Not my uncle

Ava's pov

"You got taller."

That was the first thing he said. Not "Welcome home," not "You look beautiful," not even "Hi." Just that. Like I was still the awkward teenager with braces who tripped over her own feet and called him Uncle Nick.

I leaned against the Tesla idling at the curb, arms folded tight across my chest. My suitcase sat by my heel, ignored. “You got colder.”

Nicholas Cross didn’t flinch. He looked up from his phone, his expression unreadable. The same gray eyes I remembered—frosted, calculating. Only now, they didn’t soften. Not for me. Not anymore.

But my stomach twisted anyway.

Not from fear.

From heat.

He looked me over like I was a problem he didn’t expect to solve. Four years in California had changed me—I wasn’t the grieving daughter he used to tuck in. I had a degree, a spine, and heels high enough to look him in the eye.

"You look... different," he said eventually. His gaze dipped to my mouth, lingered too long. When it snapped back to my eyes, I smiled.

"Don’t look so surprised. You paid for half my tuition."

His jaw tightened. “That wasn’t charity. It was a promise to your mother.”

“Right. Did she also make you promise to ignore me when I came back?”

He looked away first. “Get in the car, Ava. We’re not having this conversation here.

---

The guesthouse behind Nicholas’s estate looked untouched. Sleek, minimal, too neat. Like no one had dared live in it since I left.

I dropped my duffel on the leather couch, took off my coat. The silence buzzed in my ears.

He stood in the doorway. Watching.

I didn’t ask how long.

“What?” I said.

His voice was low. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

“Then why send the car?”

He didn’t answer.

I stepped closer—close enough for him to feel it. The shift. The dare. I wanted him to flinch. He didn’t. Just stood there in his tailored suit, still and sharp like a blade sheathed in money.

“Thanks for the ride, Uncle Nick.”

That did it.

His face changed—visibly. Darkness snapped across it like a shadow thrown by something inside him.

“Don’t call me that,” he said.

My heart jumped. “Why not?”

He looked at me, long and hard.

“Because you’re not a child anymore. And I’m not just family.”

The air shifted. The floor felt suddenly smaller beneath my heels.

---

I found the photo album in the house.

It was on a shelf I swore had been empty. Thick leather binding. No dust. Too deliberate.

I pulled it down, sat on the edge of the bed, and flipped it open.

Page one: my mother. Golden, glowing. Laughing at something off-camera.

Page two: Nicholas. Shirtless, barefoot, holding a camera, squinting into the sun.

I froze.

They didn’t look like friends.

They looked like lovers.

His hand on her back. Her mouth near his ear. The kind of closeness you don’t fake. The kind kids don’t notice—until they’re grown.

I flipped faster. Beach photos. Bedhead. A shot under the covers—half-asleep, no dates, no captions.

But I could feel it. Intimacy pressed into every frame. I suddenly remembered being six, hearing laughter through the walls at night. I thought it was just grown-ups being grown-ups.

But maybe it was more.

Maybe Nicholas Cross wasn’t just my mother’s best friend.

Maybe he had been her secret.

And now?

Maybe mine.

I slammed the album shut.

The door creaked.

He was already there.

“You shouldn’t be looking at that,” he said.

I stood, album still in hand. “Were you in love with her?”

He stepped into the room. Eyes dark. “Ava—”

“Tell me the truth.”

Silence stretched between us. Then:

“Yes.”

It landed like a slap, even though I’d already known.

“Did she love you back?” I asked, barely breathing.

He looked straight through me.

“She was scared. Said she didn’t want to ruin what we had. Then she got pregnant, and… your dad died.”

I blinked.

“What did you just say?”

He stepped closer. His voice dropped:

“Go unpack.”

“And lock your door tonight.”

---

That night, I didn’t lock the door.

But he opened it anyway.

I wasn’t asleep. Not really. I lay still, facing the window, pretending. My heart thudded against the pillow like it wanted to warn me. Memories came fast—how I used to cling to him, how he’d carry me down the hall, kiss my forehead, whisper goodnight. His scent. His voice. The way he looked at me like I mattered more than anyone.

I couldn’t stop seeing him.

Then—

Click.

The door. Soft, deliberate.

A footstep.

Another.

Then silence. Thick enough to suffocate.

I didn’t turn. I didn’t breathe.

But I knew it was him.

He stood in the dark. I felt him there. Felt the weight of his stare dragging across my skin.

Then the mattress dipped behind me.

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Every nerve in me was screaming, but my body stayed frozen—caught between memory and madness.

He didn’t touch me. Not yet. Just breathed—slow, deep, too calm. And mine, somehow, synced to his. Like we’d done this before.

Then he whispered:

“She used to sleep like this. Back turned. Awake, pretending not to be.”

My throat clenched.

I turned, slow as the moon rising.

He was inches away. Gray eyes glowing in the dark.

“I remember,” I whispered. “You’d rub my head. Kiss my forehead.”

His hand hovered near my cheek. Didn’t touch. Just trembled in the space between want and restraint.

“She ran from me,” he said softly. “That’s why I loved her.”

My chest ached. “And me?”

He didn’t blink.

“You’re not running.”

I should have.

But I didn’t.

His hand brushed my jaw. The lightest touch. Like a secret he couldn’t help but confess.

When his lips found my skin—barely a kiss, more a memory—I let him.

---

The Next Morning

The bed was empty when I woke. But the space where he’d lain was still warm.

Folded on the nightstand was a note. His handwriting—precise. Sharp like everything else about him.

Ava,

Last night should never have happened.

You’re not a child anymore. And I’m not the man I used to be.

I meant what I said. We can’t do this again.

Welcome home.

—N

I read it twice. My hands didn’t shake.

But my heart did.