Chapter 4: Railed Into Enlightenment

Samantha Belkin smelled like she had just fucked a sweaty cop.

Because, of course, she had.

Not just any sweaty cop either. She had fucked Scott Dover. The shirtless god of Gardenville lawn care. The man whose body had dominated her thoughts for weeks. Who had pulled her into his house, pressed her against his skin still slick from mowing the lawn, and fucked her until she saw stars.

And now she was walking through her foyer in a daze, dress sticking to her damp thighs, hair a tattered mess, legs wobbly and sore in the best possible way.

She had never done anything like that in her life. Not once. Not ever.

And holy hell, had it been worth it.

She paused near the laundry room, yanked her dress off over her head, kicked her sandals into the corner, and peeled off her bra with a soft groan. Her skin smelled like salt, sex, and testosterone—an intoxicating mix of masculine sweat and her own filthy arousal. She wanted to bottle it. Or maybe just keep it on her a little longer. She was soaked. Sticky. Absolutely defiled. And it was fucking glorious.

She stripped naked in the hallway and dumped the entire pile into the washing machine. Dress, bra, socks—all of it. She hesitated for a second before the lid slammed shut.

Oh God.

Her panties!

She gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth. They were still at Scott’s. Not in her purse. Not hidden in her pocket. They were on his floor. White lace, soaked through, practically a biohazard with the scent of her juices.

He had them. And the thought both horrified and thrilled her.

She could imagine him finding them after she left, lifting them from the floor, bringing them to his nose just like—

“Stop,” she whispered to herself, turning red from the inside out.

She darted down the hallway and stepped into the master bath, flicking on the shower and stepping under the hot stream without waiting for it to warm up. The water hit her like a cleansing rebuke, but instead of shame, she felt ... giddy. Energized. Satisfied in a way that went deeper than sex.

She had done it. She had crossed the line. And instead of regretting it, she wanted more. She wanted that loss of control again, that feeling of being taken. And she wanted that glorious feeling of having a man fuck her like she needed to be fucked and making her come.

The water sluiced over her body as she grabbed the loofah, scrubbing sweat and sin from her skin. She was mid-suds, working her way down her thighs, when she heard it.

Her phone. Ringing.

Muffled, distant, coming from the bathroom counter.

She froze, breath caught, heart ticking into a new rhythm.

Was it just a mundane call? Something simple like one of the kids was sick at school and needed to be picked up? Or was it maybe him? Calling to arrange for another look at his crown molding? True, she had never given him her phone number, but he was a cop. He could get her number if he wanted it.

She burst out of the shower, still covered in soap suds, nearly slipping and falling on her naked ass. She snatched up the phone with her wet, soapy hand and looked at the screen.

It was not the school and it was not Scott. It was Judith.

“Shit,” she whispered, shaking her head. There was only one reason why Judith would be calling her right now.

She didn’t answer. Obviously.

She just stood there dripping and fuming and tingling in all the places that hadn’t stopped tingling since she’d walked out of Scott Dover’s bedroom.

Then the phone buzzed again.

New Text Message – Judith Linden

We simply must get together soon. Tea? I have updates. 😊

A beat later, another.

Today perhaps? Let me know what works for you!

Samantha stared at the screen like it was covered in snakes.

Updates. That was code. That was Judith-speak for “I saw you, you filthy slut, and now I want to trap you into confessing it over English Breakfast while pretending to compliment your blouse.”

Still naked, still dripping, she scrolled through her mental options. She could ignore her. Ghost her. Claim a scheduling conflict. Tell her one of the kids had lice. Or SARS. Or maybe just invite her over, give her the brush-off, and get it over with.

She sighed. Fuck.

She started typing.

Come by at 1. We’ll have tea.

By 12:55, Samantha was presentable.

She’d gone with a casual summer look—effortless on the surface, but calculated down to the accessories. A sleeveless cornflower-blue blouse, soft and breezy, tucked into a pair of tailored white capris that hugged her hips just enough to remind people she hadn’t let herself go. Simple gold hoops, neutral lip gloss, and a low, loose ponytail that said yes, I’m a mom, but I’m a hot mom.

Her makeup had been fully reapplied—subtle contour, a whisper of highlighter, and just enough mascara to frame the eyes without broadcasting effort. She looked polished. Poised. Chaste.

