Chapter 16 #2
I slide my hand down her spine, slow, and catch the little gasp that slips out of her with a kiss. I step back and take her hand. “You are sleeping with me.”
A flush climbs her throat. “I was going to take the guest room. I did not want to assume. What if Junie sees us?”
“No,” I say, voice a little rougher than I intend. I squeeze her fingers. “You are sleeping with me. I don’t want to sleep without you. I sleep better than I have in years when you are by my side. I’ll lock the door.”
Her eyes shine in a way that feels like light hitting water.
Something in my chest opens up and fills at the same time, a rush and a settling.
She nods once like it is a vow and lets me lead her out of the kitchen, down the dark hallway, past the photos on the wall that mean history and trying and stubborn love.
In my room the lamp throws a gold circle over the bed. The sheets are clean and cool. I shut the door gently, and the small click feels like a promise that the world can wait. Ivy stands at the foot of the bed and looks at me like this is our first night in a place that knows we belong.
She climbs in first and pulls the blankets back for me.
We meet in the middle like magnets. She tucks herself under my arm and finds the spot on my chest where her head fits.
My hand settles at her waist, then curves low over her hip, palm spanning warm cotton.
We lie there listening to each other breathe.
I don’t know if I have ever felt so awake and so ready to sleep at the same time.
“You run hot,” she murmurs.
“You steal the covers,” I say.
She snorts. “We’ll get a bigger blanket.”
“We will,” I say, and there it is, the easy we that used to scare me. It doesn’t now. It feels like walking a field I know in first snow.
She tips her face up, and I meet her halfway.
Kissing in bed is different. Slower. Deeper.
The kind of kiss that teaches your body what home feels like.
I angle her under me a little so I can take my time.
Her fingers slide into my hair, and I feel it right down my spine.
I make a noise I don’t plan to make, and she smiles against my mouth like she understands it already.
“Remy,” she says softly, a warning or a prayer, I cannot tell which, and I don’t need to. I kiss her again, slower, until the warning bleeds right into the prayer. I love hearing my name on her lips.
We take our time. Hands learn. Mouths map.
The room turns quiet and warm except for the rush in my ears and the sound she makes when I trail kisses along her throat.
I want to know every way she wants to be touched.
I want to memorize every way she touches me back.
I want to give her the careful and the hungry and everything in between.
I want to earn the look she gives me when I pull back to breathe, and she drags me down again with a laugh that trembles.
We could keep going. God, we could. But the steady thing inside me takes the reins, the part that wants to make this last and last. I ease us back into the pillows and pull the covers up and hold her tight.
We keep kissing until the heat settles into something softer.
We keep kissing until the urgency fades into gravity.
We keep kissing until her hand on my chest goes slow and then slower and then still.
“You make me feel so safe,” she whispers into my skin, her voice almost asleep.
I close my eyes. “You make this house feel alive.”
We lie there in the gold light and the quiet, and I think about how long it has been since I let myself tell the truth after dark. I don’t want to shatter the calm, but the words sit there and ask to be let out.
“Ivy,” I say.
She hums, a soft sound that means I am listening.
“I used to stay up late just to avoid walking into this room. I would fall asleep on the couch. I would doomscroll. Anything to put off climbing into an empty bed. I hate that part of myself. The part that is afraid of quiet.”
Her fingers start to move again, the slow circles over my heart. “That sounds lonely,” she says.
“It was,” I say, and my voice betrays me.
I swallow and keep going because it feels like a thorn I am finally pulling.
“I did not want to hear the thoughts that showed up when the house got still, the ones that say you are failing her. The ones that say you’re gonna mess it up again.
The ones that sound like echoes of people leaving us. ”
She does not rush in with comfort. She is deliberate and gentle. “How do things feel right now?” she asks.
I breathe in the smell of her hair and the clean cotton. I listen to the steady beat under my palm where my hand rests over her ribcage. I listen to my heartbeat, not galloping, just strong and even.
“Peaceful,” I say. “Hopeful.”
Her breath leaves her in a small sound that might be a laugh or a sob. “Good,” she says. “Because I want to be here. With you. For all of it.”
I have to close my eyes because the ceiling blurs. I pull her closer because words are not big enough for what moves through me. Thank you feels thin. I give her my mouth instead, and whatever she hears in it makes her fingers clutch at my T-shirt and hold me like she is the one keeping me steady.
Maybe she is.