Chapter 27 #2
“Let go,” he says, voice low. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”
And I do. It rips through me like electricity, hot and violent and endless, my whole body snapping tight, then shattering as I cry out his name, begging for something I don’t even have words for.
He drives into me one last time and stays, buried deep as he groans my name into my mouth and fucking breaks.
The way his body jerks, the way he collapses into me like every thread finally snapped, I’ll replay it forever.
His weight is heavy. Perfect. Real.
We stay tangled, chests heaving. Skin slick. Breath shared. His forehead resting against mine, one hand still in my hair like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
“I’m here,” he whispers, voice thready but whole. “And I’m always coming back to you.”
And I don’t cry. Not really. Just breathe too hard for someone who swears she’s fine.
“Wow,” I manage eventually.
He laughs. Soft, satisfied. “Yeah?”
“That was...” I search for words. “Really, really good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised. Just...” I kiss his jaw. “Happy. I think I’m happy.”
“You think?”
“It’s been a while. I’m out of practice identifying the emotion.”
He pulls back enough to look at me. His expression is tender. Open in a way I’ve never seen from him. “I’m happy too,” he says. “For the record.”
“Ten out of ten. Would absolutely ruin you again.”
He laughs, full-bodied and rough. “I’m already ruined.”
“Good,” I say. “That’s my kink.” I pull him back down. “Now stop talking and hold me.”
He reaches for the throw blanket, the green one with the gold threads, and pulls it over us without making a big deal of it.
Then one hand finds my hair, slow and steady, stroking through it.
He holds me.
And I fall asleep in his arms.
I wake up sore in places I didn’t know I had muscles and smelling coffee like I just manifested it with post-sex witchcraft.
Saul’s not in the bed anymore, but the sheets still carry his heat, his scent, and probably a very explicit memory if I lean in too close.
I stretch, and my body whines in that fucked-full, God-bless-his-hips way.
And I smile. Not the trauma smile. Not the “this is fine” smile. A real one. The kind that starts low and sneaky and makes your toes wiggle under the covers because your life doesn’t suck for once.
I pull on my shirt and pad out to the kitchen.
He’s shirtless in my kitchen, hair doing chaotic science things, pouring coffee like he didn’t absolutely rearrange my internal geography last night.
And I want him again. Immediately. Even if I have to crawl across the floor to get to him.
He looks like sin and comfort had a baby. Like Sunday morning and Saturday night had a one-night stand and named it Saul.
“You made coffee,” I say.
He turns. His eyes travel down my body, my bare legs and his expression goes warm. “You needed coffee.”
“You know me so well.”
I cross to him. Wrap my arms around his waist from behind. Press my face into his back.
He covers my hands with his. We stand there for a moment, not talking, just breathing together.
“What time do you have to go?” I ask.
“Few hours.”
A few hours. That’s all we have left.
I wait for the panic to hit. The grief. The familiar sensation of someone I love walking out the door.
It doesn’t come.
“Hey.” Saul turns in my arms. Tilts my chin up so I’m looking at him. “What’s that face?”
“What face?”
“The thinking face. The one that usually means you’re spiraling about something.”
“I’m not spiraling.” I pause. “I’m waiting to spiral. But it’s not happening.”
“Is that good?”
“I think so?” I lean into him. “Usually when people leave, I spiral so hard I file a missing persons report on myself.”
His chest shakes with a silent laugh.
“But right now?” I pause, reading emotional hieroglyphics on his face. “I feel... not like I’m about to emotionally combust. I think that’s called okay?”
He nods like I just discovered fire. “Proud of you.”
“Next up: feelings. Then taxes. Maybe domestic bliss if I don’t burn the cookies.”
“I’ll come back. Every chance I get.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.” He kisses my forehead. “Because I mean it.”
We spend the morning doing normal things. Coffee. Breakfast. Sitting on the couch with our legs tangled together, not talking, just existing in the same space.
I shower. Get dressed. Try not to think about the clock ticking down.
When it’s finally time, I walk him downstairs to his car.
The Blue Door gleams in the morning light. My bakery. My new life.
A life he helped me build.
“So,” he says.
“So.”
We stand there, looking at each other.
“I’m going to call you tonight,” he says. “After I get home. And tomorrow. And the day after that.”
“Every day?”
“Every day I can.”
“That might be a lot of calls.”
“I’m okay with a lot of calls.” He takes my hands. “And I’m going to visit. Every two weeks at minimum. More if I can swing it.”
“Your boss might have opinions about that.”
“My boss can deal.”
I laugh. It comes out watery but real. “Saul.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For everything. For the bakery and the chocolate chips and the blankets and.” My voice cracks. “For seeing me. From the very beginning. For calling me Stevie when I was supposed to be someone else.”
“You’ve always been Stevie to me.” He squeezes my hands. “That’s never going to change. No matter what name is on your paperwork.”
I rise up on my toes and kiss him hard. Not sad. Not desperate. Just a good, cocky, see-you-soon kind of kiss.
The kind that says you better call or I will appear in your kitchen and seduce you into a coma.
When I pull back, his eyes are bright.
“Two weeks,” he says.
“Two weeks.”
“You’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be okay.” I want to mean it. I hope it’s true. “I have a bakery to open. Cookies to bake. Menus to plan. I’ll stay busy.”
“That’s my girl.”
His girl. The words settle into my chest like something warm and permanent.
“Go,” I tell him. “Before I change my mind and hide your car keys.”
He kisses me one more time, quick, hard, like he’s sealing a promise.
Then he gets in the car.
I stand on the sidewalk and watch him pull away. Watch until his taillights vanish around the corner.
And I wait. Wait for the hollow feeling. The familiar ache. The punch of abandonment.
But it doesn’t come. Not the way it used to. There’s a tug in my chest, sure. A flutter of nerves. But it’s not a wound, it’s a bruise. One I’ve learned to live with.
I turn toward the building behind me.
The Blue Door gleams in the morning light.
My bakery. My new beginning. A life I’m building with my own two hands.
I head inside. The air smells like cinnamon and fresh coffee. The tables are bare. The display case is waiting. Everything is almost ready.
I walk to the back, open the cupboard, and reach for a mug.
It’s chipped. Blue.
Enzo’s.
I hold it for a second, fingers wrapped around the curve he once touched. I pour the coffee. I use the mug. I don’t cry about it.
Okay, I almost cry, but only in that noble, single-tear way like I’m in a war movie.
I miss him. I miss Dario. And I always will. But today’s not about them.
It’s about cinnamon and countertops and the fact that I have a second chance I never thought I’d get.
I take a sip and immediately burn my tongue.
Perfect.
Just how Zoey Carter starts her first real day. Scalded, horny, and a lot like Stevie Reeves.
I can work with that.