Chapter 19 Claudette #2
Michael had gotten us a house in California while I was in rehab.
I didn’t know until the car turned off the coastal highway and pulled into a jasmine-lined driveway, the scent drifting through the open windows. The house sat on a bluff overlooking the city—not as big as the Vegas penthouse, but somehow more. More intimate. More ours.
“Michael.” I gripped his arm, staring through the windshield. “What is this?”
“Home.” He squeezed my hand. “I wanted you closer to your family. Your parents are twenty minutes away. Jack’s an hour.” He paused, searching my face. “If you don’t like it, we can—”
“I love it.” The words came out thick. I blinked rapidly and laughed at myself, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Sorry, I just—I love it. It’s perfect.”
The tension in his shoulders loosened, and he lifted my hand to kiss my knuckles. “Wait until you see inside.”
Inside, I noticed it immediately—photos everywhere.
Covering the walls in the hallway, arranged on shelves in the living room, filling an entire album on the coffee table.
The layout echoed the Vegas penthouse—the same open floor plan, the same wall of windows overlooking the city—but warmer somehow.
Softer. Like he’d taken every good memory from that place and rebuilt it here.
Our beach house. My recovery. Moments I didn’t remember from the surgery aftermath. Me sleeping in the hospital. Me scowling at physical therapy. Me laughing at something Michael had said. Us together at doctor appointments, in the rehab facility garden, during visiting hours.
Hundreds of photos documenting everything.
“How?” I breathed, turning in slow circles to take it all in.
Michael appeared beside me. “These are our memories,” he said softly. “I saved them for us.”
I looked at a photo of me in the hospital, bandages wrapped around my head, eyes closed, Michael holding my hand.
The next one showed me awake, trying to smile.
Another showed me in a wheelchair looking frustrated while Augustus stood beside me, saying something that had clearly made me laugh despite myself.
“You documented everything.”
“I wanted you to see it. Wanted you to know what you survived. What we survived together.”
Then I saw it.
On the bookshelf, nestled between photos and candles, sat a lumpy purple elephant with floppy ears and a crooked trunk.
“Oh my god.” A laugh bubbled out of me. “You brought Failure?”
“Of course I brought Failure. You treated him like family. Besides, he’s the first thing I ever won for you.”
I crossed the room and picked him up, running my thumb over his lopsided face. “He looks worse than I remember.”
“He’s been through a lot. Sat in my bed every single day. Became my partner.” Michael came up behind me, hooking his chin over my shoulder.
I turned in his arms, holding the elephant between us. “I can’t believe you replaced him with me,”
“I can’t believe you named him that in the first place.”
“You’re the one who couldn’t make a single shot at the carnival.”
“It was on purpose, I wanted to entertain you.” He plucked the elephant from my hands and set him back on the shelf, positioning him just so.
“Failure represents what I did. I won him. For us.”
I stared at him, my heart too full for my chest. “That’s surprisingly deep for a carnival prize.”
“I’m a surprisingly deep person.”
“You’re a dork.”
“Your dork.” He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “Come on. Let me show you the rest.”
He led me through the house—the kitchen with its ocean view, the guest rooms for when family visited, the master bedroom with French doors that opened onto a private balcony.
That’s when I saw the envelope on the nightstand. Cream-colored, my name written across the front in Michael’s handwriting.
My breath caught. “Is that—” I looked at him. “The letter? The one you wouldn’t let me read?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a flush creeping up his jaw. “I was going to throw it away, but…” He trailed off.
“But?”
“But then I thought maybe you should see it. Now that we’re here. Now that we made it.”
I picked it up, the paper soft and slightly worn at the edges like he’d held it too many times. “You’ve been carrying this around.”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t answer, just watched me with an expression that made my chest ache—nervous and hopeful and so deeply vulnerable I wanted to wrap myself around him and never let go.
I opened it carefully.
Claudette,
If you’re reading this, you made it. You fought, you won, and you’re still here.
I’ve been thinking about all the things I want to do with you when you’re better.
I want to cook you breakfast and show you the new recipes I’ve learned.
I want to read more books to you in bed until you fall asleep on my shoulder.
I want to dance with you in the kitchen to good music.
I want to take a bath with you—candles everywhere, music playing, your back against my chest.
I want to take my time with you. Touch you slowly until you’re shaking. Make you fall apart in my arms and then put you back together again. I want to love you until neither of us remembers what it felt like to be afraid.
I want a thousand ordinary days with you. A million ordinary moments.
I want forever, Claudette—however long that is.
Yours always,
Michael
I didn’t realize I was crying until my tears hit the paper.
“Hey, careful.” Michael reached out like he might snatch the letter away, protect it from water damage, and I laughed through my tears and held it away from him.
“I’m not ruining your letter.”
“You’re absolutely ruining my letter.”
“It’s my letter. My name’s on it.”
He abandoned the rescue mission and pulled me into his arms instead, letter crumpled between us. I pressed my face into his chest and let myself cry—happy tears, overwhelmed tears.
“I can’t believe I’m alive… and that you love me this much.”
“I meant every word,” he said against my hair. “I still do.”
