taking reports from the system. Too many pops, too much data. The computers couldn’t even keep up.”
“That’s a lot of gunfire,” Scott said.
She peeled out of her sweater, down to a long-sleeved T-shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. The dark circles under her eyes told the story as much as her words did.
“You want me to make you some breakfast?” Scott asked. “I could whip up a scramble. Or maybe some pancakes.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t get my dinner until four-fuckin’-thirty. That’s how busy it was. I’m not really hungry.” Then her lips curved in a tired smile. “But I would enjoy a tactile exchange of internally generated biochemical heat between the two of us.”
Scott blinked. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“It means I want to cuddle with you while I go to sleep,” she said. “It sounded more scientific that way.”
Scott chuckled and felt that warmth he felt so often these days spreading in his chest.
“Let me just take a shower and wash the night away. Don’t go anywhere.”
Scott didn’t go anywhere. He stayed in the bed, stretched out in nothing but his boxers, Maggie’s sheets warm around him. From the bathroom came the hum of the fan and the splash of water, then silence as the shower cut off. A few minutes later the door opened, steam rolling into the bedroom ahead of her.
She came out naked, toweling her hair as she padded toward the dresser. The sight of her hit him like it always did—strong shoulders, sleek muscle along her arms and thighs, curves softened by steam and damp skin. A few drops still clung to her stomach before trailing lower.
Scott didn’t bother pretending not to look.
She caught him perving on her and a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “Do I ogle you when you’re getting ready for bed?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “You do.”
“No way.” She shook her head, towel still working at her hair. “I don’t ogle.”
“The fuck you don’t,” he teased. “I’ve seen you do it.”
She gave a little scoff, tossing the towel onto the chair. “If I’m looking, it’s not because I’m ogling. It’s because I’m still trying to figure out what the hell made me invite an outie in here.”
“Because I’ve got something your girlfriends don’t have?” he suggested, mock-serious.
It was meant as a joke, but the words seemed to land harder than he expected. For half a second she froze, then let out a quiet laugh that didn’t quite hide the truth behind it. “Maybe you do.”
The smile returned as she flicked off the light and crossed the room. She slid under the covers with him, her skin still warm from the shower, her damp hair brushing against his chest. She smelled of soap layered over the faint, familiar scent of Maggie. Perfect.
He pulled her close, arm around her waist. She fit against him like she’d always belonged there. Her breathing slowed almost at once, exhaustion pulling her under.
Scott let himself follow, drifting off with her pressed tight against him.
The next thing he heard was movement out in the hallway—small feet padding against the floorboards, cupboard doors opening and shutting. He blinked awake, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. Maggie’s projection clock glowed 08:30. The room itself was still black as midnight; her blackout curtains didn’t let a single shard of morning through. Beside her, her phone kept playing the endless white noise of surf, the roar and hush of the ocean filling the silence between their breaths.
Scott tried to ease out from under the covers, careful as he could, but her body shifted anyway.
“What time is it?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“Eight-thirty,” he whispered back. “Kiddos are up and moving. I better go make breakfast before they start gnawing on those fancy candles that smell like food.”
That earned him a sleepy smile. She leaned in and kissed him. Her mouth tasted of toothpaste, faint and clean.
“Thanks for holding me,” she said. “Wouldn’t mind if you came back once they’re settled. You need your sleep too. Kids are used to us both being down all day on Thursdays.”
“Deal,” he said softly.
He slipped out of bed, pulled the door shut behind him, and walked down the stairs to his own room. A pair of sweats and a T-shirt later, he headed into the kitchen.
Scott padded into the kitchen in bare feet. Both kids were already at the counter in their pajamas, perched on stools with glasses of milk and half-devoured blueberry muffins in front of them. ‘Pre-breakfast’ they called it. Neither looked like they had any intention of changing out of jammies today. Thursdays during school breaks tended to be that way.
“Morning, monsters,” he said.
“Morning, Dad,” Katie answered brightly, sugar crumbs on her chin.
“Morning, Scott,” Christopher added, solemn as a judge.
