25. Skye
Skye
T he text comes in while Maya’s in the shower.
I’m curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath me, a mug of lukewarm coffee resting on my thigh. The living room is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside and the faint acoustic playlist drifting from my speaker.
When I see his number light up my screen, my heart jerks against my ribs like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. Even though I deleted his number. Even though I’ve been warring with myself about giving him a second chance.
I hesitate. Then I tap it open. It’s long. Unfiltered.
Every word bleeds. Every sentence sounds like him. Not the polished man in suits who commands boardrooms, but the one who held my face like I was breakable. The one who said my name like it meant something. The one who told me with his eyes what his mouth couldn’t find the courage to say.
You looked at me like I was worth saving. I don ’ t know if I am. But I ’ d spend every day trying, if you let me.
My throat tightens. My fingers tremble. I read it again. And again. The part of me that aches for him starts typing before I even realize it.
Me: Come over.
I stare at the words. Then I backspace. No. Not yet. I set my phone face down on the coffee table and drag in a breath so deep it rattles my chest.
Maya walks into the room wrapped in a towel, eyes narrowing as she catches my expression. “Was that him ?”
I nod. She doesn’t push. Just grabs a can of sparkling water from the fridge and drops onto the couch beside me.
“He poured his heart out,” I say quietly. “And part of me wants to run straight into it.”
“But?”
“But I’ve done that before,” I whisper. “With Archer. With other men. I always forgive too fast. Fall too hard. Give too much.”
Maya sets her drink down and looks at me with gentle, steady eyes. “So don’t run. Walk. Let him earn the right to hold you.”
I nod slowly.
Because that’s it. That’s what feels different this time. I’m not the girl begging someone to choose me. I’m the woman who finally understands that I don’t have to earn love through sacrifice. I want to be wanted—with intention. With clarity. With boldness. With no shadows between us.
I push off the couch and grab my phone. My fingers don’t shake this time.
Me: If you want to talk, meet me tomorrow. 10 a.m. at Bluebird Coffee on Ashland. I ’ ll stay for fifteen minutes. Don ’ t be late.
Bluebird Coffee is already half-full when I walk in at 9:57. It’s a sleepy Thursday morning in Wicker Park. The baristas move in a rhythm that feels both unbothered and expertly choreographed, grinding, pouring, calling names over the hiss of steam.
I take the small table by the window.
It’s the same one Maya and I used to sit at when we were nineteen and hungover, splitting a bagel and pretending we were grown-ups. I almost don’t realize it until I sit down. But maybe that’s why I chose it.
I smooth the hem of my wrap dress over my thighs, ignoring the tremor in my knee. I sip my latte and glance up at the clock—10:01. I tell myself he’s not coming. That I’ll drink this coffee, call Maya, and go about my life.
Maybe I’ll sign up for a pottery class. Maybe I’ll take a trip somewhere warm. Maybe I’ll learn how to shut off the part of me that’s still in love with a man who let me walk away.
But then I feel it. That shift. The air changes. My skin prickles. I don’t even have to look up to know he’s here. But I do anyway.
Reece steps inside like he owns the ground beneath him. Like he always does. But he’s not in a suit. Not today. He wears dark jeans and a slate button-down, his jacket tossed over one shoulder. He doesn’t scan the café. Doesn’t hesitate.
His eyes go straight to me. Like a man who would have found me in a crowd of a thousand. He walks over slowly. Carefully. When he reaches the table, he doesn’t sit. Just stands there for a moment, taking me in.
“You came,” I say, voice quieter than I intend.
His mouth lifts into something that’s not quite a smile. “You asked.”
I gesture to the chair across from me. “Sit.”
He does. We stare at each other for a beat. And then I say it.
“I’m not going to fall apart.” His brow furrows slightly. “I’m not going to cry,” I add. “Or yell. Or demand answers you already gave me.”
Reece nods slowly. “Okay.”
“But I need you to understand something,” I continue, wrapping both hands around my cup. “This doesn’t mean I’m letting you back in.”
He leans forward slightly, eyes locked on mine. “What does it mean?”
“It means I’m listening.”
A flicker of hope flashes across his face. It hurts to see it. Because I want to grab it. Wrap myself in it. But I don’t. I set my coffee down and take a breath.
“If you want me,” I say, voice steady, “you’ll have to date me.”
His eyes narrow, confused. “Skye?—”
“No secrets. No hiding. No excuses about Archer or the company or what people might think. I’m not going to be your dirty little secret again.”
His jaw clenches. “You were never that.”
“But that’s how it ended, didn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I want to be wooed,” I say, lifting my chin. “Not bought. Not seduced. Wooed. Take me out. Call me just to hear my voice. Send me flowers that aren’t a sorry. Show up because you want to, not because you’re afraid I’m slipping away.”
His throat bobs.
“I want to be chosen, Reece. Loudly. Without shame. Without fear.”
A beat of silence passes between us. He nods once. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“I’m not going to beg for this.”
“I’d never ask you to.”
“I don’t trust you yet.”
“I don’t deserve it yet.”
I blink. He says it so easily. No defense. No pride. And just like that, my chest cracks open a little more. I lean back in my chair, trying not to crumble under the weight of this new version of him. Still Reece. Still intense. Still impossibly composed.
But stripped down. Open. Willing.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Then show me.”
He nods again, slower this time. Measured.
“I will.”
He watches me like he’s memorizing everything. Not just my face, but the set of my shoulders. The way I cross my legs. The slight tremble in my fingers as I reach for my coffee again, trying to act like his presence isn’t unraveling me one second at a time.
I raise my chin. “Well?”
Reece tilts his head. “Well what?”
“You’re the one who showed up.”
“I am.”
“So say something.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, and when he speaks, his voice is lower than before—rougher. Steady but intimate.
“I will do everything you asked,” he says. “Exactly the way you asked it.”
I study him. Waiting for the catch.
“But,” he adds, “just so we’re clear…”
I arch a brow.
“I’m not doing it to win you back.”
That stings more than I expect. My breath catches, but before I can respond, he keeps going.
“I’m doing it because I love you,” he says simply. “Because even if you never let me touch you again, I still want to show up for you. Every day. I want to earn your trust. Your laughter. Your time.”
My heart pounds like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest.
He leans in just a little closer. “And yes, Skye… I’ll date you. I’ll woo the fuck out of you if that’s what you want.” His lips twitch. “But just know that at the end of it?” I hold my breath. “I’m going to make you fall in love with me all over again.”
I swallow, hard. “Cocky,” I murmur.
“Confident,” he corrects, a small smirk pulling at his lips. “Because I’ve already done it once.”
I laugh. It slips out of me, reluctant but real.
“Okay then,” I say, standing and grabbing my purse. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Blackwood.”
His eyes flash, sharp and hungry.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says even more confident this time as he stands, “you have no idea.”