Night Talk

Chapter 94 - Night Talk

Mike held up the bottle, the amber liquid catching the soft light from May’s bedside lamp. For a moment, he simply stood there with it in his hand, almost as though he had brought it as an excuse rather than because he genuinely wanted to drink. His gaze moved briefly around the room before settling back on her.

“I thought… maybe we could have a drink,” he said. “Talk about him a little. I’ve been thinking about Dad a lot lately.”

The words seemed to change something in May's expression.

Her eyes softened as she looked at him, and some of the tension that had remained in her face since dinner slowly faded. She glanced at the bottle again, considering it for a moment, before giving a small shake of her head.

“I don’t really drink, Mike. Not anymore.”

There was no bitterness in the answer. If anything, there was a faint sadness behind the small smile that followed, as though the words carried memories she had no desire to explain.

She stepped back from the doorway and moved farther into the room, giving him space to enter. Then she gestured toward the edge of the bed.

“But I can sit with you. We can talk.”

Mike nodded quietly.

He looked down at the bottle for another moment before lowering it to his side. He had expected her to refuse the conversation along with the drink, and her willingness to stay with him seemed to catch him slightly off guard.

May sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the fabric of her gown beneath her as she settled. She left enough space beside her for him to sit without making the invitation feel forced.

The room was quiet again.

The bedside lamp cast a warm pool of light across the bed and the nearby nightstand, leaving the corners of the room in shadow. Compared to the dining room downstairs, everything felt strangely removed from the rest of the house. The argument, the shopping bags, Rem disappearing upstairs—all of it seemed distant now.

May looked at Mike and waited.

Mike remained standing for another few seconds, the bottle still loosely held in his hand.

Then he finally moved toward the bed.

He set the bottle on her nightstand and sat beside her, leaving a comfortable space between them. The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight, and for a moment neither of them said anything. The room had become quieter than it had seemed when he first entered. The soft light from the bedside lamp fell across May's face, catching the tiredness around her eyes and the faint traces of emotion she had been trying to hide.

Up close, Mike could smell the faint scent of her lotion, something warm and clean that lingered in the quiet room. He became suddenly aware of how close they were, but the familiarity of the moment was stronger than the awkwardness. This was simply May, sitting beside him after a difficult evening, and for once there was no need for either of them to pretend that everything was fine.

For a while, they just talked.

May began with the early years, speaking slowly as old memories returned to her. She told him about the time when his father was still young enough to come home from work exhausted and somehow still find the energy to make her laugh until her sides hurt. She remembered the little things more clearly than the important ones—the ridiculous jokes he used to make, the way he would leave his shoes in the wrong place no matter how many times she complained, and how he could turn an ordinary evening into something she would remember for years.

Mike listened quietly.

When she finished one story, he offered one of his own. His memories were fewer and less complete, scattered fragments from childhood that had survived despite the years between then and now. He remembered fishing trips where his father had spent more time untangling his line than actually fishing. He remembered the weight of his father's hand resting on his shoulder when he was nervous. Most of all, he remembered his laugh, deep and unmistakable, a sound that seemed to exist somewhere in the back of his mind even though he could no longer remember the last time he had heard it.

The conversation remained gentle for a long time.

There was something comforting about remembering him together. They were not trying to bring the past back or pretend that the loss had somehow become easier. They were simply giving those memories somewhere to exist outside their own heads.

But gradually, the warmth of the conversation began to fade.

May's voice became quieter as the stories became more personal. She looked down at her hands, her fingers slowly twisting the hem of her nightgown.

“He used to sit exactly where you're sitting right now,” she said. “Same quiet way of listening.”

Her fingers tightened around the fabric.

“Some nights I still wake up and forget he's gone. For a few seconds, I'm half asleep and I reach over without thinking…”

She stopped.

Her eyes remained fixed on her hands. “And the bed is empty.”

Mike felt his throat tighten. “I miss him too,” he said quietly. “A lot.”

May looked at him then. Not the way she had looked at him throughout the evening.

She really looked at him.

For several seconds, neither of them moved. Something seemed to shift in the space between them, something neither had deliberately created but neither could quite ignore anymore. The years of careful distance between them—the polite boundaries, the roles they had learned to inhabit, the things they had both avoided saying—suddenly felt much thinner than they had before.

May's eyes filled with tears. “You're so much like him,” she whispered. “Sometimes it hurts just looking at you.”

She swallowed, trying to steady herself. “But sometimes it helps.”

Her voice broke slightly, and she looked away before continuing. “I don't know what I'd do without you here, Mike.”

The words stayed between them.

Mike did not think about what he was doing.

He simply reached for her.

May moved into his arms almost immediately, as though she had been holding herself together all evening and had finally found somewhere safe enough to stop. She pressed her face against his shoulder, her body trembling once as she let out a quiet breath.

Mike held her carefully, one arm settling around her back while his other hand rested against her side. He slowly rubbed her back, saying nothing as she clung to him.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

May's breathing gradually steadied against his shoulder, but she did not pull away. Mike could feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her nightgown, and he remained still, afraid that moving too quickly would break the fragile moment.

The embrace stretched on and Mike’s hand slid down, slowly, almost without permission. His palm moved over the soft curve of her hip, then lower, fingers spreading across the full, warm flesh of her ass. He squeezed—firm, deliberate—feeling the soft give of her under the thin fabric.

May jerked in his arms, a sharp little breath catching in her throat.

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