15. Finding Equilibrium 2 Too long #3
The apartment is quiet when we step inside.
No cartoons, no toy noises, no toddler babble.
Just the low hum of the fridge and the soft creak of the door as it closes behind us.
I kick off my heels by the mat and set my bag down on the console.
Reid locks the door, then lingers there with his hand on the knob for a second like he’s steadying himself.
“That was…” he says.
“Yeah,” I say.
He turns toward me slowly.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, but it’s not a casual motion. My chest feels tight and open at the same time, packed with feelings I’ve been trying to handle in small doses.
“I’m… more than okay,” I say. “Just a lot. In a good way.”
He takes a few steps toward me, then stops a polite distance away. He doesn’t crowd me. He just looks at me like he’s asking a question without speaking.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
The directness knocks something loose in me. We’ve done this a hundred times, but after everything, the check-in matters.
“Yes,” I say.
He closes the last bit of space between us and lifts a hand to my cheek. His fingers are warm, a little rough. When his mouth meets mine, it’s not rushed. It’s slow and deliberate, like he’s relearning the shape of me.
I sink into it with more relief than I want to admit.
The taste of him, the way his hand slides back into my hair, the way he exhales into the kiss like he’s been holding his breath since he left—it all settles something restless under my skin.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine.
“I missed this,” he says.
“I can tell,” I say, and my voice comes out a little shaky.
He smiles, then kisses me again, deeper this time. His other hand finds my waist and pulls me closer until my chest is pressed to his. Heat rises, threaded through with everything we’ve been holding back.
We move together toward the couch, then past it, because we both know half-hearted isn’t what this is.
He laces our fingers and leads me down the hall to my room, flipping on the small lamp on my nightstand instead of the overhead light.
The soft glow throws shadows across the walls.
My heart is beating fast now, but not with panic.
He stands in front of me and searches my face.
“If you want to slow down or stop at any point, you tell me,” he says. “I mean it.”
“I know,” I say.
“I don’t want you to feel like this is the price for a plane ticket or a fancy dinner,” he says. “This is… us. Only if you want it.”
I step closer and slide my hands up his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under my palm.
“I want you,” I say. “Not just because you came. Not just because of tonight. Because you’re mine.”
His breath catches, and something hot flickers in his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m yours.”
When he kisses me again, there’s nothing hesitant in it.
We’re still careful with each other, but the care doesn’t erase the heat—it sharpens it.
He unbuttons my dress slowly, watching my face like he’s reading every reaction.
My skin prickles under his fingertips, and I shiver when the fabric finally slips from my shoulders and pools at my feet.
His gaze trails down my body and back up.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. “I don’t say that enough.”
“You say it,” I say.
“Not like this,” he says.
I reach for his shirt and undo the buttons, enjoying the small intake of breath when my fingers brush his stomach. The distance hasn’t erased the way his body feels under my hands—leaner now, a little more defined, but still him.
When we’re both down to less fabric, we end up on the bed with me beneath him, his body braced so he’s not crushing me. He kisses down my neck, over the line of my shoulder, then back to my mouth like he’s re-mapping something he doesn’t want to lose.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs between kisses. “For the ways I’ve made this harder.”
“Reid,” I say, even as my fingers tighten on his back.
“I mean it,” he says. “I know words aren’t enough, but I’m not pretending I didn’t screw up. I just… I want to do better. I will do better.”
“I know,” I say. “You’re here. That matters.”
He nods, then presses his forehead to mine.
“I missed you,” he says again, like the words are a necessary confession.
“I missed you too,” I say. “More than I wanted to admit.”
The rest of the conversation dissolves into touch and breath and focus.
It’s not frantic. It’s not the wild, reckless rush of the beginning.
It’s slower, grounded in everything we’ve been afraid to say out loud—fear, relief, want, love.
When he finally pushes into me, we both go still for a second, staring at each other.
It feels like crossing a line we’ve been hovering near for months.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He moves, and it’s all there—heat and ache and the sharp relief of being this close again.
I meet him halfway, matching his rhythm, nails digging into his shoulders when everything crests.
He says my name, low and rough, and I come apart beneath him, the tension I’ve been carrying draining away in waves.
After, he stays above me for a moment longer, breathing hard, then eases to my side and pulls me against his chest. His skin is warm, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
We lie there in silence while my body settles and my mind slowly returns to the rest of the world.
The quiet isn’t awkward. It feels earned. Eventually, he speaks.
“We can’t just have one good weekend and think it fixes everything,” he says. “I know that.”
“I know you know,” I say.
“But I want this to be a starting point,” he says. “Not a fluke.”
I trace a small circle on his chest with my fingertip.
“So what does that look like?” I ask.
He exhales slowly.