Scott fired up the griddle, the click, whoosh, and hum filling the quiet house. “Alright, what’s the order this morning? Pancakes? Eggs?”
“Both,” Katie declared.
“Both,” Christopher echoed, like it was official business.
Scott sighed theatrically and pulled the big mixing bowl from the cupboard, setting it on the counter with a hollow thump. He reached for the pancake mix and a measuring cup.
Christopher frowned. “Hey ... isn’t that the big bowl you and Mom give us to carry around when we might throw up?”
“That’s the one,” Scott said. “The family puke bowl.”
Christopher made a face. “But you’re making pancakes in it? That’s gross!”
Scott shrugged, measuring the mix. “We washed it the last time someone puked in it.”
“That was me,” Katie piped up. “Too much Halloween candy.”
Scott gave her a look. “And yet here you are, eating muffins for pre-breakfast.”
Katie grinned, unrepentant, and took another bite.
Batter mixed, Scott started pouring neat circles onto the hot griddle. The smell of browning batter filled the kitchen, sweet and warm. When the last round of pancakes was stacked high on a plate in the oven to stay warm, he finally turned his attention to the carton of eggs.
“Now, about the eggs—how do you want yours? And do not tell me poached again, Christopher Adam Winslow. I’m not even entirely sure what poaching actually is.”
“Scrambled for me,” Christopher said quickly.
Katie’s eyes gleamed. “Give me a gooshy eyeball egg.”
Scott arched a brow. She’d been doing this for months—calling an over-easy egg an eyeball so she could stab the yolk and watch it ooze across the plate. He still wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or impressed. Maybe it was training for her future: cop, medic, nurse, someone who’d have to know that there was such a thing as maggots in living flesh. And that they were tiny but very numerous.
He shook his head to clear it. He had suspected that that particular work memory was not going to stay at work with his gear. No, it had followed him home. Hopefully it wouldn’t stay long.
“Gooshy eyeball egg, coming up,” he said, cracking one into the pan.
Katie beamed like she’d just won a prize.
Scott slid Katie’s egg onto her plate and set it down in front of her. She grinned, stabbed the yolk, and watched with satisfaction as the “eyeball juice” spread across one pancake. She ate that one messy and dripping, then lined up two more from the stack. A smear of peanut butter, a generous pour of syrup—that was her masterpiece. Nana had introduced her to the peanut butter trick, and now she swore by it.
With Katie occupied, Scott cracked five eggs into a bowl, whisking in salt, pepper, and a splash of milk. The scramble came together quick. He split it between two plates, set pancakes alongside, and carried them to the table where Christopher was waiting.
Christopher always ate his eggs first, every bite gone before he touched the pancakes. Then came the butter and syrup, never peanut butter. Peanut butter on pancakes belonged to Katie and Scott—an inherited thing from Mom. Maggie and Christopher both thought it was odd, and they stuck to the “normal” way.
Christopher eyed the little red bottle by Scott’s plate. What he really wanted was to like Tabasco. Scott always doused his eggs with it, and if Scott did it, it had to be cool. Today, Christopher’s expression was serious as he shook the bottle carefully over his scramble.
“I’m going to put four drops on my eggs today,” he said. Three was his current record.
Scott raised an eyebrow. “Four? You might actually start to taste it.”
“I can taste it,” Christopher said with quiet conviction.
Scott hid a smile, mixing up his own eggs.
That was when Katie looked up from her peanut-butter-and-syrup tower, knife still in hand. “Hey, Dad? How come you weren’t in your room when we got up?”
Scott took in a deep breath. He and Maggie had still not told the kids about the new aspect of their relationship, mostly because they had not been able to fully define it themselves. But there were a few things that they likely could not help but notice. They were bright and inquisitive, both of them. They saw that Maggie and Scott were now routinely kissing each other on the lips, hugging each other more than they used to, longer than they used to, closer than they used to. And it was kind of unrealistic to expect them not to notice that Scott was now sleeping in Maggie’s room, both when Maggie was there and, like last night, when she wasn’t.
