Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
ALLEY
Don’t ask me how I ended up naked, lying on Jensen’s chest, tracing his muscles and tattoo like he’s an Etch A Sketch, but here we are.
Was it a moment of weakness?
Maybe. I don’t know.
But I don’t regret it.
The sex was phenomenal. But it was more than that. I felt connected to him in a way I haven’t in so long.
Even last spring, when he was clean, things were okay, but I was still holding back. I still am, I guess. Only now… it feels different. Maybe it’s because we’ve been spending so much time focusing on the thing that really matters: our friendship.
Could also be the fact that neither of us has had sex in six months.
Either way… I felt the difference in him.
That’s the thing, though. Right now? I trust him. This man beneath my fingertips, he’s steady and strong. I trust him to hold me. To keep me safe. To love me. To put me first.
But I don’t trust addiction.
I don’t trust alcoholism.
I don’t trust the disease.
Because it comes back like cancer, quiet and lethal, biting you in the ass when you least expect it.
I won’t be a casualty again.
Jensen’s fingers brush against my shoulder, my arm, my side, warm and comforting. I love his hands. They’ve always done something for me. He’s so damn good with them. The way he’s rough but gentle, making me feel desired and fragile all at the same time.
And his tongue—holy shit, his tongue.
I roll my bottom lip between my teeth, rocking into him without thinking. He trails a finger along the side of my breast, and between the sensitive sensation and the memory of what that man can do with his mouth, a flutter pulses deep in my core.
It was all so overwhelming, his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at me. I was feeling so much. Like everything I’ve been holding in came rushing to the surface all at once. The fears. The memories. The heartache.
One big, messy—but incredible—release.
No wonder I broke down. I know it’s only Jensen, but still, crying after sex? It’s mortifying.
He was great about it. Handled it perfectly. I couldn’t have asked for a better response.
My hands press against his muscles.
Goddamn.
Jensen has always looked good. Seriously. He has. But this? I practically melted in his arms like molten lava the second he took his clothes off.
And the tattoo? Yeah. I’m a sucker. I bit.
It’s hot. It’s really, really hot.
Combine that with the body? There was no stopping it.
But that’s all just extra. It’s not what matters. What matters is him, and how he’s made me feel. How we’ve laughed all night and fallen into this rhythm that almost feels like it did before.
Flirtation. Friendship. Comfort.
And mind-blowing sex.
I lift my fingers to his bicep, the arm draped across his stomach and teasing the crap out of me. I trace the lines of his tattoo, and he stills beneath my touch.
I haven’t really gotten a good look at it. Even now, it’s dark. There’s only a faint glow from the hallway and city lights slipping through the windows. Just enough to make out the larger images. There’s a lion. An owl. But I can’t make out the rest. It’s too shadowed to tell.
I haven’t asked Jensen much. Not about the tattoo, or rehab—or anything deep, really, unless it involves my dad.
I keep thinking I’ll bring it up, but the fear of what he might say lodges in my throat every time I get close.
So instead, I go for something easier. Something safer. Something that won’t dig up old scars I’m not ready to face.
I draw in a steadying breath, heart pounding a little harder. “Tell me about your tattoo,” I say softly, lifting my head to look at him.
His lips curve into a smile, and I instinctively kiss them. His fingers find my hair and pull me in closer, deepening the kiss. He scrapes his teeth along my bottom lip in that dominating, almost possessive kind of way.
The kind that makes me feel like the sexiest woman alive.
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask about it.” His voice is low, husky. Shivers prickle down my spine.
He reaches behind him and flips a switch, turning on soft lights that illuminate the headboard, like the kind you find in a hotel. Leave it to Matt to have every bell and whistle, even when it comes to lighting.
He sits up, forcing me to as well, and suddenly, I feel very naked… because I am.
It’s not a big deal. He’s my husband. He’s seen me naked a thousand times. But I still feel self-conscious. Exposed. Vulnerable. Flawed.
“Can I wear one of your T-shirts?”
He hesitates, eyes dragging over me like he’s engraving every inch into memory.
“You can,” he murmurs. “But let me look at you a little longer first.”
Heat flashes through me, my cheeks burning, a slow pulse building between my thighs.
Jesus. I’m turned on by him just looking at me?
He gets his fill, then walks to his suitcase and grabs a shirt. When he slides back into bed beside me, he hands it over.
I toss the shirt over my head and snuggle up beside him, his arm wrapping around me.
“In rehab, there was a lot of therapy. Working the twelve steps. Taking accountability. Finding something to believe in.”
My pulse ticks faster. I’m not ready to hear about rehab, but I don’t want to stop him.
“We also had a lot of reading and writing time.” He clears his throat, abs flexing—I can’t help but notice.
“They had a lot of books on stoicism. It’s something that’s always piqued my interest, but I guess I never really took the time to understand it.
I started reading about it my second week there. ”
He pauses, and I turn to look at him. His jaw is set tight, eyes narrowed.
“I don’t really know how to explain it, but…
it changed me. You know I’ve never been a faith guy.
I’ve never needed things to make sense. But I needed something to believe in there.
Something to make it all make sense. Like if I could just understand why.
Why this happened. Why to me. Why I lost you.
Why I needed rehab…” He trails off, his eyes closing.
His chest rises and falls, and I feel the warmth of his exhale kiss my forehead.
“One of the main principles is accepting what’s beyond our control.
What happened had already happened. I couldn’t change it.
But what I could do was accept it. Realize that everything from here on out was up to me.
My thoughts. My emotions. My actions. Sometimes we can’t control the situation, but we can always control how we choose to react to it.