Nothing about her said I just got railed into next week by the guy across the street.

At least, she hoped not.

The doorbell rang at exactly 1:00. Samantha took a breath, smoothed her top, and opened the door.

Judith Linden stood there like she owned the zip code.

She wore a floral linen blouse with slightly puffed sleeves—conservative, expensive, and not quite flattering—with pale beige slacks and an oversized straw sunhat that had absolutely no purpose indoors but would not be removed anyway. Her lipstick was too pink. Her perfume was too loud. And her eyes were already scanning.

“Samantha,” Judith said brightly, stepping in before the greeting had even finished landing. “You look lovely. Just glowing.”

Samantha smiled with professional warmth. “Hi Judith. Come on in.”

Judith stepped inside, sunglasses still perched on her nose, and looked around as if appraising the property for resale. She moved with the rigid grace of someone who took Pilates, but only the kind where they didn’t make you sweat.

“You changed your outfit,” she said casually, following Samantha toward the kitchen. “You were wearing that cute yellow sundress earlier, weren’t you? The one with the little flowers?”

Samantha didn’t even flinch. Jesus Christ she’s observant. Is she trying to imply something here? She saw me in the yellow dress in the drop-off line this morning. Did she also see me in it when I made a little visit across the street? That was the million dollar question.

“Oh—yes. I spilled salsa on it at lunch. Had to change.”

Judith gave a slow, knowing nod. “Mmm. That happens.”

They moved into the living room, where Samantha had laid out the tea service on the side table: a polished white tray with two mugs, a honey jar, tiny silver spoons, and a lineup of premium tea sachets in sleek, matte packaging.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” Samantha said sweetly. “I’ve got Earl Grey, jasmine green, that ginger lemongrass detox thing, or a turmeric chai latte blend that everyone’s obsessed with at Nugget.”

Judith gave a tight smile and reached into her purse. “Oh, how thoughtful. But I do prefer my own.”

She pulled out a single tea bag in its own little baggie, setting it on the tray like it was a communion wafer. “It’s called Silvertip Imperial Moonlight,” she said, as if Samantha should be familiar. “It’s a white tea blend harvested by hand from ancient trees in the highlands of Yunnan. Very delicate. Very rare. My importer only gets a few shipments a year.”

Samantha said nothing, just nodded and reached for the kettle. Classic Judith, she thought. One teabag. No offer to share. Wouldn’t drink tap water if she were on fire.

She poured the water and began prepping both cups.

Their tea began to steep. Judith let eyes flick toward the window, then back to Samantha with feigned casualness.

“You know,” she said, voice light but lined with implication, “as I was cleaning the windows earlier, I happened to see you talking to that so-called cop across the street.”

Samantha kept her expression neutral. You haven’t cleaned a window in your entire life, she thought. Judith had a maid service that showed up every Thursday with more equipment than a SWAT team. But sure. She was just cleaning the windows. Totally plausible.

“Oh yes,” Samantha replied pleasantly. “I stopped by for a bit. Just being neighborly.”

“Mmm,” Judith said. “I imagine that’s hard with some neighbors.” She set her mug down, perfectly centered on its coaster. “He was mowing his lawn without a shirt on. Practically glistening. So disgusting. So common. That should be public indecency in neighborhoods like this.”

“You should bring that up with your friend in the mayor’s office,” Samantha said, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

“I think maybe I will,” Judith said huffily.

“He invited me inside,” Samantha added smoothly. She knew damn well that Judith had seen that so she might as well volunteer it. “He wanted to show me the crown molding in the living room.”

“Oh?” Judith leaned forward slightly. “And did you find it ... compelling?”

Sam kept her tone light. “It’s three-piece MDF. Top edge is a stepped ogee, spacer in the middle, cove with a bead on the bottom. About five inches tall. It’s basic, but solid.”

Judith blinked. For the first time in the entire conversation, she seemed caught off guard.

“Well,” she said. “You certainly took it in.”

Samantha smiled, sweet and hollow. “I like crown molding,” she said. And fucking how! “I like it a lot.”

Judith wasn’t done. “So ... what’s it like inside? The feel of the place? Did it smell like new paint? Was it ... masculine?”

“It was very clean,” Samantha said. “Smelled like fresh coffee and floor polish. Comfortable. Tidy. Kind of standard-issue suburban. Nothing unusual.”

