Chapter 18 Melanie
Melanie
It’s after midnight, the kind of quiet where the fridge hum sounds like a song.
The tree’s glow spills down the hall, soft and gold.
I pad into the kitchen in socks, because sleep took one look at my brain and said “no thanks.” I put on the tea kettle even though I won’t wait for it. I just like the promise of it.
The wedge is still under the door. I’ve made peace with it. It's our little triangle of control in a world that refuses to be linear.
Lucas appears in the doorway, low sweats, no shirt, sleep-tousled hair, the careful way he fills a room without setting off any alarms. He checks the hallway with that glance that looks like nothing and sees everything, then leans against the doorframe and watches me pretend to wrangle a tea bag.
“Insomnia?” he asks, voice low.
“Just thinking,” I say, then roll my eyes at myself. “Okay, spiraling.”
He steps in, takes the mug from my hand, adds hot water like it’s an intervention. “Hydration,” he says, because it’s our bit now.
“Captain Safety,” I murmur back.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, listening to the tiny pops of the heating pipes and the faraway swoosh of a car on wet road. My reflection in the window looks steadier next to his.
“What’s in your head?” he asks after a while, soft and easy, like a question I can set down without it breaking.
I toy with a lemon slice. “Everything. Mercer. The appointment. One centimeter.” I hold up a finger like I’m trying to show him what one centimeter looks like even though I’m not even sure. “Also… January.” The word tilts the room.
He doesn’t flinch. He just sets the mug down, turns me so I’m facing him, and braces his hands on the counter behind me like he’s making sure the kitchen doesn’t try to run away.
“Denver scares me less than loving you wrong,” he says.
The line lands between us like a carefully placed brick—solid, true, not heavy in the way that hurts but heavy in the way that holds.
I blink. “Say that again.”
“I can plan Denver,” he says, eyes steady on mine.
“Gate numbers, rotations, a Saint Pierce post if Dean will play ball. Logistics are legible to me. Loving you?” His mouth tips, not quite a smile.
“There’s no manual for that. And I don’t want to improvise where you, and the baby, are the things I can’t replace. ”
My throat goes tight in that inconvenient way. “You won’t.”
“I might,” he says, honest to a fault. “If I rush. If I assume. If I make you carry the parts of me that should be my job.” He lowers his head until our foreheads touch, the softest press.
“I am more afraid of being a postcard dad and a holiday boyfriend than I am of a winter transfer. That’s the truth. ”
My fingers curl in his shirt, because I am, maddeningly, equal parts strong and soft.
“I’m afraid of needing you,” I admit, and there it is—the thing I’ve been orbiting.
“It feels like handing you the only parachute. I’ve been training for solo landings my whole life.
Needing you means… what if you’re wheels up and I’m here holding an empty bag? ”
He exhales, a sound that holds both ache and relief. “Then we pack two,” he says simply. “Two parachutes. Two calendars. Two sets of shoulders. We make redundancies for the heart the way we make them for everything else.”
A laugh escapes me, watery and ridiculous. “You’re romantic in such a weird, tactical way.”
“Thank you?” he offers, and that earns him a real laugh.
The baby shifts like they want in on the conversation. He slides a palm to my belly, and we both go quiet at the press of a little heel or elbow against his hand. His eyes go glassy for a second, and mine do, too.
“Slow yes?” he says, not moving his hand. “We don’t solve January tonight. We build the habit of not assuming. We ask. We list. We try. We forgive. We keep the bubble tight. One sandbag at a time.”
I nod, and something unclenches in my chest I didn’t notice was clenched. “Slow yes,” I echo. “With… scheduled moments of being brave.”
“Deal.” He kisses my forehead like a signature, then looks past me at the refrigerator. “Write it down?”
I follow his gaze. The fridge is a collage of our small life: appointment card, grocery list with “lemons” underlined twice, the heartbeat strip magneted front and center. I grab a sticky note and a pen, heart banging like it wants to be part of the to-do list.
“What are we writing?” I ask.
He thinks for exactly one beat. “Ask, don’t assume.”
I scribble it and stick it next to the heartbeat curve. It looks right there, like a label for the sound.
“And one for you,” he says gently, nodding at the pad.
I chew the pen cap, then write, “Let him help.” The words look naked and brave and exactly the size of the leap I can make tonight. I put it under his. The notes overlap a little. It feels like the point.
We stand there, ridiculous and earnest in our midnight kitchen, admiring two sticky notes like they’re cathedral blueprints. Then he tugs me in by the waistband of my pajama pants and steals a kiss that tastes like lemon and relief.
