Page 16 of Diesel’s Second Chance

I cry into Jackson's pillow until exhaustion finally takes me under.

Chapter 5 - Diesel

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling while rain drums against the window, and all I can think about is the taste of June's lips and the fact that I'm a complete piece of shit.

I kissed her. Kissed my best friend's widow less than thirty minutes after we both confessed feelings we've been hiding for years. Didn't ease into it, didn't give her time to process, just grabbed her and took what I've wanted for two decades like I had any right to it.

Fuck!

I roll onto my side, punch the pillow into a different shape like that'll help me sleep. It doesn't. Nothing will. My mind's replaying the kiss on an endless loop: the way she felt against me, soft, warm and perfect. The little sound she made when our lips met. The way her fingers curled into my shirt like she wanted to pull me closer and push me away at the same time.

We both stopped it. Both knew it was wrong. Not wrong in the sense that we don't want each other, but wrong in the timing. Too fast. Too raw. Too disrespectful to a man who died seven years ago but still sits between us like a living thing.

Tommy.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see the whole universe.

*I'm sorry, brother. I'm so goddamn sorry.*

But I'm not. Not really. And that's what makes me a piece of shit.

Because even knowing I shouldn't have kissed her, even knowing it hurt her, even knowing Tommy would probably punch me in the face if he were still alive, I don't regret it. Can't regret it. I've spent twenty years wanting to know what June's lips felt like against mine, and now I know, and the only thing I regret is stopping.

She said she loved me.

*I love you too.*

Not past tense. Not *I'm starting to develop feelings* or *I think I might.* Present tense. Active. Real.

Destiny handed me that kiss on a plate, wrapped it up with a bow, gave me permission I've been waiting two decades for. And I took it because the alternative, dying in this war without ever knowing what we could be, felt worse than any guilt.

But maybe I was selfish. Maybe I pushed too hard, too fast. Maybe I should've given her time to process the confessions before I made it physical. Maybe she needed space to grieve what this means, what we're admitting, what line we just crossed.

The look on her face when we pulled apart: shock, want, guilt, fear all mixed together, that's burned into my brain.

*This is too fast. Too raw.*

*It feels disrespectful.*

She's not wrong. Just hours ago, we were having dinner at Lou's like we've done ninety-something times before, pretending we were just friends honoring a memory. Now we're confessing love and kissing in candlelight and fundamentally changing everything we've built.

Of course it's too fast.

I roll onto my back again, scrub both hands over my face. Down the hall, June's in my guest room probably not sleeping either. Probably crying. Probably hating herself for what she said, what she felt, what she let happen.

I want to go to her. Want to knock on that door and tell her we don't have to rush this, we can take it slow, we can figure it out together. But giving her space feels more respectful than anything else I could do right now.

So, I lie here in the dark and listen to rain and try not to think about how her lips felt or how her body fit against mine or how badly I want to walk down that hall and finish what we started.

The war's still happening. Demon's still out there. I could still die before any of this gets resolved. But at least she knows now. At least if I die tomorrow, I won't die with the truth buried.

That must count for something.

Eventually, exhaustion drags me under. Not sleep exactly, more like my brain giving up the fight. I drift in and out, half-awake, dreams mixing with memories mixing with the sound of rain until I can't tell what's real anymore.

Hours later…

I wake to weak gray light filtering through the curtains and silence. The rain's stopped. The storm's passed. And my first thought is June.