Chapter 24
Blakelyn
The river’s low now.
The water rolls slow and clear beneath the pale morning sky, shadows of tall oaks stretch long across the bank. Summer’s fire has burned itself out, and September feels like a breath caught between seasons. The mornings are slightly cooler… softer… and so am I.
I’m not the same woman who pulled up in a beat-up Honda in June with her life packed into a trunkful of boxes.
I stand on his front porch in his flannel shirt, a mug of coffee warming both my hands, and my bare feet flat on the wood. The same porch where I first saw him—Gruene Cavanaugh, my next-door ghost of a neighbor, broken and beautiful and angry at the world.
He’s still all those things. He’s still carved from grief and stubborn silence, but now... he’s mine. And I’m his.
I think about that as I sip my coffee, my eyes finding the rippling curve of the river beyond the trees.
It’s quiet except for the birds, and I swear I can still feel last night on my skin—his breath at my ear, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the sound he made when I told him I loved him again, just to hear him say it back.
He says it like it hurts… like it’s dangerous… like it might kill him to say it and kill him even worse not to.
But he says it… every damn day. In the early morning first thing and in the dark of the night while lying beside me. He stays.
This morning, I woke before he did but I stayed wrapped around him until the sky began to pinken. I felt every inhale, every twitch of muscle, every time his arms tightened like he couldn’t let go of me, even in his sleep.
I watch the breeze stir through the leaves and wonder what it means to finally be building something from the ashes instead of just surviving in them.
That’s what we’ve been doing.
Slowly. Messily. Honestly.
Two people learning how to love in the aftermath of what nearly killed us.
I hear footsteps behind me. Heavy. Familiar. His.
His arm slides around my waist, his chest pressing to my back, and I sink into it like second nature. “You’re not wearing anything under this shirt,” he murmurs into my neck, his voice thick from sleep.
“Nope.” I murmur, arching back against him.
He hums. “Dangerous.”
I grin, turning my head just enough to glance up at him. “You’re not exactly safe either.”
His eyes are heavy-lidded and full of things I still don’t know how to name but there’s softness too. Warmth… a steady hum beneath all the wreckage. His lips brush over my temple before he exhales against my cheek.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Better than okay” I reply. And I mean it.
For the first time in months—maybe years—I don’t feel like I’m running. I don’t feel like I’m disappearing. I’m grounded. Alive. Right here. Right where I want to be… where I’m meant to be.
“School?” He asks, nuzzling my neck. My body instantly responds. It always does.
“Later,” I groan. “We’ve got time.”
His hand slides lower over my stomach before curving over my hip. His finger trails over the inside of my thighs and parts them.
When I turn around in his arms, I don’t reach for him just to lose myself.
I want to see him. Really see him with my eyes wide open.
I want to see every scarred, broken, beautiful inch of him… the man I love.
His dark hair is a mess. His stubble is rough against my fingers when I cup his jaw, tracing the scar that kisses the edge. Leaning up, I kiss it. He shivers beneath my lips.
He’s wearing flannel pajama pants with no shirt because I’m wearing it.
The early morning light catches the scar that cuts down over his ribs and curves over his side.
My fingertips trace it before I lean down and kiss it.
My lips feather over it, following the line.
When I reach the edge, I kiss him … slow and soft.
My lips cling to his. He kisses me back, it gets heavy… intense.
He lifts me with a quiet grunt, his arms steady beneath my thighs as he carries me back inside. My coffee is forgotten. My skin is hot enough. I’m burning… for Gruene.
Carrying me upstairs, he lays me down on his bed like I’m fragile and precious all at once… like he’s afraid of breaking me.
I’m not afraid. I want to be ruined by him. I want the weight of this moment etched into every part of me.
His mouth is reverent. His hands greedy. His body is my home.
There’s no rush. There are no masks. There’s only him and me as the morning sun climbs higher through the window.
His hands worship my breasts as he enters me, slow and deep.
My legs wrap around his waist, and I grind into him.
We find the perfect rhythm. The sounds of our lovemaking fills the room.
Our moans, groans, and whispers of love envelop us.
My back arches and my knees lock as I come around him.
He follows me over the edge, buried deep inside of me, his face pressed to my throat, and my name a hoarse gasp against my skin.
