Chapter Twenty Five
The Aftermath
Sarah
Morning comes in soft and cautious, like it’s not sure it’s welcome.
Light slips in around the edges of the curtains, pale and tentative, and for a few seconds I lie there without moving, my body heavy in that way where everything feels bruised but dull. The kind that settles into your bones and waits.
I stare into the dark and listen to the house breathe.
The hum of the heater. The faint tick of cooling pipes and Jace is wrapped around me.
His arm is draped over my waist, heavy and warm, his hand splayed low on my stomach, the soft fabric of his shirt brushing my skin. His chest rises against my back, slow and steady, and his breath brushes the back of my neck every time he exhales.
For one suspended second, I let myself pretend we’re waking up like this because nothing went wrong.
Then reality settles back in, familiar and heavy.
What happened between us last night felt like a turning point. Yes, we have so much more to work through but I think we are headed in the right direction.
We didn’t talk through things or dissect the damage that happened. That wasn’t something we were ready for last night.
We just held on.
I shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his arm tightens immediately, instinctive. His fingers curl, pulling me closer, like even asleep he’s unwilling to let go.
That does something dangerous in my chest.
I turn slowly in his arms until I’m facing him. His face is calm but worn, like he didn’t sleep so much as drift in and out of it. His jaw is shadowed, his brow faintly creased, even now, like his mind never fully shut off.
I wonder what he’s thinking.
Then I stop myself. Some questions don’t need to be answered yet.
His eyes open. “Morning,” he says quietly, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.”
That’s all we say, and somehow it’s enough. Nothing else is asked for, nothing else pressed into the space between us. For a few seconds, we just look at each other, close enough that I can see faint red lines on his cheek from the pillow, close enough that pretending distance feels impossible.
His gaze drops. Not to my face.
Lower.
Something in his expression changes. Not hunger exactly. But need. Raw and unguarded, like everything else has been stripped away.
I inhale slowly, and the sound seems loud in the quiet.
“Sarah,” he murmurs.
I don’t answer, instead I shift closer, sliding my leg over his hip, pressing my body into his like I’m reminding him I’m here. That I didn’t disappear overnight. That last night was real.
His hand moves slowly, sliding up my side, fingers spreading along my ribs, thumb brushing just under my breast like he’s testing whether I’ll stop him.
I won’t.
His jaw tightens and his eyes close for a brief second, like he’s fighting the urge to lose control before he even starts.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, low.
I shake my head once. “I don’t.”
That’s all it takes.
He rolls us so I’m on my back, his body settling between my thighs, heavy and solid and grounding in a way that makes my breath catch. His forearms brace on either side of my head, caging me in without trapping me.
He kisses me slowly at first, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to remember the shape of my mouth. Then rougher, needier, his hand sliding into my hair, fingers tightening just enough to make my spine arch.
I kiss him back just as hard.
The night floods back in pieces. The gala. The looks. The silence. The way everything cracked open.
I push my hands under his shirt, needing skin, needing proof he’s real. His breath stutters when my fingers drag across his stomach, and he breaks the kiss long enough to pull the shirt over his head and toss it somewhere behind him.
My hands go to his shoulders, then his back, nails digging in like I need to anchor myself to something solid.
“Sarah,” he breathes again, like my name is both a plea and a restraint.
I hook my leg around his hip, pulling him closer. “I need this,” I admit, voice low.
His forehead drops to mine. “So do I.”
That’s when it shifts.
We are two people trying to outrun the weight sitting on our chests.
He kisses down my throat, over my collarbone, his mouth hot and unhurried but his hands tug my shirt up and over my head, then back down my body. His fingers find the edge of my underwear and pause, like he’s giving me the chance to pull back.
I lift my hips in answer.
He groans quietly and pushes them down, not teasing, just controlled. Focused.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
“I’m here.”
He moves fast then, urgency bleeding through the restraint.
He strips us both down with efficient movements, not stopping to admire, just needing.
Wanting. He reaches for the condom on the nightstand without breaking eye contact, rolls it on in one practiced motion, then lines himself up and pushes inside me.
The sensation hits hard and sharp and perfect all at once.
I gasp, hands flying to his shoulders.
He doesn’t rush. He sets a slow, steady rhythm, each thrust deliberate, grounding, like he’s reminding both of us that this is real. That we’re here.