And if we align ourselves with the universe, keep learning and growing, shifting when we do, trusting the process, we set ourselves up for a lifetime of happiness. ”
He gives my shoulder a soft squeeze. “And then there are four fundamentals of stoicism: wisdom, temperance, courage, and justice. That’s what the lion, owl, and lotus represent.
” He gestures to the images on his forearm.
“And this scale? That’s for justice.” He lifts his arm, showing me the back of his bicep.
“The whole sleeve is for everything that’s made me who I am today. What’s made me stronger, better, and what reminds me of the man I want to be.”
“And what about the anchor?” I ask, brushing my fingers over his bicep. No sooner are the words out than I realize my initials are etched at the core of it.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s you, babe. I told you the other day, you’re my anchor. The day you came into my life was the day I found where I was going. You ground me. Make me stronger. You make me want to be the best version of myself.”
My throat swells, and I try not to blink as moisture fills my eyes. “What if we get divorced?”
He just shrugs. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
I stare at him, stunned. Speechless.
He tattooed my initials on his arm knowing I’d filed for divorce.
It’s so incredibly stupid. And yet, somehow, it means more to me than words could ever explain.
His fingers find mine, and I turn toward him, eyes glistening. “What are the dates on the anchor?” There’s one on each side.
“This one’s the day I got clean,” he says, pointing to the first. “The day I chose to change my future.” His eyes burn into mine. “That’s not changing. Ever.”
I nod slowly. “And this one?” I ask, pointing to the second. It’s a random date, five and a half years ago.
He smiles, a soft chuckle following. “That’s the day I met you. The day of my surgery.” He squeezes my hand. “Nothing on this arm has made me a better man more than you.”
I pull his arm toward me, running my fingers along the ink, taking it all in. It’s done really well. The lion is stunning, fierce and detailed, and the only color on the entire sleeve is in its eyes. A piercing, vibrant blue.
“These eyes look like yours.”
“That’s what they’re supposed to be,” he says. “The lion represents courage. It’s kind of a mirror for me, learning to live with my fears and anxieties, instead of running from them. Choosing the right thing even when I’m staring down my own weaknesses.”
“That’s cool,” I murmur. “It’s really beautiful.”
“Thank you. Matt’s guy did it. It’s still not finished. There’s more shading and detail to fill in.”
My fingers drift higher, tracing the anchor on his bicep. I pause when I reach the current year, printed just to the side of my initials, slightly off-center.
My brow furrows. “Why is this just the year?”
His head tips back, eyes peering down at mine. A smirk curves across his lips, and it takes everything in me not to lean in and melt into it.
“That’s not done yet,” he says, nodding toward the empty space. “I’m waiting for the full date.”
“What do you mean?”
He lets out a deep, low laugh. “That’ll be the day I get you back. The day you move back in with me.”
I shake my head in disbelief, pressing my lips together to keep from smiling. God, that’s so Jensen. That confidence. That cocky charm that somehow never crosses into arrogance—it does something to me. It’s swoony and heartwarming. But more than anything, it makes me believe in him.
Gives me hope that maybe this version of Jensen is here to stay.
I’m crawling into his lap before I can think, straddling him. My palms press against his solid abs as I slide my hands up to his chest, eyes never leaving his. “What if I never move back in?” I whisper.
“Then I guess I’ve got a random year tattooed on my arm until I can add the rest. If anything, it’ll be a reminder of what I lost. And to do better.”
His hands find my thighs, slowly sliding up. Anticipation, mixed with a need to show him how much I love him, burns low in my core, and a slow ache builds between my legs.
“But I’m not going anywhere, baby,” he says. “Even if it stays incomplete for months or years. Even if it takes—”
My mouth cuts him off, and he meets my kiss with the same quiet devotion.
I’ve never wanted something to be more true than this: Jensen. Changed.
Better. Stronger. Here…
Waiting for me.
Loving me.
Being the husband I know he can be.
He was the best boyfriend. The best fiancé.
And then he lit our marriage on fire.
His hand slips under my shirt, cupping my breast, thumb grazing my nipple. I moan, grinding down onto him, his length pressing firm against me in all the right ways.
He deepens the kiss, arms wrapping around me, pulling me close, skin against skin. The warmth reminding me that tonight, I’m not alone.
I’m still scared. Still angry.
But not at him.
At me.
His grip tightens, and he lifts his hips, giving me the friction I’m desperate for. I gasp, and it draws a low groan from his throat.
He rolls me to my back, his elbows framing my face. “I love you so much, Alley.”
For so long, I made everything about Jensen. About the addiction. About life being unfair. About my dad, and his disease.
I let myself drown in all of it. And somewhere along the way, I lost me.
“I promise, if you let me, I’ll spend every day becoming the man you need. The man you deserve.”
But this isn’t about Jensen anymore. He’s his own person. He’ll make his own choices.
This right here, right now…
This is about me.
My healing. My journey. What I want.
Jensen’s done the work. He’s changed.
Have I?
He messed up. Badly. He broke my trust in him.
And I let it break me.
All this time, I’ve been mad at him. At life. Drinking, wallowing, trying to make sense of it all. When really, I should’ve been doing what Jensen was doing.
Becoming better.
His hand glides down my stomach, slow and deliberate, gaze locked on the trail he’s leaving behind. Sparks fire through me, the ache turning sharp. He pauses at my pubic bone, veers to the side, and grips my hip, fingers digging in just enough to make me shiver. Then his eyes drag back to mine.
Like he’s asking.
Waiting.
Letting me decide.
My chest tightens, breath shallow under the weight of his stare, those blue eyes burning into me, full of restraint and hope and want.
And God, I want this.
I want him.
I want to trust him again. To stop running. To let him love me.
To believe we still have a chance at happy.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, then his gaze meets mine.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I want to try. I want to make this work. You and me.”
I nod slowly, grounding myself in it. “I’m all in.”