Chapter 63
Lauren
The porch light glowed golden against the falling dusk when Lauren pulled into the driveway.
For a second her heart stuttered.
Tom was home.
Her hands lingered on the steering wheel before she finally turned off the engine. The house looked the same as it always had, but everything inside her felt different. The idea that Tom was in their kitchen again made her chest ache in the best and strangest way.
When she opened the door, the smell of garlic and rosemary greeted her. Music played softly somewhere—light and poppy. The sort of thing that made her smile.
She toed off her boots, heart ticking faster than she wanted to admit, and followed the sound toward the kitchen. She paused in the doorway.
“Hey,” she said. “You’re wearing my apron.”
Tom turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. His hair was a little messy, sleeves rolled up, her floral apron tied loosely at his waist.
He looked down as if he’d forgotten, then grinned. “Seemed appropriate.”
The air was warm. There was a small vase of flowers on the counter, and two plates set at the kitchen island.
Lauren leaned against the counter, watching him move. There was something achingly normal about it—the way he checked the pasta, reached for the salt, hummed under his breath. She’d missed this. The simplicity. The shared space.
He handed her a glass of wine.
She took a sip, watching him over the rim.
It wasn’t the electric urgency of the weekend—it was quieter, steadier.
He reached for the colander, muttering something about overcooked noodles, and she saw the small burn on his wrist. “You okay?” she asked.
He smiled sheepishly. “Apparently boiling water is hot.”
She caught his wrist gently, she pulled it to her mouth and gave it a soft kiss. Even now, her instinct was to take away his pain.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then he exhaled. “I’m really glad you said yes.”
Lauren looked up at him—at this man she loved. At this man who had looked down on her.
“Me too,” she said softly.
The pasta plates sat empty, sauce streaks glinting in the soft kitchen light.
Lauren leaned back against her chair, full and warmed from wine. Tom was clearing the dishes, sleeves still rolled.
“This was…” She hesitated, smiling despite everything. “Good. Really good.”
He looked over his shoulder, mock-serious. “I take my carbs seriously.”
She laughed—the sound felt strange and free.
He wiped his hands on a towel, then hesitated. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to show you.”
She straightened, suddenly alert. “Okay…”
Tom disappeared down the hall and came back holding a set of oversized printouts, the edges curled from the printer’s feed.
He spread the sheets across the island, weighing the corners down with salt and pepper shakers.
Her chest tightened. Oh God. She remembered evenings just like this in their first apartment: him excitedly unrolling plans across the table, her leaning in, pretending to understand his neat lines and measurements.
Now, he looked almost shy. “I, um… this isn’t for a client.”
Lauren blinked. “Okay…”
“It’s for you,” he said quietly.
Her heart tripped. “For me?”
He nodded, smoothing the paper flat. “I want to make you a real workspace. Not just the attic. Something built properly.”
Lauren stared down at the plans.
At first, all she saw were lines and measurements—his world rendered in precise, printed detail. But then she noticed the details. The wide window. Built-in shelves that ran along the far wall. A little nook tucked in one corner.
“Tom…” she whispered.
He didn’t even know. He didn’t know that she already had clients. A website. That her inbox was full of strangers who wanted her work, who paid her more money than she’d ever imagined anyone would pay for her “little crafts.”
Her eyes blurred before she could stop it.
This was the man she loved. This was the man she had married. This was the man she was going to take back.
Lauren traced a fingertip along the edge of the printed design. “You thought about everything.”
He looked serious. “I thought about you.”
Her chest ached.
“I love it,” she said softly. “Don’t change a thing.”
His eyes met hers, and he looked… proud. Not of himself. Of her.
Lauren looked back down at the plans—sunlight, open space, possibility.
Her future, right there in pencil and paper.
Lauren couldn’t stop tracing the lines with her fingertips, couldn’t stop looking at what he’d made for her. When she finally lifted her gaze, Tom was watching her—that soft, unguarded look she’d almost forgotten.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The silence felt heavier than it had any right to, weighted with everything they hadn’t said.
He moved first, closing the distance between them. “Lauren,” he murmured.
Her name in his voice did something to her chest.
When he reached for her, she reached back. His hand came to rest at her waist, fingers tentative at first, then surer when she buried her face in his chest.
“You already built me a house,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “But you built me a home.”
Her heart stuttered. She leaned back, looked up at him. And then he kissed her.
The taste of wine and salt and everything familiar.
The muscles under his shirt flexed as he drew her closer, and she rose onto her toes.
The first kiss was soft. The second wasn’t.
Heat unfurled through her chest, down her spine. Her pulse beat everywhere at once. She lost herself in his touch, losing track of the world for a long moment.
When she broke the kiss to breathe, she saw his expression—eyes dark, jaw tight, breath uneven.
He looked undone. Beautifully undone.
“Lauren,” he whispered, forehead resting against hers. “I—”
She kissed him again, deeper this time, and she felt him smile against her mouth. He crowded her against the kitchen cabinets, the hard surface behind her, his hard body plastered against her front.
He pulled back just enough to search her face. “If I stay…”
For a heartbeat they just stood there, breathing the same air. Then he pressed one last kiss to her temple—gentle, reverent.
“I should go,” he said softly.
He stepped back, grabbed his coat, hesitated in the doorway.
“I haven’t earned it,” he said quietly, meeting her eyes. “I can tell you’re still not sure.”
Her throat tightened. “Tom—”
He smiled—small, earnest, steady. “I’m going to do this right.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and the house fell quiet again.
Lauren pressed her fingers to her lips, the taste of him still there, her heart caught between ache and hope.
She didn’t move for a long time.