“And his ... roommate?” Judith asked, her voice a little too breezy. “Was she there?”

“She was,” Samantha said. “Seemed nice.”

Judith nodded, lips pressed thin. “Well. That’s all very ... illuminating. Did you talk to her?”

“For a minute,” Samantha said. “She was mostly talking to Scott. Was telling him something about the caulk in the bathroom.”

“The caulk?”

She nodded. “Uh huh. She says it was wet.” She shrugged. “I guess she wants him to fix it.”

“Interesting,” Judith said slowly, as if trying to decide whether it actually was.

“Is it?” Samantha asked, shrugging. What was so interesting about squeezing out some caulk?

Judith took a slow sip of her tea, lips pursed like she was drinking from a chalice of secrets.

“You know,” she said, “a few people have mentioned—well, it’s probably nothing—but there’s been some talk that Scott and that woman he lives with might be ... you know. Gay.”

Samantha blinked. “Gay?”

“Mmm.” Judith nodded gravely, as if delivering classified intelligence. “That’s the word going around.”

Samantha fought to keep her expression neutral. Inside, she nearly choked. Oh, honey. If you only knew.

“Well,” she said carefully, “I’m not sure where that’s coming from.”

Judith gave a knowing little shrug. “They don’t have a relationship, obviously. No one’s ever seen them so much as touch. And they don’t have spouses. No visitors. No signs of dating. It’s just ... odd. Don’t you think?”

“Scott’s wife died,” Samantha said gently. “Remember? He told us that the first day they moved in.”

Judith waved a hand. “We don’t know that. That’s just what he said. Could be anything.”

Samantha had to bite her cheek to keep from responding.

“And that woman?” Judith went on. “No one’s ever seen her with a man. Not once. And there’s ... something about her. She doesn’t host anything. She doesn’t even wave. It’s very closed-off energy. Defensive.”

“She doesn’t look gay,” Samantha said before she could stop herself. “She’s actually pretty cute.”

Judith gave her a sideways glance. “So was that actress from that cooking show. What’s her name? The one with the pixie cut and the olive oil brand.”

Samantha had no idea what Judith was talking about but nodded anyway.

“Well,” Judith said, setting her mug down with finality, “we may never know. But I always say: nothing stays secret forever in a neighborhood like this.”

Samantha offered a smile as she collected the cups. “You do always say that.”

Judith rose, smoothed her slacks, and adjusted her sunhat like she’d just held court and handed down a ruling.

“This was lovely,” she said. “Let’s do it again soon.”

“Of course,” Samantha replied.

She closed the door after her and locked it without ceremony.

Then she leaned against it and let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

That had gone well. She’d deflected. Stayed cool. Gave just enough truth to avoid suspicion and no truth at all where it mattered. Judith had walked out believing she’d just sniffed around a fellow gossip, not a freshly fucked alibi.

Samantha walked to the sink and rinsed the mugs, her mind already drifting.

When was Alan’s next trip? He’d mentioned something about Dallas. Or maybe Phoenix. Didn’t matter. What mattered was that she needed to know when.

Because she was going to do it again.

She didn’t know how. She didn’t know what excuse she’d use. But she’d find a way.

She had to.

The locker room smelled like it always did before briefing—leather, sweat, gun oil, starch, and the faint funk of vending machine coffee that had never seen a bean in its life.

Scott stepped in and instantly regretted it.

“Look what the fuckin’ dog dragged in,” said Barnes, pulling on his Kevlar vest. “King of the goddamn hill.”

“Panty dropper general,” added Chu from the bench, already half into his uniform pants.

“Commander Crown Molding,” Stinson said, grinning like it was roll call at a roast. “Swingin’ that hammer through the blue-blooded fuckin’ suburbs.”

Scott set his warbag down without a word.

He didn’t need to ask who talked. Maggie was the only person who knew, and discretion wasn’t exactly her spiritual gift.

“Winslow,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah,” Barnes said. “Your roomie has not shut the fuck up.”

“Been telling the story for two days,” Chu added, pulling on his duty shirt. “Started with Delta. Now Bravo knows. Now us. Pretty sure half of Dispatch heard the play-by-play.”

Scott pulled his off-duty gun from its holster—Glock 26, full mag, one in the pipe. He gave it a press-check and set it on the locker shelf. Then the jeans came off. The overshirt followed. He was down to black boxer briefs and a white T-shirt, trying to ignore the chorus behind him.

