Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hailey
When to stop running
This has been a long day. Too long, too confusing, too . . . quiet, yet noisy. The confrontation with my father was the breaking point. Jules and I texted after dinner. She’s proud of me for setting some boundaries, and hopes that our father changes his attitude. If not, that’s okay. I have her and our grandparents—and of course, Leif.
And that’s exactly why I can’t sleep. Not because I’m uncomfortable. Not because of pregnancy aches or restlessness. But because he’s here.
Leif. Asleep. Breathe-in, breathe-out, peaceful. He asked me to stay with him after showering. I was . . . how did he put it? Needy. At the pool, then in the shower, and . . . why should I head to my room when I could stay right with him and enjoy the perks of his hands and the comfort of his bed?
My fingers twitch at my sides, aching with the urge to reach out. Just touch him. Not in a way that means something. Not in a way that ruins things. Just to know.
I exhale. I shouldn’t be here.
I should be in my own room. In my own bed. Staring at my own ceiling, counting the seconds until the sun comes up. But instead, I’m here.
Watching him.
Wanting him.
Admitting—finally admitting to myself that I love him.
And that? That’s terrifying.
Leif isn’t fleeting. He isn’t a moment that fades or a distraction I can set aside. He’s not something I can leave behind when life twists in ways I don’t expect. He’s constant. The pull I feel even when I’m lost, the North Star guiding me back when I don’t know which way to go. He has always been there—through every silence, every distance, even when I thought I didn’t deserve him. Even when I tried to turn away, he remained. Leif isn’t temporary. He’s the truth I can’t outrun, the light that never disappears, the one thing that has always been mine.
And if I say it—if I let it out into the world—then it’s real. If it’s real then I could lose him and that fear is a vice on my heart. Squeezing it so hard that it can’t beat. I close my eyes, willing myself to breathe, to let this moment pass like all the others before it.
But it doesn’t. It sits in my chest, thick and unrelenting, pressing against the part of me that has always run from things that felt too big to hold.
I open my eyes, gaze drifting to him again.
The way the light from the window softens the edges of his face. The way his lips part just slightly, his breath slow and even. The way his hand rests near his pillow, fingers curled like he’s reaching for something.
I swallow, pulse kicking up.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t.
I—
I move.
Careful. Quiet. Sliding onto the mattress beside him, barely breathing, heart pounding like I’m standing at the edge of something too vast to understand.
He doesn’t wake. Not at first. But then he shifts, his body adjusting like it already knows me, like this isn’t new at all. His arm drapes over my waist, pulling me closer, his warmth settling against my skin like an answer I’ve been too afraid to hear.
I don’t think. I press into him, fingers curling against his chest, my forehead resting just beneath his jaw.
He stirs, breath catching.
“Hails?” His voice is rough, low, wrapped in sleep and something else entirely.
I don’t answer.
I just press closer, my lips grazing his collarbone, my body fitting against his like it was made for this.
A slow inhale, then exhale.
Then, his fingers slide up my spine, his palm settling between my shoulder blades. “Couldn’t sleep?”
I shake my head.
Silence stretches between us, thick enough to pull me under.
“You’ve been looking at me like you have something to say.”
I pull back just enough to meet his gaze, my breath catching at the way he looks at me—like I’m everything. He’s been telling me that for weeks, and somehow today I believe it. Maybe it’s true, maybe I’ve always been everything to him. Maybe he’s always been the same to me but I’ve denying that all along.
So I say it: “I love you.”
His breath hitches. Not because he’s surprised. Not because he wasn’t expecting it. But because I finally said it.
His eyes soften, something shifting between us, something too real, too big to name.
He lifts a hand, fingertips brushing my jaw. Then, voice barely above a whisper he says, “I know, but it’s nice to finally hear it from those pretty lips.”
The low sexy voice shouldn’t make my stomach drop. It shouldn’t make my heart squeeze, shouldn’t make my entire world tilt on its axis.
But it does, because of course he knows. Leif has always known. And instead of asking if I mean it, instead of making me say it again, he just accepts it. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up. Like he was never going anywhere.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it, but Leif is already there, already catching it with the pad of his thumb, already closing the space between us. I meet him halfway.
Our lips brush—tentative, searching, a question and an answer all at once.
Then, he exhales, and the kiss deepens.
Slow. Certain.
Not rushed. Not frantic.
Just us.
Years of friendship, of quiet knowing, of moments we’ve never let ourselves name—all colliding into this.
His hands find my hips, his fingers pressing into my skin just enough to ground me, to make me feel like I belong here. And I do. I know now that I do. He’s where I’ve always belonged.
I sigh against his mouth, letting myself sink, letting myself feel all of it—his warmth, his touch, the way his body fits against mine in a way that feels like coming home.
His lips trail down my jaw, over the curve of my throat, pressing into places that have never known this kind of care.
I shiver, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The sound shoots through me, liquid and wanting, pulling me deeper into him. I should be scared. This should be terrifying. But it’s not—not with him.
This moment, this kiss and everything that happens isn’t about claiming. It’s about giving.
And I let him pull me under.
I let him kiss me like he means it.
I let him touch me like I’m something treasured, something worth keeping.
And when it’s over, when we’re tangled in the sheets, skin flushed, breath still uneven, he doesn’t pull away.
He stays.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, his hand still splayed over my stomach, like he’s already claimed both of us. “I’m never letting you run again.”
I believe him. “You know what? I never want to run again—not without you.”