87. Chapter 87
eighty-seven
T he house was quiet; the kind of stillness that settled only once both children were asleep, tucked under blankets and dreams. Monroe lay on her side, one hand curled beneath her cheek, the other stretched across the bed, grazing Chloé’s arm.
“Poppy must be shattered,” Monroe murmured.
Chloé nodded, her voice soft. “She didn’t stop all day. Just...held it together for everyone else.”
Monroe sighed. “I don’t know how she’s doing it. I honestly don’t. The kids were amazing, though. Benji, especially. He really stepped up.”
“And Kitty. She’s got more courage in her pinkie than most people have, full-grown.”
They lay in silence for a moment, breathing in the comfort of clean sheets and a room that was finally theirs again, for a few hours at least.
Chloé turned to her, brushing her fingers lightly over Monroe’s wrist. “You were amazing too, you know.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“You did exactly what was needed. For all of them.”
Monroe shifted, rolling onto her back, and blinked at the ceiling, tiredness catching up to her all at once. “It’s been so much lately. The hospital, the waiting, trying to keep things normal for the kids. I feel like we’ve barely had a moment to breathe.”
“I know. But we’re here now.”
“That’s just it,” Monroe said quietly. “You’re here, and I keep wondering how long I’ve got you for.” She glanced sideways. “Aren’t they pulling you back to France?”
Chloé gave a small shrug. “They’ll survive without me for a little while longer.”
Monroe tried to smile, but her brow furrowed. “You don’t have to stay just because it’s a mess here.”
“I’m staying because I want to.” Chloé’s voice was steady, no hesitation. “This…being here with you, helping Poppy, being with the kids…it matters. You matter.”
Monroe’s throat tightened. She turned, inching closer until their foreheads nearly touched. “I miss you,” she whispered, “even when you’re right here.”
“I miss us, too,” Chloé replied, fingers threading with Monroe’s.
Their kiss was slow; a quiet tether between them, a moment carved out of the chaos, something soft and steady. Chloé’s hand moved to Monroe’s side, warm against the fabric of her shirt.
“I just needed to be reminded,” Monroe murmured, “that we’re still…this.”
“We are,” Chloé said. “Always.”
Chloé’s fingers slid lightly over Monroe’s hip, easing up under the hem of her shirt. “You’re so tense,” she whispered, her voice low and coaxing. “Let me help you let some of it go.”
Monroe closed her eyes, her breath catching. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way Chloé said them. Soft. Certain. As though she already knew where Monroe was aching.
“I don’t want to fall apart,” Monroe murmured.
“You won’t,” Chloé promised, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, then another just below her jaw. “You’ll just feel. With me.”
Monroe turned towards her fully now, eyes searching hers, finding only patience and something deeper: Desire wrapped in love.
Chloé’s hand found the small of her back and gently drew her in, their bodies aligning like they’d done this a thousand times, yet somehow it still felt new. Their kisses turned hungrier; Monroe’s hands finding skin beneath Chloé’s shirt and Chloé’s mouth teasing a path along Monroe’s collarbone.
Clothes slipped away without urgency. It wasn’t rushed or frantic—just two women reclaiming the space between them, rediscovering the shape of each other.
Monroe’s fingers curled in the sheets as Chloé kissed her way lower, every movement slow, reverent, easing tension from places Monroe hadn’t even realised were wound tight.
Monroe’s breath hitched. Then softened.
She sank into the mattress with Chloé’s warmth covering her, grounding her. In this moment, there was no hospital, no worry, just the hush of breath, the press of skin, and the quiet rethreading of connection where it had frayed.
Chloé moved aware she knew every inch of Monroe’s body by heart—and still wanted to relearn it, slowly. Her hands explored with intention; not to take, but to give, each touch taking Monroe out of her head and into the moment.
Monroe’s breath trembled as Chloé trailed kisses along her ribs, her waist, the dip of her hip. “God, I’ve missed you,” she murmured, fingers threading through Chloé’s hair.
“I’m right here,” Chloé whispered, lips brushing lower now, teasing, coaxing Monroe to let go, to feel.
And Monroe did. She let her head fall back, eyes closed, the world narrowing to the pull of Chloé’s mouth, the weight of her hand on Monroe’s thigh, and the heat unfurling low in her belly.
She arched, a soft sound escaping her lips, not from need alone, but from release—of fear, of exhaustion, of being strong all the time.
Chloé came back up to kiss her, their mouths meeting, open and honest. Monroe tasted herself on Chloé’s lips and deepened the kiss, drawing her close, rolling them over until Chloé was beneath her.
“My turn,” Monroe whispered against her skin as she slid down the bed, smiling as Chloé’s breath hitched when she moved into position.
She took her time, hands sliding over Chloé’s thighs, her waist, her breasts, learning again what made her gasp, what made her melt.
It wasn’t hurried or hungry now. It was something more tender, more certain.
When Chloé came undone beneath her, Monroe held her close, bodies slick with warmth, hearts still racing.
For a long moment, they didn’t move, but eventually Monroe slid into the space beside Chloé, their hands meeting.
Then Chloé’s fingers curled lightly around Monroe’s, their hands resting between them on the tangle of sheets.
“That was…” Chloé exhaled. “Exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”
Monroe smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”
Chloé smiled into a kiss. “Still tired?”
“Exhausted,” Monroe breathed, rolling to pull Chloé with her, both of them tangled in sheets and warmth. “But not enough to stop.”
Their laughter was low and quiet; a secret in the dark, while children slept and friends healed.