“I swear to God, Dover,” Stinson said, “she made it sound like this chick just walked across the street, climbed you like a jungle gym, and started screamin’.”

“She kinda did,” Scott said, pulling out his Kevlar vest.

“Goddamn,” Barnes muttered. “You fuck a woman like that in a neighborhood like that and walk her back out the garage like it’s fuckin’ Costco samples? That’s a coup, bro.”

Scott slid the vest on and yanked the side straps tight. “It was kind of a coup, wasn’t it?”

“Fuckin’ A, Cecil,” Chu said. “Winslow made it very clear. This chick is a full-blown rich bitch. High-end yoga gear. Soccer mom car. Big ring. Big hair. No tan lines.”

“She said that?” Scott asked, buttoning his uniform shirt.

“Oh yeah,” said Stinson. “And she said the woman screamed. Like, not just moaned—screamed. Said it echoed through the fuckin’ walls. Rattled pictures and shit. God-fuckin’-damn, Dover. I’ve seen your shit in the shower and it’s respectable, but there ain’t no way you long-donged her. What’s the fuckin’ secret?”

Scott tucked in his shirt. “Tax free municipal bonds,” he said.

“What?” Stinson asked.

“That’s the fuckin’ secret,” Scott said. “Remember that and you’ll go far in your sex life.”

Badge on. Pants next. Primary belt fed through, tight around the hips. He didn’t rush. Let them finish.

“So who is she?” Barnes asked. “Like, a neighbor?”

“Lives across the street,” Scott said. “I mowed my lawn, she came over, we talked about crown molding, she ended up in my bed.”

“That’s the best fuckin’ sentence I’ve heard all week,” Chu said. “Put it on your tombstone.”

Scott clipped his gun belt in place. Drew the Glock 22, checked the mag. Full. Quick press-check—brass in the chamber. No safety, ready to rock. He holstered it and tugged the vest flat.

“She got a name?” Stinson asked.

“Nope,” Scott lied.

He grabbed his AR-15 and his warbag.

“She got a sister?” Chu asked.

Scott walked out without answering.

The briefing room was mostly empty, just the buzz of overhead fluorescents and the smell of burned coffee and Clorox wipes. Scott stepped in with his clipboard in hand. His gear was already stowed in the unit—warbag, long gun, shotgun converted to fire less-lethal beanbags or pepper balls, trauma pack. Only thing he needed now was the night’s bullshit.

Maggie was already there.

She sat reclined with one boot up on the leg of the opposite chair, sipping department coffee from a paper cup. Her hair was pinned into her usual tight bun—practical, regulation, very difficult to grab in a fight. Her nails were chipped, unpainted. Her eyes didn’t leave the front of the room as he walked in.

“Seems like people are talking about you, Dover,” she said calmly, without looking at him.

Scott dropped into the chair beside her. “You’re a fuckin’ traitor.”

“You’re a cop, Dover,” she said. “You should know what happens when you get your caulk wet with some rich suburban MILF in a hoity-toity neighborhood.”

“I didn’t know it came with full broadcast rights.”

She turned to him finally. “You remember when you spread the story about me and that Starbucks barista from Northwood and Manor?”

“Spread it?” he asked. “You told everyone you were going to confirm or deny her rumored lesbianism ‘by any means necessary’. There was a betting pool. Odds were five to one against you.”

“I won an assload with that bet,” she said with a smile. “Anyway, once I confirmed it—the fun way—it was you that spread the story around more than anyone.”

“I was fuckin’ proud of you!” he said. “She was hot! Shot down every male cop north of the river.”

“That’s right,” she said. “And I’m proud of you, asshole. That was a fuckin’ coup to end all coups. Your peers deserve to know.”

“Well, you sure made sure they do,” he grumbled, though he was secretly quite full of himself. His habits with the badge bunnies was well known and not unusual in the least, but this was his first coup. People were cheering him for it. Still, decorum required he remain humble and pretend he didn’t want everyone to know his business.

Before she could respond, the door creaked open and the rest of the shift started to file in—Stinson first, followed by Chu and Barnes, then two newer guys just out of the jail who hadn’t earned speaking roles yet.

“Oh good,” Barnes said, spotting them. “The sex wizard’s already here.”

