Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
MYA
T he sky is just starting to stretch when I step out onto the porch, the baby monitor warm in one hand, a blanket wrapped tight around my shoulders.
It’s quiet—the kind of quiet that feels earned.
The kind that only exists after too many nights of not enough sleep, too many hours of hearts stretching thin across time zones and hospital corridors and backstage dressing rooms.
Reese is already outside.
Barefoot in the grass. Standing still like she’s listening for something only she can hear. The hem of her hoodie flutters in the breeze, her arms crossed over her chest like maybe she’s trying to hold herself together—but softer than before. Less like bracing. More like breathing.
I step off the porch and cross the yard, the grass cool beneath my feet, dew slick and alive. When I reach her, I don’t say anything. I just drape half the blanket around her shoulders and hand her the monitor.
The boys are asleep. For once.
She looks at me, then back at the horizon where the sun is barely beginning to glow.
“I’ve been writing again,” she says, voice soft like the morning.
I don’t rush her.
“Not songs,” she adds quickly. “Not yet. Just… thoughts. Feelings. Things I can’t say out loud but need to get out of my head before they eat me alive.”
“Are you showing Thorin?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not ready. It’s not that I think he wouldn’t get it. I just… I don’t know what it is yet. It feels private. Like a breath I’m still trying to catch.”
My chest tightens in the best kind of way. The way it does when someone you love starts turning a corner and doesn’t even realize they’re doing it.
“That’s okay,” I say. “There’s no timeline. No one’s waiting on a finished version of you.”
She leans into the blanket between us. “Still feels good, though. To write. Like I remembered how to breathe.”
We stand like that a while. Barefoot. Braless. Silent. Two women who’ve walked through fire and come out singed but standing.
Then the crunch of gravel draws our attention.
The kind of sound that doesn’t belong to a stranger. It’s too familiar. Too lived-in.
I turn toward the porch just as two figures come into view at the top of the driveway.
Fletch.
Thorin.
I blink once, twice, like I don’t trust what I’m seeing.
Fletch has wildflowers clutched in one hand and his duffel slung over his shoulder. He looks like hell—hoodie wrinkled, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes—but his face lights up when he sees me.
And beside him, Thorin is slower. Shoulders heavy. But when his eyes find Reese, it’s like every part of him exhales.
Reese doesn’t move. Not at first.
She just stares at him, mouth slightly parted, like she’s scared it’s a dream she’s going to wake up from.
Then she drops the blanket and runs.
I do too.
I don’t care about the cold or the damp or the way my heart’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. I run to Fletch like the world depends on it. And maybe it does. Maybe this moment—this breathless, barefoot, sobbing kind of kiss—is the thing that holds it all together.
He catches me midair, arms locking around my waist, flowers dropping to the dirt without a second thought. I bury my face in his neck and breathe him in—tour sweat and leather and something uniquely his that feels like home.
Behind us, I hear the soft thud of Reese colliding with Thorin, the rustle of his hoodie as he wraps her up, the way she sobs his name like it’s the only word that ever mattered.
No one says anything.
Because nothing needs to be said.
That night, we sit on the porch. All four of us. No stage. No spotlights. No one filming. Just the glow of the string lights overhead and the soft creak of old wood beneath our feet.
There’s a guitar leaning against the railing, untouched.
Thorin’s hand rests on Reese’s knee. Fletch has an arm draped across my shoulders, head heavy against mine like he needs this stillness as much as I do.
We talk a little. Not much. Just enough to let the silence stretch in all the right places.
There’s laughter. A few tears.
But mostly there’s this?—
Presence.
And it’s enough.
Love doesn’t fix grief. It doesn’t erase the ache or tie up the loose ends.
But it makes space.
And here, on this porch, under this sky, surrounded by the people who know the sharpest parts of me and stayed anyway?—
That’s more than enough.
By the time the sun disappears behind the treeline, the house smells like rosemary chicken, garlic bread, and whatever magic Maggie does with roasted carrots that makes grown men go quiet with reverence.
She shoos us out of the kitchen when we try to help, mumbling something about too many hands and not enough patience, but the look in her eyes says something else—something soft and maternal and a little smug, like let me feed you, you’re mine now.
The table is already set by the time we wander in, still wrapped in that post-porch haze. The babies are down for the night, miracle of miracles, and everything feels a little more settled now that Thorin and Fletch are back under this roof.
Dinner is warm. Easy. The kind of comfort that seeps into your bones before you even realize how empty you were.
Maggie keeps the conversation light. Even Reese cracks a real laugh, her eyes softening every time Thorin looks at her like he’s still making sure she’s real.
Fletch loads up his second helping while shaking his head. “Honestly, I’d kill for a plate like this on the road. All we do is live off gas station snacks and backstage charcuterie boards.”
