CHAPTER 35 SECOND CHANCES NATE
SECOND CHANCES
NATE
The room smells faintly like sex and sleep and something warmer—something distinctly us.
Her shampoo mixed with my soap, skin on skin, the evidence of last night still clinging to the sheets.
Nora's asleep beside me.
She's curled on her side, knees drawn slightly in, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting between us like she forgot to pull it back.
Her hair's a mess—soft waves fanned across the pillow, a few strands brushing her cheek.
The sheet has slipped down to her waist, and the curve of her bare shoulder is visible, the slope of her back, a small bruise on her collarbone that I remember putting there with my mouth.
She looks younger like this. Unarmored.
Not the woman who walked back into Eden carrying a whole life I wasn't part of.
Just Nora.
My Nora.
I don't reach for her right away, even though every instinct is screaming at me to pull her close, to wake her up with my hands and mouth, to prove to myself that last night wasn't a dream.
There was a time when waking up like this would've sent my chest into a tight spiral—fear, need, the urge to hold on before the moment disappeared.
That version of me would've touched her just to prove she was real.
This morning, I stay still. I listen.
Her breathing is slow and even.
And I just let myself have this moment without the fear that it'll be ripped away.
It feels earned.
She stirs eventually, lashes fluttering as she wakes.
For a second, there's that brief flicker of confusion—where am I, who's here—before recognition settles in and her eyes find mine.
Her mouth curves into a small smile that makes my chest tight.
"Hey," she murmurs, voice rough with sleep and probably also from how much she was using it last night.
"Hi."
It's nothing. Just a word.
But it lands heavy anyway.
A confirmation that this is real, that she's here, that we finally stopped running.
She rolls onto her back, stretching slightly, and the sheet slips even lower.
Every inch of exposed skin is a map I remember tracing with my hands last night.
Then she turns toward me, propping herself up on one elbow, and her eyes track my face like she's reading something I'm not saying.
"You okay?" she asks.
I nod. "Yeah."
She doesn't push. Just studies me, quiet and patient, and I'm suddenly hyperaware that we're both naked, that she's close enough to touch, that nothing is stopping me from reaching for her except my own attempt at restraint.
"Can I ask you something?" She asks suddenly.
"Of course."
“It might be overstepping a line.”
“After what we just did? I think we’re past overstepping lines.”
She laughs, bringing the duvet up to cover her face.
“How many?"
I blink. "How many what?"
"Women. Since..." She gestures vaguely between us. "Since me."
The question catches me off guard completely. I mean I could lie. I could inflate the number to seem less pathetic, less hung up on her.
But I don't.
"None."
Her eyes widen. "None?"
"None."
"Nate, that's—" She stops, shakes her head. "I don't believe you."
"It's true."
"Seven years and you didn't—"
"I kissed women. But I didn't sleep with them," I interrupt, and there's no heat in it, just honesty.
"I still don't believe you."
"I kept your birthday as my passcode for seven years.," I say, leaning over her, staring into her eyes so she knows I'm not lying. "You think I was out there sleeping with other people when I couldn't even change six numbers?"
She stares at me, and something shifts in her expression.
“Don’t get me wrong. I tried," I admit. "I went on a few dates. Let people flirt with me. But every single time, I'd compare them to you and they'd come up short. So I stopped trying."
"That's..." She swallows hard. "That's a long time to wait to—"
"Have sex?” I laugh. “Yeah I'm very well aware. Believe me.”
"You waited."
"It was always going to be you," I say. " Just took you a while to come back."
She moves then, closing the small distance between us, and kisses me. Soft at first, then deeper, her hand coming up to cup my face. I respond immediately, rolling her onto her back, covering her body with mine, and the sound she makes—half gasp, half moan—goes straight to my dick.
"I'm not a patient man," I say against her mouth, already hard and pressed against her thigh.
"But you waited for me," she points out, breathless.
I kiss the hollow curve behind her ear, moving down the line of her neck, lavishing her with attention.
"I'd wait for you for a thousand lifetimes if I had to," I murmur against her throat, then bite down gently on her earlobe. "But I'd hate every fucking second of not having you in my arms like this.”
She arches into me, and how ready she is, how much she wants this, is undeniable.
“You don't need to wait anymore," she breathes.
And I don't.
