Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
“Slow yes?” he says, not moving his hand. “We don’t solve January tonight. We build the habit of not assuming. We ask. We list. We try. We forgive. We keep the bubble tight. One sandbag at a time.”
I nod, and something unclenches in my chest I didn’t notice was clenched. “Slow yes,” I echo. “With… scheduled moments of being brave.”
“Deal.” He kisses my forehead like a signature, then looks past me at the refrigerator. “Write it down?”
I follow his gaze. The fridge is a collage of our small life: appointment card, grocery list with “lemons” underlined twice, the heartbeat strip magneted front and center. I grab a sticky note and a pen, heart banging like it wants to be part of the to-do list.
“What are we writing?” I ask.
He thinks for exactly one beat. “Ask, don’t assume.”
I scribble it and stick it next to the heartbeat curve. It looks right there, like a label for the sound.
“And one for you,” he says gently, nodding at the pad.
I chew the pen cap, then write, “Let him help.” The words look naked and brave and exactly the size of the leap I can make tonight. I put it under his. The notes overlap a little. It feels like the point.
We stand there, ridiculous and earnest in our midnight kitchen, admiring two sticky notes like they’re cathedral blueprints. Then he tugs me in by the waistband of my pajama pants and steals a kiss that tastes like lemon and relief.
“I don’t want to love you wrong,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Then don’t,” I say, because complicated can be simple sometimes. “We’ll tell each other when we’re off-course.”
“We’ll also tell each other when we get it right,” he adds, and there’s that small smile again, the one that rewires the lighting in a room.
He shifts behind me, palms finding the spots at my low back that hurt and easing them with the kind of pressure that proves he’s been paying attention. My body, traitor and ally both, melts into him, the kind of fit that makes a person dangerous to your routines.
“I’m still scared,” I confess, quieter now, because the truth doesn’t get smaller just because we’ve named it once.
“Me too,” he says easily. “Fear can ride in the back seat. It doesn’t get the wheel.”
“You and your metaphors,” I mutter, smiling.
“I’m adapting to my audience,” he says, and kisses the top of my head.
The kettle finally clicks off, like it’s been holding its breath with us. He pours, adds honey and a squeeze of lemon, and hands me the mug with both hands like it’s a warm contract. We carry it down the hall together—the tree still glowing, the apartment still ours. I climb into bed and he follows, fitting himself around me like a promise he can keep.
“Denver?” I ask into the dark, because I’m me and because the quiet is where I do my worst writing.
“We’ll talk to Dean,” he says. “See if Saint Pierce can be more than a season.” A pause. “But I won’t ask you to move away from your life. If anything moves, it starts with me.”
A ridiculous sound leaves my throat—half sob, half laugh. “Ask me, don’t assume,” I remind him.
“Right,” he agrees. “I’ll ask. In daylight. With coffee. Not at midnight.”
The baby drums once under his hand. We both listen, grinning like conspirators. He kisses my hairline and his voice goes softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Slow yes,” he says again, like a benediction.
“Slow yes,” I whisper.
He kisses me passionately, and I melt into him, remembering the way he’s so present with me. So always in tune with all things Melanie. I’ve never had anyone pay this much attention to me in my life.
Is this love? I think it might be, and my body hums with nerves and excitement. With the longing to have his hands on me one more time. With the possibility to let myself hope and live here in this moment between us.
He keeps kissing me, our tongues dancing together. My body grows needy, and Lucas groans into my mouth. “I need you, Mel.”
I smile, loving the fact that I’m the reason of this man’s undoing. “I need you too.”
His eyes catch mine, and he gives me that smile that lands somewhere deep inside my chest. If I’m not careful I'll blurt out three tiny words to this man. And mean them. But we’re nowhere near there.
His hand roams over my hip, and lands right between my legs. He runs his fingers over my clothing, but I still feel him exactly where I need him.
“Please,” I moan.
He repositions our bodies so he’s behind me. He slides my yoga pants and panties down my legs. “I need to be inside you. Deep, deep inside you.”
My body’s on fire. “I need it too.”
Once he’s got me completely undressed he takes seconds to remove his clothing, and I nearly laugh at how determined he is.