He and Maggie had discussed this. They really did plan to sit both of them down and explain the situation. “Soon,” was when they told each other they were going to do it. “Let’s figure out what the hell we’re really doing here first.” But they had also agreed not to lie to them. If they flat out asked a question, it would be answered. Both of them thought that a good rule at the time, likely because both thought it would be the other who would catch the question.
No such luck for Scott Dover.
“I ... uh ... I slept in Maggie’s room last night.”
This caught Christopher’s full attention. “Why?” he asked. “She wasn’t even there.”
“She said I could,” Scott said. “Her bed is much more comfortable than mine.”
They were both looking at him. “You never slept in her bed before,” Katie said. “Sometimes you shower in there, just like us, but you never slept there.”
Scott sighed. He knew when he was caught.
“Alright,” he said. “You’re right. Maggie and I ... we’ve kind of changed our relationship a little.”
Both kids were watching him intently now, forks halfway to their mouths.
Katie asked first. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Scott said carefully, “that we’re still the very best friends in the world with each other. That hasn’t changed. But we decided we wanted to try being together as a couple too, just to see if it would work.”
Katie tilted her head. “Like boyfriend and girlfriend?”
“Something like that,” Scott said. “Except grown-up.”
Christopher looked at him steadily. “Does this mean you’re going to get married?”
“Not right now,” Scott answered. “We don’t know yet. That’s something we’d have to decide together later. Right now we’re just trying to see how it feels.”
Katie’s eyes widened. “Are we going to have a brother or a sister?”
Scott blinked. “That’s not the plan at this time.”
“But if you did,” Katie pressed, “would the baby be my brother or sister? Or Christopher’s brother or sister? Or both?”
“Both,” Scott said. “It would be your brother or sister, and it would be Christopher’s brother or sister too. Just like you two are already like brother and sister now, even though you came from different moms and dads.”
Katie seemed satisfied with that, and went back to dragging her pancake through peanut butter and syrup.
Christopher wasn’t done. “I thought Mom only liked girls.”
Scott nodded. “She usually does. But sometimes life surprises you. She wanted to try being with me. And I wanted to try being with her.”
Christopher considered this for a long moment. “What if it doesn’t work? Can you go back to just being friends?”
That one stopped Scott. He looked at both of them, their young faces waiting for his answer, and he realized he didn’t have one.
“I don’t know,” he admitted at last. “That’s the truth. But what I can promise you is this: No matter what happens, Maggie and I will always love you both. And we’ll always do what’s best for you.”
Katie looked at Christopher, then back at Scott. “We should vote on this.”
Christopher nodded. “Yeah. We vote.”
They put their heads together for a few seconds, whispering in a way Scott pretended not to hear. Then they both turned back.
Katie announced their verdict. “We voted that you and Mom should get married.”
Christopher added, “Is that something you can do today? Or do you have to wait until Monday?”
Scott felt a laugh bubble up despite himself. “It doesn’t quite work that fast, Chris. But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
Katie grinned. Christopher went back to his eggs like the matter had been settled.
After that, the table fell back into the usual rhythm. No more deep questions, just kids being kids. Christopher and Katie locked into one of their standard debates—this time over whether Minecraft was better on console or tablet. Katie swore the console version was smoother and looked cooler on the big screen, while Christopher insisted the tablet was better because you could take it anywhere and play in bed. Their voices climbed, hands waved for emphasis, and neither convinced the other. Classic kid argument—pointless, endless, and somehow vital to both of them.
When the last bites of pancake and eggs were gone, Scott set them to cleaning up. Plates clattered, silverware scraped, counters got wiped down—more or less. He left them to it and headed for the living room and its fancy-ass wet bar.
Thursday mornings had their rhythm. First night of his work week, so he always downed a melatonin and a double pour of Kirkland’s 12-year old scotch before bed. The combo took the edge off and made sure he’d actually sleep through the day. Usually he took his time with it—sip by sip, letting the burn settle while the kids straightened up the house.