The first time last night was desperate. Frantic. All those years of need compressed into barely controlled urgency. The second time was slower but still hungry.
This morning is different.
This morning, I take my time.
I map every inch of her body with my hands and mouth—the curve of her breast, the dip of her waist, the inside of her thigh. I find the places that make her gasp, the touches that make her arch, the rhythm that has her saying my name over and over again.
"Nate, please—"
"Not yet." I kiss my way down her stomach, lower, and she makes a sound that's almost a whimper. "I've waited too long for this. I'm not rushing."
"You're killing me."
"Good, now you know how it felt for me, seeing you with him."
When I finally put my mouth where she needs it most, she comes apart so beautifully I almost lose control myself. But I hold back, draw it out, make her come twice before I even think about my own release.
"Inside me," she finally gasps, pulling at my shoulders. “Now. I need you inside me."
“Do you?” I ask, even though I'm already positioning myself, already trembling with the effort of restraint.
“Yes, fuck. Now. Nate. Please."
“Well, because you asked so nicely.”
I slide into her slowly, her face registering the exact moment pleasure overtakes everything else. She's so warm, so tight, so perfect that I have to pause, breathe, remind myself not to just lose it immediately.
“Fuck,” she mutters, wrapping her legs around my waist.
“That’s exactly what I’m about to do.”
And I do.
We find a rhythm that's both familiar and new—her body remembering mine even after all this time, my body remembering exactly how to make her fall apart. Every thrust drives me deeper, every gasp and moan from her mouth makes me want to mark her, claim her, make sure she knows she's mine.
"Say it," I growl against her neck, pace increasing. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," she gasps.
"Again."
"Yours, Nate. Only yours."
When she comes this time, it's with my name on her lips and her nails digging into my back, and the feeling of her tightening around me is enough to send me over the edge too.
We collapse together, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat, and I'm pretty sure I've never felt more complete in my entire life.
Later—much later, after round four and a shower that almost turned into round five—we get dressed.
Coffee. Breakfast. Normal things.
The kind of morning that feels almost domestic, and that realization this is all I want, hits me square in the chest. I’d die a very happy fucking man if this is how my mornings looked until the end of time.
She's wearing one of my shirts, and seeing her in my clothes does something primal to my brain that makes me want to keep her here, naked, in my bed for the foreseeable future.
"You have to stop looking at me like that," she says, catching my expression.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to drag me back to bed."
"I do want to drag you back to bed."
She laughs, and the sound fills my kitchen in a way that makes it feel more like home than it ever has.
"You're insatiable."
"Need I remind you, it's been seven years, Len. I have a lot of lost time to make up for."
She comes over to where I'm leaning against the counter, slides her arms around my waist, looks up at me with eyes that are bright and happy and completely unguarded.
"No regrets?" I ask, needing to hear it again.
"Not a single one." She stands on her toes to kiss me. "You?"
"My only regret is that it took us this long to get here."
"We had to grow up first," she says quietly. "Had to become who we needed to be."
"Maybe." I pull her closer. "But I'm done waiting. Done being apart. Done pretending I can exist without you."
"Good." She rests her head against my chest. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
We stand like that for a long moment, just holding each other, and I let myself feel the full weight of what this means.
She's here and we finally chose each other.
After everything—after Scott, after addiction, after all those years of her absence in my life—we found our way back.
"I need to go see Nick later," I tell her, running my hand through her hair. "And my mom. There's some stuff I need to talk to them about."
She shifts in my arms, propping herself up so she can see my face properly.
"Everything okay?"
I hesitate, realizing she doesn't know this detail about my life yet. That there are still pieces of the time we've spent apart we haven't shared with each other.
"My, uh... Dominic Torres. My biological father. He came to see me yesterday."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Wait, what?" She looks at me, giving me her full attention. "Your biological dad? Nate, I didn't even know—when did you find out about him?"
"Mom told me right after Jake—" I pause. “She told me years ago that Scott wasn't my biological father. She told me his name was Dominic and Scott had made sure I never knew him."
"Shit. And now he just... showed up?"
"He saw the Rolling Stone interview and had been trying to call." I run a hand over my face. "Turns out Scott had him sent to prison on false charges when I was a kid. He went away for six years. So he couldn't come back for us even if he wanted to."
"Jesus, Nate." Her hand finds mine, laces our fingers together. "That's—that's a lot to process."