“Don’t forget the sad bagels,” Thorin adds, stabbing a carrot with more emotion than strictly necessary. “Why are they always cold? And weirdly wet?”
Reese smirks around the rim of her water glass. “You’d think after MSG and Philly, they’d at least spring for warm carbs.”
Thorin leans back in his chair, hand absently brushing hers under the table. “The shows are good,” he says, softer now. “Better than good, actually. But the back and forth’s getting to me. This constant whiplash between chaos and quiet… it’s a lot.”
Fletch nods, chewing slowly. “Yeah. You think you’re adjusting, and then boom—new city, new venue, new crisis. Then you come home and your brain can’t catch up fast enough to remember how to breathe.”
My hand finds his on the table, fingers lacing through his without thinking.
“Still,” I say gently, “I’m so damn grateful that you can come home. Even if it’s just for a breath. Just for a night.” I glance between them—Reese, Thorin, Fletch—and my chest swells with something that feels a little like awe. “I know not everyone gets that. A place to land. People to land with.”
Reese’s smile falters for a second, but she nods, squeezing Thorin’s knee under the table.
Fletch lifts our joined hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles like he’s remembering how they fit there. Like he’s remembering me.
Thorin exhales. “It’s not easy.”
“But it’s worth it,” Reese finishes for him.
We sit like that a while longer. Picking at the last bites of dinner. Letting Maggie fuss over dessert. Letting the silence stretch again, but not the kind that’s heavy.
* * *
The house is quiet.
That kind of stillness that only comes after a day well-lived and a dinner that left everyone too full to overthink. The twins are asleep. Reese and Thorin have disappeared into their corner of the house. Maggie’s gone to bed with a book and a stern warning not to wake her unless the house is on fire.
Fletch closes the door behind us with the softest click.
He drops his duffel bag in the corner without touching the light switch, letting the moonlight spill through the curtains and bathe everything in silver-blue shadows. He turns to me, eyes dark, jaw tight. But it’s not anger. Not tension. It’s that ache—the one I know lives behind his ribs when he’s been gone too long.
I don’t wait.
I walk right into his arms, wrapping around him like I’m reclaiming something that was always mine.
His hands slide into my hair, cradling the back of my head like I’m breakable and sacred and his.
“You’re here,” I whisper, burying my face in his neck.
“I never really left,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But fuck, baby… I missed you.”
Then he kisses me.
Hard.
Hungry.
Like weeks of late-night phone calls and half-hearted goodnights have been building into this exact moment. His mouth moves over mine with reverence and urgency, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it all over again.
I tug at his hoodie, and he lifts it over his head without breaking the kiss, our bodies crashing together like gravity remembered how to work.
Clothes fall away in pieces. Breathless. Desperate.
By the time we hit the bed, we’re nothing but skin and sweat and everything we couldn’t say on the phone.
He rolls me beneath him, hands braced on either side of my head, eyes burning into mine like I’m the only thing tethering him to the earth.
“Tell me this is real,” he says, voice barely a rasp.
I nod, threading my fingers through his hair. “It’s real. It’s always been real.”
His mouth trails down my throat, over my collarbone, lower.
And then?—
He’s inside me.
No hesitation.
Just heat. And stretch. And home.
My legs wrap around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, anchoring him there like I need him to feel how needed he is.
He moves slow at first—long, deep strokes that make my whole body tighten. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s afraid to go too fast and miss something.
But the tension builds. Between us. Beneath us.
And soon it’s not slow anymore.
It’s intense. Messy. Beautiful.
His name leaves my lips on a broken moan as he drives into me, deeper, harder, forehead pressed to mine.
“You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking good, Mya. I could stay here forever.”
“Then don’t leave,” I breathe. “Not yet.”
His rhythm stutters, his hand finding mine, fingers lacing tight as my body clenches around him, wave after wave crashing through me until I cry out his name like a prayer.
And when he follows—loud and guttural and completely undone—he doesn’t pull away.
He stays.
He collapses beside me, pulling me into the curve of his body, his chest still rising too fast, his lips pressed to my temple like a benediction.
I let myself rest there for a moment—soaked in the afterglow, in the heat of him, in the sound of his heartbeat slowing beneath my cheek.
But then his hand moves. Slow. Sliding up the curve of my back, over the nape of my neck, into my hair.
And when I lift my head to look at him—really look at him—it’s all there in his eyes.
The want.
The worship.
The ache.
My body is still buzzing. Still warm and wet and full of him in every sense. And yet, I want more. Not because I need the release. But because I need him. Anchored beneath me. Wrapped in me. Eyes locked. Hands on skin. A reminder that we made it through another stretch apart and found our way back.
Without a word, I swing one leg over his hips and settle on top of him, feeling the shift in his breath the second I straddle him. His hands move to my thighs like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.