“Crown Molding himself,” Chu added.

Stinson dropped into the seat across from them and leaned forward. “We were just finishing the recap for the rookies,” he said. “Let me make sure I got it right. She walked across the street in a sundress, knocked on your door, and basically asked to see your trim work?”

“That’s what I heard,” Chu said. “I also heard she screamed loud enough to set off a car alarm.”

“I had trouble hearing things in the high frequency for a few hours after,” Maggie said.

Scott rubbed his eyes. “I hate all of you.”

The door opened again and Lieutenant Ransom stepped in—clipboard in one hand, department coffee in the other. He looked like he hadn’t slept well in a year and didn’t expect tonight to be the exception. Hair silver. Face lined. Eyes scanning. He had been on the department for twenty-two years and the Adam-Watch commander for the past six. “I rule the night,” was his favorite idiom, and he meant it when he said it. No one dared cross or piss off the el-tee. He was both feared and respected.

He paused just inside the room, took a breath like he was already disappointed, and said, “What are we talking about in here?” he asked wearily. “Anything that will cast disfavor on my beloved department?”

The room quieted slightly. Ransom wasn’t a screamer, but he didn’t suffer dumb shit lightly. He was the night shift babysitter for a reason.

“Dover’s conquest, el-tee,” Stinson said.

“Conquest?” Ransom asked, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of conquest?”

Chu grinned. “He got laid.”

Ransom rolled his eyes. “A cop got laid,” he said. “That’s the subject of this discussion? Why don’t you just talk about ants in an ant farm, or water in the goddamn ocean?”

Barnes clarified. “Not just laid. This is no badge bunny, el-tee. We’re talking the married rich lady from the country club neighborhood crossed the street in a sundress and climbed him like a fuckin’ ladder.”

“She left her panties behind,” Maggie added. “We’re thinking about having them framed for the hallway.”

Ransom stared at them for a beat, then looked at Scott. “This true?”

Scott gave a mild shrug. “Pretty much, el-tee.”

Ransom gave a thoughtful nod, then sipped his coffee. “Well,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

He wasn’t easy to impress.

He walked to the front of the room and set his clipboard on the podium. “Now, let’s get to work. This shift’s not gonna police itself.”

Chairs scraped. Coffee was tucked into corner floor spots. The room straightened out.

“Okay,” Ransom began, reading from the top sheet. “Shots fired at 82nd and Hadley last night. No victim, but casings found. Units cleared with a field. Possible retaliation for last week’s stabbing on Stanton. Watch for vehicles loitering around both corners.”

The room settled into the rhythm of briefing, laughter still lingering faintly in the air like aftershocks. And with that, the shift was underway.

It was still ninety-two degrees at pickup time.

The sun hadn’t gotten the memo about fall. Air shimmered off windshields, and car engines idled in long lines like they were waiting for parole. The moms were clustered under the shaded overhang, sipping iced drinks from overpriced tumblers, pretending not to gossip.

Scott stood off to the side of the lane, arms folded across his chest, mirrored sunglasses on. Civilian clothes—long T-shirt, jeans—but he still had that unmistakable cop posture: still, aware, unapproachable.

He saw her before she saw him.

Or maybe she had seen him, and just needed the courage to close the distance.

Samantha approached with careful poise—tan flats, fitted skirt, sleeveless top, hair pulled back like she was running late for a PTA board meeting. She didn’t look at him until she was within a few feet, and even then, it was just a quick glance.

“Hi,” she said quietly. Not shy—just deliberate. They had not spoken to each other since the crown molding incident. Was she regretful? Was she going to cause a scene? Was she going to accuse him of rape? His mind always went to the worst place in situations like these.

Scott nodded once. “Hey.”

An awkward silence developed.

“You okay, Sammie?” he asked her, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t carry.

“I’m ... uh ... I’m still a little sore. You know ... down there.”

Good tone. Not the words of a woman who was regretful. At least he didn’t think so. This was his first post-coup review however.

“Is it a good sore?” he asked, deadpan, voice still low.

The hint of a smile. “The best kind of sore,” she said. “I want to get sore with you again.”

He gave her a smile back. “I would be happy to oblige you,” he said. “The meeting place might be a problem though.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Judith saw me go into your house. Just like I thought she might.”

“It’s a good thing you had a cover story prepared then,” he said calmly. “Did you use it?”