I pulled back enough to look at him, “Then let’s start.”
“Start what?”
“Everything. All of it.” I kissed the corner of his mouth, letting my lips linger. “Starting with the bath.”
His breath caught. “Claudette—”
“I’m recovered. The doctors cleared me.” I let my fingers trail down his chest, felt his heart hammering beneath my palm. “And I seem to recall a very specific promise about making me fall apart.”
Something shifted in his expression—the restraint he’d been clinging to melted away, and what I saw underneath made my breath catch. Hunger. Want. Need.
“You have no idea,” he said, his voice dropping low enough to make me shiver, “how long I’ve been waiting to deliver on that promise.”
“Then stop making me wait.”
He kissed me—not gentle, not careful, but hard and deep and desperate, like he’d been starving and I was the only thing that could save him. His hands cradled my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and I melted into him.
When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing unsteadily, his lips traced down my jaw to my ear.
“Go sit on the bed,” he murmured. “Give me ten minutes.”
“What are you—”
“I’ve had months to plan this, Claudette.” He pulled back, and his eyes were soft with promise. “Let me.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to him move through the bathroom. Running water. Soft thuds. The click of a lighter. Music started playing—something slow and lovely, all piano and longing. My pulse quickened with every passing minute.
When he finally appeared in the doorway, the bathroom behind him glowed amber and gold.
“Come here.”
I went.
The bathroom stole the breath right out of my lungs.
Candles covered every surface—dozens of them, flickering on the counter, the windowsill, clustered along the edge of the massive tub.
Rose petals floated on the water, red and blush pink scattered across the surface like whispered promises.
Steam curled through the air, carrying the scent of vanilla and jasmine.
The music wrapped around us, intimate and slow.
“Michael,” I whispered.
“I told you.” He stepped close behind me, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “I’ve been planning.”
We undressed each other slowly, reverently—no rush, no urgency, just the quiet rediscovery of each other after months of fear and waiting. When his fingers traced the scar behind my ear, I tensed, but he just leaned in and kissed it softly.
“This means you survived,” he whispered against my skin. “It’s beautiful because you’re still here.”
He helped me into the tub, the water perfectly warm, silky against my skin. He climbed in behind me, and I leaned back against his chest with a sigh that seemed to empty out months of tension.
His arms wrapped around me, holding me close. I could feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade, steady and sure.
“I dreamed about this,” he murmured into my hair. “Every night in that hospital. This exact moment. You in my arms. Safe. Alive. Mine.”
“I’m here.” I tilted my head back to look at him. “I’m yours.”
“Yes.” He kissed my forehead, my temple, the corner of my eye. “You are.”
We stayed like that for a long while, wrapped up in each other, the warm water and candlelight cocooning us from the rest of the world. His hands traced lazy patterns on my arms, my shoulders, never demanding—just touching. Reconnecting. Remembering.
“I love you,” I said quietly. “I don’t think I say it enough.”
“You say it plenty.”
“Not enough. Not for everything you’ve done. Everything you’ve been.” I twisted to face him, water rippling around us. “You carried me through all of it, Michael. You never let go.”
His eyes glistened in the candlelight. “I couldn’t. You’re my whole heart, Claudette. Letting go was never an option.”
I kissed him then—soft and slow, pouring everything I couldn’t say into the press of my lips against his. He kissed me back the same way, tender and unhurried, like we had forever.
And maybe we did.
When the kiss deepened, it felt natural. Inevitable. His hands cradled my face, and mine wound around his neck, and the space between us disappeared entirely.
“I missed you,” he breathed against my mouth. “I missed this. Missed being close to you.”
“I’m close now.”
“Not close enough.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, his gaze searching mine. “Is this okay? Are you—”
“I’m perfect.” I traced my thumb along his jaw. “I want this. I want you.”
He smiled—that soft, wondering smile that always made my heart flip—and pulled me closer.
The rest of the world simply fell away.
There was only us, only this—the warm water and scattered petals, the candlelight painting gold across our skin, the music wrapping around us like a blanket. He touched me like I was precious, and I held him like he was home.
We moved together slowly, gently, relearning each other in the quiet. When he whispered my name, it sounded like a prayer. When I whispered his, it felt like a promise.
Afterward, we stayed tangled together in the cooling water, neither of us willing to break the spell.
“We should get out,” I murmured against his shoulder.
“Probably.” He pressed a kiss to my damp hair. “In a minute.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“And I’ll say it again in another ten.”
I laughed softly, and felt him smile against my temple.
When we finally made it to bed—wrapped in soft towels, skin still warm—I curled into his side and listened to his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Alive.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For the house. For the photos. For carrying that letter around for months.” I propped my chin on his chest to look at him. “For never giving up on me.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his expression unbearably tender. “I couldn’t give up on you. You’re everything, Claudette. You’re my whole life.”
“You’re mine too.”
He kissed me, slow and sweet, and pulled me closer.
On the nightstand, the letter sat beside Failure the elephant—both of them testaments to persistence, to refusing to quit, to winning anyway.
A thousand ordinary days, Michael had written.
We’d already started counting.