My legs tighten around him, a silent demand for more, for closer, for everything he’s holding back.
His jaw tightens. “Easy.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Please.”
His eyes lock on mine, dark and unguarded. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s not enough.”
Something snaps. His movements turn rougher, deeper, the bed creaking beneath us.
My breath breaks apart, my hands clutching at him like he’s the only thing keeping me upright.
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing the sound I make when he hits just right, and I feel him lose a fraction of his control.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Then my phone vibrates.
Once.
Twice.
We both freeze.
The phone vibrates again, harder this time, buzzing against the nightstand like it’s demanding attention.
Instead of pulling away, Jace’s grip tightens. His movements turn erratic, urgent, like the interruption snaps the last thread of restraint instead of restoring it.
My breath catches. His name breaks out of me as everything rushes forward at once, messy and overwhelming and impossible to stop.
We tumble over the edge together, breathless and shaking, the sound of the phone fading into nothing beneath the rush of it.
Only after Jace finally stills, his weight settling, his breathing rough against my neck.
I reach for my phone and don’t even look at the screen before answering.
Ellie’s voice comes through immediately. “We’re coming over.”
I blink. “Ell—”
“Don’t argue,” she says. “Emma’s with me. We already decided, we are having a girls day.”
“What time?” I ask.
“Ten minutes.”
I exhale slowly. “Okay.”
“Good,” Ellie says. “Unlock the door if you can.”
The line goes dead.
I drop the phone onto the mattress and stare at the ceiling, my chest rising and falling too fast.
Jace meets my eyes, the intensity easing into something quieter. “Everything okay?”
I nod, “Yeah. The girls are on their way.”
His gaze softens in a way that makes my throat tighten. He gets up and pulls on his boxer briefs, then leans down and kisses my forehead.
“I should go before they get here then,” he says quietly.
The words land heavier than they should, and my body reacts, like it wants to pull him back by force. I sit up and drag the sheet around myself, half naked and half exposed and not sure which feels worse.
“You don’t have to rush,” I say.
“I know,” he answers. “But they’re here for you, and I don’t want to crowd that. Besides, I have some things I need to think about.”
I understand instantly and I hate that he’s hurt.
He gets dressed quickly, movements quiet and controlled, like he’s used to putting himself back together in silence. He finds his shirt and pulls it on, then his jeans, then his socks.
When he reaches the door, he pauses. “Sarah,” he says.
I look up.
His eyes hold mine, steady and serious, as if letting me know he’s not going anywhere.
My chest squeezes hard. ‘Don’t make me ask you to promise.’
I swallow and nod. “I know.”
He hesitates like he wants to say more, then thinks better of it. He comes back, kisses me once more, soft this time, and then he’s gone.
I hear the front door click shut, and the quiet that follows is too big.
I get dressed, then move through the house on autopilot, brushing my hair back and splashing water on my face until I look composed enough to pass.
The coffee maker waits on the counter, unchanged. I start it and let the routine take over. The scent fills the room, familiar and grounding, and for a brief second, I can breathe.
I unlock the front door like Ellie demanded, then I lean back against the counter and stare at nothing.
I think about last night but my mind immediately pulls back. Instead, it fixates on the weird details.
The way the string quartet kept playing.
The way someone laughed right after Sierra confessed, as if their body didn’t understand what had happened and reacted on habit.
The way Jace’s voice sounded when he asked, “Why would you let me believe in a life that wasn’t real, without knowing the truth?”
A knock interrupts my thoughts and Ellie pushes the door open like she owns it. “If anyone answers this door pretending everything’s fine, I’m calling bullshit immediately.”
Emma follows with two coffee carriers and a bag of pastries that smells comforting. Her face is careful, like she’s here to support but not sure of what she’s walking into.
I don’t even get a hello before Emma crosses the room and hugs me, tight and warm, like she’s trying to hold me in place.
“Hey,” she whispers.
“Hey.”
Ellie sets the bag on the counter and scans my face like she’s conducting a silent triage. “Okay. You’re upright. No mascara streaks. Good job.”
“Thanks,” I say, dry.
“Don’t get sarcastic with me,” she replies, equally dry. “I’m sensitive.”
Emma snorts softly, and it almost makes me laugh.
Almost.