She nodded. “Almost word for word.”

“And did it work?”

“Like a charm.”

“There you have it then,” he said. “I doubt that would work again though.”

“It won’t,” Samantha said. “I barely squeaked that one through.”

“It would seem that we have to assume that Judith is watching during all daylight hours.”

“Yes,” Samantha said. “Because she probably is.”

“So it’s not just a matter of one of us strolling to the other’s house when the kids are in school.”

“We certainly can’t do that,” she agreed. “Maybe at night? I could sneak over after we know Judith is in bed? One of the nights your roommate is working but you’re not?”

It was tempting to consider it—like a fuckin’ MILF late night pizza delivery—but he couldn’t. “I can’t have you over when the kids are home,” he said. “Even if they’re sleeping, one of them might wake up. I can’t go there.”

She nodded. “I understand. You can’t come over to my house when hubby’s gone on one of his trips for the same reason.”

“A dilemma,” he said thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” she said sadly. She looked up at the other mothers. A few of them were looking at her. Judith was one of them.

“You know what I’d like to do?” Scott said.

“What’s that?”

And then, deadpan, voice low, normal speaking cadence, “I’d like to go down on you and eat your pussy until you come all over my face.”

She froze, a flush immediately coming to her face.

“You ... you do that?” she asked.

“Quite well, I’m told. Would you like to open the next crown molding session with something like that? My tongue. Your wet pussy. Making a connection.”

“Oh ... my god,” she nearly hissed. “You just made my panties wet.”

He nodded as if he’d expected nothing less. “I have an idea,” he said. “You want to be sneaky and fly under the radar? Ask a cop.”

“Tell me,” she said, a hint of desperation in her voice.

“Tomorrow morning, after you drop the kids off, don’t come home. Instead, you have some errands to run. Go to the Starbucks over on Cypress Avenue.”

“That’s not the Starbucks I use,” she said. “I go to the one on Bradford. It’s closest.”

Yes, she was a natural blonde. “Use the one on Cypress tomorrow,” he said. “That way ... none of the other mothers are likely to be there, right?”

“Oh ... right,” she said, suddenly getting it. “And then what?” She looked around a little. “A hotel?”

“Unfortunately, I am but a mere civil servant living outside of my means and cannot afford a hotel suite. But we’ll make that connection happen. It’ll be easy and no one will know.”

She did not pause to think it over. “Okay,” she said. “I’m in.”

The next morning, Samantha Belkin was already wet when she stepped into the shower—and not from the water.

She adjusted the temperature, hot but not scalding, and let the spray hit the back of her neck. A long, steady pulse of warmth down her spine as she reached for the razor and propped one leg on the ledge.

Today was a shaving day. Everything that needed to be shaved would be shaved.

She wasn’t guessing, wasn’t hoping. She knew. She was going to be fucked again by Scott Dover.

She had not stopped thinking about him. Not once. Not in the carpool lane. Not at dinner. Not even during the dutiful, passionless sex with Alan two nights before—his hand on her hip, eyes already half-closed, coming with a muted grunt like it was a chore crossed off a list.

Scott had opened something in her. Something physical. Something hungry. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t infatuation. It was desire. Pure and unfiltered. She wanted more of him. His hands. His mouth. His weight pinning her to the bed. The way he took her apart and put her back together like it was his job.

She shaved carefully, thoroughly. Armpits. Legs. And lower, catching every little piece of stubble and then edging around the blonde landing strip on her pubis.

She dried off, moisturized, dressed with casual precision: designer jeans that hugged but didn’t advertise, a deep blue top that draped just right, sexy bra, sexier panties. She styled her hair loosely, re-applied just enough makeup to feel dangerous but not obvious. She wasn’t dressing for her husband. She wasn’t dressing for the other moms.

She was dressing for him.

The kids were up, fed, backpacks zipped. Drop-off routine on autopilot. She parked, walked them up to the drop-off area instead of pulling through the pickup lane like most of the moms.

Scott was there too. Delivering his two into the halls of primary education. They passed each other on the sidewalk. No words. Just a glance. A shared breath. A quiet nod. And then they kept moving.

To anyone else, it meant nothing. Just two neighbors navigating another school morning. But Samantha felt the burn of it all the way to the car. She got in, started the engine, and pulled away like it was any other day.