“I don’t want to love you wrong,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Then don’t,” I say, because complicated can be simple sometimes. “We’ll tell each other when we’re off-course.”
“We’ll also tell each other when we get it right,” he adds, and there’s that small smile again, the one that rewires the lighting in a room.
He shifts behind me, palms finding the spots at my low back that hurt and easing them with the kind of pressure that proves he’s been paying attention. My body, traitor and ally both, melts into him, the kind of fit that makes a person dangerous to your routines.
“I’m still scared,” I confess, quieter now, because the truth doesn’t get smaller just because we’ve named it once.
“Me too,” he says easily. “Fear can ride in the back seat. It doesn’t get the wheel.”
“You and your metaphors,” I mutter, smiling.
“I’m adapting to my audience,” he says, and kisses the top of my head.
The kettle finally clicks off, like it’s been holding its breath with us.
He pours, adds honey and a squeeze of lemon, and hands me the mug with both hands like it’s a warm contract.
We carry it down the hall together—the tree still glowing, the apartment still ours.
I climb into bed and he follows, fitting himself around me like a promise he can keep.
“Denver?” I ask into the dark, because I’m me and because the quiet is where I do my worst writing.
“We’ll talk to Dean,” he says. “See if Saint Pierce can be more than a season.” A pause. “But I won’t ask you to move away from your life. If anything moves, it starts with me.”
A ridiculous sound leaves my throat—half sob, half laugh. “Ask me, don’t assume,” I remind him.
“Right,” he agrees. “I’ll ask. In daylight. With coffee. Not at midnight.”
The baby drums once under his hand. We both listen, grinning like conspirators. He kisses my hairline and his voice goes softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Slow yes,” he says again, like a benediction.
“Slow yes,” I whisper.
He kisses me passionately, and I melt into him, remembering the way he’s so present with me. So always in tune with all things Melanie. I’ve never had anyone pay this much attention to me in my life.
Is this love? I think it might be, and my body hums with nerves and excitement. With the longing to have his hands on me one more time. With the possibility to let myself hope and live here in this moment between us.
He keeps kissing me, our tongues dancing together. My body grows needy, and Lucas groans into my mouth. “I need you, Mel.”
I smile, loving the fact that I’m the reason of this man’s undoing. “I need you too.”
His eyes catch mine, and he gives me that smile that lands somewhere deep inside my chest. If I’m not careful I'll blurt out three tiny words to this man. And mean them. But we’re nowhere near there.
His hand roams over my hip, and lands right between my legs. He runs his fingers over my clothing, but I still feel him exactly where I need him.
“Please,” I moan.
He repositions our bodies so he’s behind me. He slides my yoga pants and panties down my legs. “I need to be inside you. Deep, deep inside you.”
My body’s on fire. “I need it too.”
Once he’s got me completely undressed he takes seconds to remove his clothing, and I nearly laugh at how determined he is.
He lays back down behind me, and runs a hand through my hair. “I love your hair. So long and silky. You’ve got great hair, Mel.”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “You’ve got great everything,” I say like a lovestruck teenager. But I actually mean it. He is just so… great.
He presses his hard length against my backside, and groans as he fists his hand in my hair. “I think about that night we shared in Denver all the time. I tried calling because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Tears spring to my eyes. Stupid hormones. “I obviously couldn’t stop thinking about you,” I say with a tiny laugh.
He slips a hand between my legs, his fingers running through my wetness. “I’ve thought about you so damn much, Melanie. Something happened that night.” He strokes my clit with his fingers, making my body vibrate with madness.
I want to agree. Because something definitely happened that night. Not only did we create another life, we created something deeper between the two of us. He positions himself directly behind me, easing into me like he’s sliding home.
We move together, creating our own rhythm, his hands controlling the speed. He whispers my name like a prayer, and he toys with my clit as he continues to pump himself inside me.
“Melanie,” he groans out, and I swear I feel like he wants to say more.
Maybe it’s something deep in my own chest, because seriously, I’m ready to profess my love for this man. This protective man. This man who’ll be the greatest father to my child.
I just know it.
He continues to move inside me, my body growing deliciously close to coming undone. I can tell he’s close too. He groans and thrusts his hips a bit harder. He keeps playing with my clit, like a man on a mission.
“Oh, Lucas,” I shout out when the sensations are a bit too much. “I’m coming,” I tell him.
He grips me tighter, his own release chasing after mine. He kisses my shoulder as he rides out the waves of his orgasm.
“I won’t be able to let you go,” he whispers, and honestly I hope he means it.