Not today. Today Maggie was upstairs, warm and waiting. He swallowed the melatonin, poured the scotch, and finished it quicker than usual. The sharp heat hit hard, but that was fine. He wanted the bed more than the drink.
Back in the kitchen doorway, he called, “I’m going to catch some sleep before work tonight. Make sure the house is Nana clean by four o’clock.”
Katie looked up from stacking forks into the dishwasher. “But Nana doesn’t even get here until six.”
Scott fixed her with a look. “You will find, daughter of mine, that in life, orders you are given may not always make sense. They may even be counterproductive to the overall goal. But you still have to follow them. Just like this one. Have the freaking house Nana clean by four o’clock. And don’t even think about playing with the definition of ‘Nana clean’ again. Maggie and I are hardened street cops. We know that game.”
“Okay,” both kids said quickly.
Satisfied, Scott ducked into his bathroom, took a long piss, and washed his hands. When he came back out, he started up the stairs. Katie, carrying a bundle of dishtowels toward the laundry room, caught sight of him on the steps.
“Are you going to sleep with Maggie again?” she asked.
“I am,” Scott said.
Katie’s face broke into a smile. “Okay.”
Clear as day, she approved. Katie didn’t really know what “sleeping with” meant, but she knew it was a sign of love. She had some memories of her mom, though they were fuzzy around the edges—snapshots more than anything else—but she knew enough to understand that having a mom was a good thing. And if her dad was sleeping with a woman that Katie loved and that Dad loved too, that felt like a step toward finally having one again.
Scott slipped back into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. The room was pitch-black, the blackout curtains doing their job. The sound of waves rolled steady from Maggie’s phone on the nightstand, masking her breathing, but he didn’t need to hear it to know she was there. Waiting. Ready to welcome him.
He lingered by the door for a moment, hand brushing the knob. He could lock it, but he didn’t. The kids had been trusted with the secret now. They could be trusted not to barge in without knocking first.
He stripped out of his shirt and sweats, hesitated, then peeled off the boxers too. Half-hard already, though he hadn’t come up here with plans for anything but sleep. Sleepy time, as Katie called it.
He slid under the covers. Maggie was on her right side, her back to him. He scooted close until his skin met hers, warm and soft. He draped his arm over her soft, bare belly, and she sighed contentedly, nestling back into him.
“Kids on autopilot?” she asked, voice drowsy.
“They are,” he said. “Though they noticed I wasn’t in my bed this morning.”
She stirred slightly. “What did they say?”
He told her—about Katie’s question, Christopher’s follow-up, his own answer.
“How’d they take it?”
“They seemed quite happy, actually.”
Maggie was quiet a moment, then said softly, “That makes me feel good inside.”
She wiggled against him, her bare butt brushing his half-stirred cock, the movement deliberate.
“Would you like to make me feel good inside too?” she asked.
Scott sighed with mock indignation. “If I must,” he said. “Dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.”
Her little wiggle became larger, more deliberate. He slid his hand down her stomach, into the warmth between her thighs. She was already wet in the most delicious way. She shifted, making room for him, as his middle finger slid gently between her lips and into the tightness of her body.
Scott rolled her gently onto her back, covering her with his body. No preamble, no long buildup—just the quiet urgency of two people who knew each other well enough to skip the formalities. He eased himself inside of her, marveling again at how tight she was. She moaned softly at his intrusion and put her mouth to his, kissing him, twirling her tongue with his.
“I can’t get over how good of a kisser you are, Dover,” she whispered.
“Thank you,” he whispered back and then kissed her some more. He began to move inside of her, slow at first, then steady.
Maggie hooked her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. She clutched at his shoulders, teeth grazing his neck, breath catching in his ear.
It didn’t take long. It wasn’t meant to. Just a quick, hungry connection, both of them chasing release before sleep pulled them under. Maggie tightened around him, shuddering quietly as she came, and that was enough to send him over the edge with her.
He kissed her once again, soft, lingering, before rolling onto his side. She followed, curling into his chest, her breathing slowing almost immediately.