“You sure?” he murmurs, voice still hoarse from earlier.
My answer is a slow, steady roll of my hips, the tip of him already hardening again beneath me.
“Let me have you like this,” I whisper. “Let me love you this way.”
Fletch groans, head tipping back into the pillow as I sink down onto him—slow and deliberate—my breath catching at the stretch, the fullness, the fit of it.
We both shudder.
His hands slide up my sides, gripping my waist like he doesn’t trust himself not to lose control. I start to move—rocking gently, circling my hips, watching his mouth fall open and his brows pull tight like pleasure’s already curling through him again.
This is different.
Slower. Deeper. Every inch of me moving with purpose, with memory, with love too big to speak aloud.
“Mya,” he rasps, dragging his hands up to cup my breasts, thumbing over my nipples as I ride him, slow and steady and shameless. “Fuck. You’re—this is?—”
I lean down, pressing my forehead to his, sweat clinging between us, lips brushing his with every breath. “I know,” I whisper. “I feel it too.”
And we stay like that.
Connected.
Moving together in the dark.
No rush. No finish line.
Just the soft slap of skin. The creak of the bedframe. The breathless gasps and broken moans of two people finding their way back into the same rhythm again.
When I finally come—silent and shaking, his name a whisper in the hollow of his throat—he follows, his hands tangled in my hair, his body arching into mine like he’s surrendering everything he has left.
I collapse over him, both of us slick and spent, limbs tangled, hearts pounding in sync.
And in that hush between heartbeats, where the world feels quiet and holy and ours?—
He wraps his arms around me tighter.
And I know, we’ll always find our way back.
* * *
The light is just starting to slip through the curtains, pale and gray, when I wake to the sound of Fletch’s breathing.
He’s still asleep.
One arm slung over my waist, the other curled beneath his pillow. His lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, and his mouth is parted slightly, that little furrow between his brows still lingering even in rest—like part of him never really stops worrying.
I stay still for a moment. Just breathing him in. Listening to the silence stretch between our bodies like cotton. Soft. Weightless. Sacred.
But I feel the shift before I see it.
His breathing changes. His hand flexes slightly against my stomach.
“You’re awake,” I murmur.
He hums, eyes still closed. “Didn’t want to be. Not if it meant letting go of you.”
My heart squeezes.
I roll onto my side, draping a leg over his, burying my face in the crook of his neck. “You don’t have to let go. Not yet.”
His arms tighten around me. “I know. But it’s coming. Tomorrow, the next city. Another hotel, another round of press. I’m already counting the hours.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are open now—stormy and soft all at once.
“You’re tired,” I say, brushing my fingers along his jaw.
He nods. “Not just in my body. My head’s loud all the time. On stage, I can drown it out. But the second the lights go down…”
“You miss the quiet,” I finish for him.
“I miss you in the quiet,” he says. “I miss home.”
My chest tightens again, different this time. Like guilt and gratitude tangled together in a knot.
“I hate that we keep saying goodbye,” I whisper.
He cups my face gently, thumb stroking under my eye. “We’re not saying goodbye. Just… see you soon.”
I nod, but it still aches. “Do you know how long this stretch is?”
“Two weeks.” His voice is low, hesitant. “Three if we book the last-minute Chicago date Alex is pushing for.”
My stomach dips. “You want to do it?”
He hesitates. And that’s my answer.
“It’s not about wanting to,” he finally says. “It’s about momentum. The Garden cracked something open. The industry’s watching now. And the guys—Thorin, Carson, Benji—they’re pushing hard. I don’t want to hold us back.”
“You wouldn’t be,” I say. “But I get it.”
“I just…” He swallows hard. “I don’t know how to keep leaving you. The boys. This life we’re building. I don’t know how to be in both places at once.”
“You can’t,” I whisper, resting my forehead against his. “But you don’t have to choose either. We’re not going anywhere. You come back, and we’ll be right here. Just like this.”
His eyes close. A breath shudders out of him.
“I don’t want them to grow up thinking I was more committed to the crowd than I was to them.”
“They won’t,” I say. “Because you’re showing up every way that matters. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”
We stay quiet for a moment. Just the soft rustle of blankets and the heartbeat beneath my palm.
“I’ll fly out for one of the shows,” I say finally. “Just for a night. I’ll find someone to watch the boys, and I’ll surprise you.”
His eyes fly open, smile slow and wrecked and grateful. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Let me come into your world for a minute. Let me be the face you find when the lights go down.”
He pulls me on top of him, arms locked tight around my back, pressing his lips to my temple like he’s sealing something there.
“God, I love you,” he murmurs.
“I love you more.”
And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, with the sky just waking outside and the babies still asleep?—
It feels like we’ve already survived the goodbye.
Because we’re not breaking.
We’re just bending until we come back together again.