Chapter 59
Lauren
Afterward, the room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, silvering the edge of the quilt.
Lauren lay with her head on Tom's shoulder, her fingertips tracing slow, absent circles on his chest. His skin was warm beneath her hand, the steady rise and fall grounding her in a way she hadn't felt in months.
Neither of them spoke at first. The silence wasn't awkward. It felt full—of what they'd said without words, of what still lingered in the air between them.
He shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to her hairline. "You okay?"
She nodded, the movement brushing against his skin. "Yeah," she whispered. Then, after a beat, "You?"
He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh. "Good. Really good."
She smiled against his shoulder. "You wore lace," she said softly. Her voice caught on the last word.
He looked down at her. "It was my turn."
Her throat tightened. "You looked…" She stopped, searching for the right word. "You looked like you. The you I fell in love with."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, "I don't think I knew who that was for a while."
Lauren's fingers stilled against his chest. "And now?"
"Now I'm trying to find him again." He turned his head toward her, eyes dark and unguarded. "If you'll let me."
Her heart fluttered—an old ache, tender and new all at once.
She could still feel the weight of everything between them: the mistakes, the hurt, the slow rebuilding. But beneath it all was something else—trust, fragile but real.
Lauren shifted closer, curling into him. "You're here, Tom," she murmured. "That's a start."
He tightened his arm around her. "That's everything."
Her fingers resumed their slow exploration—tracing the lines of muscle across his chest, the ridge of his collarbone, the place where his pulse beat steady and strong beneath her touch.
Years of marriage had taught her this landscape by heart. She knew every place that made him shiver, every touch that made his breath catch.
She pressed her lips to his shoulder, then his chest, feeling his heart rate pick up beneath her mouth.
"Lo," he breathed, and she heard everything in that single syllable—want and wonder and coming home.
She lifted her head to look at him. His eyes had gone dark, that look she remembered from a thousand nights. The look that said she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Again?" she whispered, half question, half invitation.
His answer was to roll them until she was beneath him and he was braced above her.
"I miss you," he said, voice rough. His hand traced down her body. "Every night. Every morning. Every moment in between."
She arched into his touch, her body remembering this dance even as her heart was still learning to trust again. "Show me," she whispered.
And he did.
He knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure, when to be gentle and when to be firm. She’d taught him her body's language, and now he was fluent.
He kissed her jaw, her throat, the hollow just beneath it — each touch slower, more deliberate, unraveling her inch by inch. Her breath stuttered as he mapped a path downward, his hands steady at her waist as if asking silently, Can I?
She answered by sliding her fingers into his hair, a wordless yes.
He exhaled shakily against her stomach, and the warmth of it made her entire body tighten. Then he moved lower, settling between her knees like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be.
Lauren’s breath caught.
He looked up, eyes dark. And then he lowered his head.
Her hand fisted in the sheets. Heat rolled through her in waves, sharp and bright, her hips arching despite her best attempt at composure. Her thoughts blurred into sensation, into yes, into oh God, into this, this, this.
“Tom,” she gasped, her voice breaking, her body rising toward him with helpless instinct.
When she finally reached for him, pulling him up to her, her whole body was trembling.
He groaned—a sound that was half pleasure, half restraint—and kissed her again, deep and thorough, as he settled his weight more fully against her. The hard press of him, the heat, the rightness of it—it made her breath catch.
"I love you," he said against her mouth. "God, Lauren, I love you so much."
"Show me," she said again, and this time it came out almost like a command.
His breath shuddered out. Then he moved—slow at first, giving her time to adjust, to remember, to feel. But she knew him too, knew what he needed, and she met him with the same certainty.
They still fit. Still moved together like they'd been designed for exactly this. The months apart dissolved into nothing as they found their rhythm—that perfect push and pull, the give and take that had always been theirs.
She knew when he was close—could read it in the tension of his shoulders, the hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers tightened on her hip. And he knew her just as well, adjusting himself, his pace, until she was gasping his name.
"That's it," he breathed. "Let me feel you, Lo. Let me—"
She shattered, and he followed her with a sound that was half groan, half her name, burying his face in her neck as they both trembled through it.
They lay tangled together, hearts racing, skin damp and warm. He rolled, taking her with him, not letting go even for a moment.
Lauren pressed her face into his chest, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it—not just the physical act, but everything that had led them here. The vulnerability. The risk. The choices.