Scott held her close, eyes drifting shut, the ocean still roaring from her phone. They slid into sleep together, wrapped in warmth, bodies spent, hearts steady.
The sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand pulled him up out of sleep. He cracked an eye, caught the red digits glowing 16:00 on Maggie’s ceiling.
Careful this time, he slipped out from under the covers without waking her. He pulled on his boxers, sweats, and shirt, and eased the bedroom door shut behind him.
As he padded downstairs, he made the same mental note he’d been making all week—stash some basics up there. Deodorant, toothbrush, razor, body wash that didn’t smell like fruit stand at the farmer’s market. It was starting to feel less like “borrowing her room” and more like he might be there to stay. At least for now.
Back in his own room, he washed his hands, scrubbed his face, brushed his teeth. Then he stepped into the main part of the house.
The TV glowed in the living room. Christopher and Katie sat cross-legged on the rug, controllers in hand, locked in on the dragon game she’d gotten for Christmas. They were laughing, jostling each other’s shoulders, leaning in with the same intensity. Looked like they were bonding over it, which was good to see.
“What’s for dinner?” Christopher asked without looking away from the screen.
“Meatloaf,” Scott said. This made both of them happy. They were fans of his meatloaf, both in freshly cooked form and as leftovers to make sandwiches out of.
The recipe was rote memory by now. Lean ground sirloin, chopped onion, fresh garlic, oregano, breadcrumbs, salt, pepper, Worcestershire sauce, a couple of Mom’s eggs. Mix it all together, pack it in the pan, then spread a layer of medium salsa on top. Ninety minutes at 350.
He’d put mac and cheese on the stove when it was closer to done, steam a bag of frozen spinach to pretend there was balance. Easy peasy on a worknight. He didn’t aspire to culinary greatness when he had a patrol shift coming. Dinner just had to be hot, filling, and there.
It took him only fifteen minutes to assemble the meatloaf and slide it into the oven. He scrubbed the raw beef from his hands at the kitchen sink, then headed for his room to run through the ritual—shave, shit, and shower.
Clean again, he dressed in jeans and a faded 49ers T-shirt. He was still holding out hope they’d sneak into the playoffs this year. They just had to beat the Cardinals in the final game on Sunday. At least that’s what he’d been reading—he hadn’t managed to watch a single game all season.
Back in the living room, he stretched out on the couch with a paperback while the kids kept at the dragon game. They’d done a solid Nana clean on the place—counters wiped, dishes squared away, floors picked up and vacuumed. When he praised them, they just grunted in unison, like did you expect anything else?
At 17:30 he put a pot on the stove for the shells and cheese—the good stuff with the squeeze pack of cheese sauce instead of the powder. Classy shit. At 17:55 he tossed a bag of spinach into the steamer, knowing damn well Mom would be the only one to eat more than a token bite.
And right on time, at 18:00 sharp, the front door lock clicked. The familiar sound of a key, followed by the swing of the door. Mom stepped in with her travel bag over one shoulder and a paper sack of goodies for the kids in the other, her smile wide and ready.
“Hello, my loves,” Mom called.
The kids abandoned their controllers instantly and rushed to her. She dropped the bag to hug them both at once, the sack of goodies rattling on the counter.
“What’d you bring, Nana?” Katie asked, already peeking.
Mom smiled. “Gluten-free brownies. Just like last time.”
Christopher made a face. “Those are good, but they make your mouth dry.”
Scott chuckled. Dry was putting it kindly. They sucked the spit right out of you. Edible, yes. Even tasty in their way. But you needed half a gallon of milk to chase them.
“And,” Mom added, lifting out a glass dish with a flourish, “the good stuff.”
“Rice pudding!” the kids shouted in unison.
Mom’s rice pudding was the stuff of legends. The best rice pudding on Earth, hands down. Everyone loved it. Anyone who didn’t was a fuckin’ Houthi.
Mom hugged Scott next, wrapping him up tight. He’d barely gotten an arm around her when Maggie appeared from the hall, dressed for her shift in jeans and a blouse, hair brushed out.
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