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2025-06-15 23:37:12
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Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine Enough
Logan ReynoldsI hold her longer than I need to. Not because she’s asking me to, but because I can tell she needs it. Her body melts against mine like she’s been holding herself up for hours, maybe days, and she’s just now giving herself permission to rest.She smells like cold air and Amirah’s vanilla body spray. Her hair’s a little damp from sweat and nerves, and when she finally pulls back to look at me, her eyes are red—wet at the corners. Raw. Still beautiful.“I’ll make you tea,” I say quietly.She doesn’t answer with words. Just nods, soft and slow.I brush her cheek with my thumb before I step back. She follows me with her eyes like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she blinks. I don’t say anything else as I walk into the kitchen, only because I know sometimes space is a love language too.The kettle clicks into place. I open the cabinet, reach for the honey-ginger blend she always drinks when she’s upset. She keeps it in the back so no one else touches it. I take the mug with th
Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine Realize
151I don’t mean to drive with tears in my eyes. I don’t mean to dig my nails into the steering wheel or choke on the sound of my own breathing. But here I am—thirty minutes after storming out of the house I share with the man I love—barely holding myself together in the driver’s seat of my car.I hate this.I hate myself.Not because I was upset, but because I didn’t even let him explain. Because I saw that look on Logan’s face—that quiet mix of confusion and hurt—and I still walked out. Slammed the door behind me like I was seventeen again, trying to punish the world for not understanding me. Like he deserved to pay for my silence.The streetlights blur in front of me. Every red light stretches longer than the one before it, as if the universe is forcing me to sit with my shame. And maybe I deserve that.When I pull up in front of Amirah’s apartment, I’m already wiping my cheeks with the sleeve of my hoodie. The same hoodie Logan gave me last fall—the one that still smells like his
Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine Help Gone Wrong
Logan ReynoldsThe sun hasn’t even pushed fully through the curtains when I wake up. I blink slowly, disoriented, then glance to my right.Viola’s still asleep.She’s curled into my side, hair falling like silk across the pillow, mouth parted the slightest bit as she breathes softly. Her lashes flutter when she shifts, murmuring something I can’t quite catch. I smile, instinctively brushing a hand over her arm before slipping out of bed carefully so I don’t wake her.The floor’s cold under my feet as I stretch. The old wood creaks softly beneath my weight. I head to the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Hot water steams against the frosted glass once I twist the knob. The heat hits my back as I step in, washing away the stiffness in my muscles. The pressure is good, steady—like a reset.By the time I step back out and towel off, the air’s thick with citrus and mint from her shampoo on the counter. I glance toward the bed again. She hasn’t moved. Still in that soft, peaceful sp
Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine Preparations
Viola McCoyI’m in the living room, barefoot, half-dressed, and spiraling.The phone is cradled between my shoulder and my ear, speaker on. My laptop’s open on the coffee table, an overly optimistic checklist blinking back at me: Venue. Dress. Cake. Music. Done, done, not done, maybe. The one thing I didn’t think would be a problem is turning into the problem.“Look, I know it’s short notice,” I say, pacing in slow, tight circles near the couch. My voice is soft, polite, begging. “But it’s just a two-tier vanilla with raspberry filling. I don’t need anything elaborate—just clean lines, maybe blush icing. Something pretty.”The baker sighs on the other end, and I already know what she’s going to say before she says it. “Viola, I wish I could squeeze you in. I really do. But I’m completely booked through the weekend, and my assistant just took time off for her sister’s wedding. I’m down to one decorator.”I press my lips together, jaw tensing. “It’s for my birthday,” I murmur, as if tha
Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine More than enough
Logan Reynolds I’ve been dating Viola for a year now. Twelve months of waking up with her on my mind, watching her laugh, hearing her voice, learning every curve and crack in the woman I love. And God knows I’ve wanted to go beyond just that for months. But I held back, careful not to push her or overwhelm her. This isn’t just about me. It’s about her—the scars she carries, the ghosts she’s fought hard to bury.Her birthday’s in a few days. And I know the time is now. The moment I’ve been waiting for, the one that feels both terrifying and inevitable. I’m going to propose.The city hums around me as I step into the massive glass doors of Levitt’s Jewelers. The cool air conditioning hits me. The smell of polished wood and faint citrus cleaner hangs in the air.Bonnie’s already here, arms crossed, leaning casually against the counter. She’s the perfect blend of no-nonsense and sass—just what I need right now.“You don’t have to do too much, Logan,” she says, eyes glinting as she watc
Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine New beginning
One Year LaterViola MccoyThe library buzzes softly with the quiet shuffle of feet and hushed conversations. It’s the kind of afternoon where sunlight filters through tall windows, casting long, golden rectangles on the hardwood floor. The smell of old books mingles with fresh coffee from the café nearby.A line snakes around the room, filled with people clutching dog-eared copies of my second novel. Some hold tattered first editions of my debut, others carry shiny new paperbacks, their covers bright with the face I’m still getting used to seeing on bookshelves.A security guard stands by the door, another near the signing table. This isn’t my first signing, but the weight of the moment—the steady growth of my career, the progress I’ve made—hits me all over again. I breathe it in, the hum of people who have somehow found pieces of themselves in my stories.I’m sitting behind the long, polished table, a pen in hand, ready to inscribe my signature and a quick note for the next person i
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