"Okay?" he murmured, one hand stroking slowly down her back.
She nodded, unable to speak past the emotion in her throat.
He tilted her chin up, searching her face with concern. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose.
"I'm never taking this for granted again," he said quietly.
They lay there, quiet again, the kind of quiet that felt like promise.
Lauren didn’t feel ready for Monday, but Monday arrived anyway.
She was flipping between emotional exhaustion and that wonderful joy she couldn’t shake.
Tom’s arms around her. The way her body still remembered him.
Inside Muse, the elevator chimed as doors opened onto the fifth floor. The morning bustle was already in full swing.
Wren spotted her instantly.
“There she is—our breakout star!” Wren called across the room.
“You’re trending again,” Sage said. “Some influencer did a reaction video to the I DESERVE BETTER wreath.”
Her pieces—her messy, glittered, handmade pieces—were everywhere. Her inbox had exploded with commission requests. Half a dozen emails from people wanting custom orders.
It should have felt incredible.
Instead, she felt… wobbly.
Like she was walking in shoes a half-size too big and terrified she’d trip.
“Wow,” she murmured. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Sage said, hopping up from her desk to plant a hand on Lauren’s shoulder. “Just bask, babe.”
Lauren laughed—an honest, surprised laugh that loosened something in her chest.
She hung her coat over her chair, trying to shake off the remnants of heartache.
She didn’t want to think about him. Not in the light of day. Not when she finally had something that felt like hers.
“Hey,” Rina said, appearing with a stack of print proofs. “Vivian wants to discuss a follow up article with you. She’s building out the next feature spread.”
“Is this the one with the anti-Valentine’s angle?” Sage asked.
“The very one." Rina waggled her brows at Lauren.
Lauren flushed. “My stuff feels so silly compared to the real art in the magazine.”
“Oh my God,” Zoe said flatly. “If you apologize for being talented one more time, I will personally staple rhinestones to your laptop.”
Lauren snorted and set her bag down. “You’re all impossible.”
“And you love us,” Wren said.
She did. God, she did.
Here, she didn’t feel tacky. Or embarrassing. Or cringe. Her crafts weren’t childish—they were expressive. Emotional. Authentically hers.
Here, she wasn’t hiding in an attic craft room because someone was ashamed of her. Here, she got to take up space.
She turned to her computer inbox, clicked on yet another commission email, forcing her focus back where it belonged—on work, on creation, on the version of herself she was finally allowed to be.
She touched her wedding ring—still on her finger, still heavy with questions.
And suddenly Christmas flashed through her—the humiliation sharp and fresh, even now.
The way she’d foolishly peeked into his bag and let herself believe a necklace was waiting for her.
The way she’d held out her quilt to him, heart in every stitch, and watched his face fall.
The way he’d handed her an envelope she’d prayed would hold something tender—maybe a letter, maybe a promise—and instead found a check.
Could she really forgive and forget something that had cut so deeply? She could. For Tom, she could.
Muse buzzed around her like a living thing—fierce, stylish, chaotic in the best way. These women had pulled her out of despair, out of shame.
When she looked at the whiteboard, she saw her name written under upcoming features.
When she looked at her desk, she saw the wreath she’d made in rage and clarity.
When she saw her inbox, she saw demand.
When she breathed, she felt possibility.
And when she thought of Tom—
She felt the beginning of something dangerous and hopeful unfurling in her chest.
“Ready?” Wren asked. “Vivian wants to talk branding.”
Branding.
Her. A brand.
Lauren inhaled deeply.
She could be more than someone’s embarrassing, gauche, tacky wife.
She reached for her notebook, straightened her shoulders, and walked toward the conference room—her pulse steadying, her steps sure.
Time to build a life that didn’t fit in anyone else’s attic. Not even Tom’s.
But thinking of Tom tugged at her again—warm, complicated, magnetic. Her two futures were pulling at her from opposite sides.
Her phone chimed.
She took a steadying breath and opened the text message he’d sent.
A heart.
And just like that, the truth rose, clear and terrifying and bright.
She wanted everything.
Her new life—this fierce, creative, expanding world where she wasn’t small, wasn’t hidden, wasn’t ashamed.
And Tom.
She wanted it all.
Her success. Her voice. Her glitter. Her power.
Her husband.