We don’t say anything as we just breathe, wrapped together in the sheets, bare, open, and quiet. But it’s the good kind of quiet, the kind that means we’re not scared anymore… not hiding… not pretending. We’re just together.
“We’ve still got time,” I whisper, my fingers drawing slow lines across his back, feeling the raised skin beneath my skin.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low and rough. “We do.”
We’re not talking about the time before I have to leave for school, and he has to leave or work.
He doesn’t pull out and I don’t ask him to. We just stay.
The school day is routine now.
The hallway smells like pencil shavings and gum under desks.
The kids are wilder with the hint of fall break creeping closer.
I’ve started putting pumpkins on my desk and they tease me about it, but they still ask to help when they see me unpack new decorations from my bag.
They love the way I write their names in cursive, and they ask me to teach them.
I incorporate it into our lessons. They fight to pass out graded papers.
They’re learning, growing, responding and thriving… so am I.
None of them know that their teacher started over…
that her name used to feel like a bruise…
that a man who professed love took pleasure in hurting her, in humiliating her…
that she was in Hell until she found the courage to run …
. that she once packed a car with a few boxes in the dark and didn’t look back.
They don’t know how much Gruene’s hands have steadied me… how his kiss burns the ghosts off my skin. They only know that I smile now and that’s… enough.
At lunch, I step out into the courtyard, my phone in my hand. I text him.
Me
You workin' today?
Gruene
No. The season is almost over.
Reece has it covered.
Took the day off.
Gruene
Might start redoing the dock.
It’s a mess.
Me
I like that dock.
Gruene
Not if it falls in the river, you don’t.
Smiling, I lean against the brick wall, my thumb hovering before I reply.
Me
I like you more.
There’s a pause. And then, three dots.
Gruene
You better love me, not like me.
Because I love you, Blakelyn Walker.
Blinking hard, I stare down at my screen.
Oh, damn.
He says it so easily now.
Me
You know I love you.
Want spaghetti for dinner tonight?
Gruene
I do know.
And sure, that sounds great.
He’s sitting on the porch with a Shiner in hand, his hair damp from a shower, and his shirt rumpled when I pull up.
He looks up like he was waiting for me all day.
“You’re late,” he says, but his smile says he doesn’t mind.
“Kids were wild, Last day before a three-day-weekend.”
He stands, walks down the steps, takes my bag, and sets it on the porch before pulling me against him. He kisses me before I can say anything else, and I melt into it.
“I missed you,” I whisper.
“I missed you more.”
And maybe that’s the simplest truth of all… not the pain… not the trauma… not the past we survived. Just this this. Simple words that means so much at the end of the day.
I missed you.
I want you.
I love you.
We spend the night in bed again, but this time it doesn’t feel like the start of anything or the end of something else. It just is .
Safe. True. Ours.
Gruene
She’s asleep beside me, her breath soft and steady, and I don’t move.
Not yet.
This is the last time I’ll wake up with her without knowing what the hell happens next. This is the last time I’ll wonder if I’m enough for her… if what I have to give—this scarred, broken, wreck of a man—is anything close to what she deserves.
Today… I’m going to find out.
The early September light filters through the sheer curtains, golden and warm, casting ribbons of sun across her bare back. She’s curled against me, one hand splayed over my chest like it belongs there, like she belongs there, and the truth is… she does .
I knew it the moment I felt her heart break in my hands. The moment I gave her mine in return. The moment she said she loved me, and I didn’t run. I didn’t freeze. I didn’t shove her away. I held her.
The truth is that I’ve been hers since the second she stepped out of that fucking car, vulnerable, brave, pissed off, and absolutely fucking beautiful.
I just didn’t know it yet.
She stirs against me, her legs stretching, her toes brushing my shin under the sheet. A soft hum escapes her lips before her eyes flutter open, amber and sleepy, too damn honest, and full of love for me.
“Morning,” she whispers.
I can’t stop myself. I cup her cheek and kiss her. Slow. Deep, with the kind of heat that lives in my bones only for her.
When I pull back, I press my forehead to hers. “I’m taking you somewhere.”
Her brows knit together. “What? Where?”
“You’ll see.” I reply, staring down at her.
Her eyes narrow. “Gruene… what…”
“It’s good,” I say, brushing my thumb over her lips. “I promise.”
She watches me a long beat, like she’s trying to read what’s coming, but she finally nods.
That’s all I need.