25. Skye
— ? —
Skye
I can’t sleep.
I had a nightmare - the details already fading, but the feeling lingers. Adriana’s voice. Jayden’s silence. The cold certainty that I was invisible, that I didn’t matter, that I never had.
I’ve been fully moved back in for a week now. Our room, our bed, our life. Things are good. Really good.
Which is exactly why I can’t sleep.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake him. Pull on his old shirt - the soft gray one that smells like his cologne - and pad down the stairs on bare legs. The marble is cold under my feet. The house is silent in that particular way that makes every sound echo.
I go to the bathroom first. Splash water on my face. Stare at my reflection in the mirror and tell myself that nightmares are just nightmares, that the past doesn’t have to repeat itself, that I’m allowed to be happy.
Then I go to the kitchen for water.
The kitchen is dark except for the fridge light spilling across the marble.
He’s already there. Sitting at the counter.
We freeze. The house is quiet enough to hear both of us breathe.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
“No. You?”
“I kept reaching for you.” His voice is rough with sleep, but his eyes are alert. “Woke up when you weren’t there.”
Something about that - him noticing I was gone, him looking for me - makes my chest tight. For years, I could have disappeared from our bed entirely and he wouldn’t have noticed until morning.
He stands. Walks toward me. Doesn’t touch yet.
“What’s keeping you up?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” I look at the counter.
The Italian marble. The spot where I stood in my robe, asking about articles, and he told me I was overreacting without even bothering to look up from his phone.
“I keep thinking about the morning you told me I was overreacting. Right here. You didn’t even look at me. ”
“I know.”
“And now we’re here again. And I’m scared it’s all going to fall apart again.”
He closes the distance. Puts his hands on the counter on either side of me. Not caging. Asking.
“It’s not. I’m not that man anymore.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” His voice is low, intense. “On everything I am. On everything I want to be.”
I reach up. Put my fingers on his lips. Feel how soft they are. Electricity runs through my whole body, and I remember all the reasons I fell in love with him - not the CEO, not the public image, but this man. The one who looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters.
We look at each other for a few seconds. The silence stretches between us, charged and waiting.
I break first.
I kiss him. Have to go up on my toes to reach. Fist his shirt to pull him closer.
He makes a sound into my mouth like it hurts.
He pulls back. Forehead against mine. Hard already - I can feel him through the thin fabric of his sleep pants.
“We don’t have to-”
“Jayden.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop talking.”
He lifts me onto the counter. I wrap my legs around him. He’s hard against me, thin clothes, nothing in the way of feeling it.
His hands slide under the shirt. Slow. Deliberate. I get impatient and pull it off myself.
He looks at me. Not a checklist. Not a routine. Me.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes. Don’t ask me like I’m going to break.”
He doesn’t.
His mouth is on my throat, my breasts, moving down. I fist his hair when he drops to his knees, when his hands spread my thighs wider, when his breath ghosts hot against my skin.
I come on his mouth. Clap a hand over my lips. He pulls it away.
“Don’t hide. I want to hear you.”
I drag him up. Undo his pants. Wrap my hand around him. He swears, drops his head to my shoulder, and the sound he makes - raw and desperate and completely undone - is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
“Bed,” I manage. “Now.”
He carries me. Clothes scattered on the stairs like breadcrumbs marking our path. I’m on top when we hit the mattress, when I push him back and straddle him and sink down onto him in one long, slow movement.
Both of us stop breathing.
I ride him slow. Deliberate. Taking what I want. His hands are on my hips - holding, not steering. There’s a difference. There’s a huge difference, and I feel it in every cell of my body.
“Tell me what you want,” he breathes.
“Harder.”
He sits up. Flips us. Drives into me deep, watching my face.
I’m loud. I don’t swallow it anymore. I don’t make myself smaller, quieter, less. I let him hear exactly what he does to me.
“Right there - don’t you dare stop-”
“I won’t. I’ve got you.”
I come shaking. Eyes wet. He slows. Holds my face. Looks at me with concern that would have annoyed me before but now just makes me feel seen.
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Don’t stop. I’m okay. I’m here.”
He keeps moving. Softer, then deeper. Comes with his face in my neck, saying my name like a prayer.
***
Tangled in our bed. I trace patterns on his chest, the planes of muscle, the scatter of hair, the place where his heart beats strong and steady under my palm.
“I like this,” I say.
“The sex?”
“Waking you up at 2 AM for kitchen sex.” I grin against his shoulder. “I could get used to this.”
He laughs. “Anytime. I mean it. Wake me up whenever you want.”
“Careful. I’ll hold you to that.”
He turns serious. “I want every night to be like this. Coming home to you. Actually being here. Not just walking through the door.”
“Then keep showing up.”
“I will.”
I kiss him. Soft. Staying.
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Now shut up and hold me.”
He does.
***
We’re on the kitchen floor. The actual floor. Like animals.
Somewhere between the bed and here, we got hungry. Made our way back downstairs for snacks. Got distracted. Ended up horizontal on the marble.
“We should probably buy a rug,” I say, staring up at the ceiling.
“For the kitchen?”
“For the next time we end up on the floor.”
He laughs. Pulls me onto his chest.
“I’ll buy seventeen rugs. One for every room. We’ll christen them all.”
“That’s ambitious.”
“I’m a motivated man.”
I press my smile against his shoulder. His skin is warm under my lips. His hand traces lazy circles on my back.
This is us now. Not perfect. Not fixed. But choosing each other. Over and over. Even at 2 AM on the kitchen floor.
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you too.” He kisses my hair. “Now let’s go to bed before my back gives out for real.”
“You’re old.”
“I’m experienced.”
“Same thing.”
“Rude.”
I laugh. And he laughs. And we stumble back to bed together, leaning on each other, happy and exhausted and finally, finally home.
I fall asleep with my cheek on his chest, his hand tracing slow circles on my back. I don’t dream of the gala. I don’t dream of anything.
I just sleep - the deep sleep of a woman who is finally, actually home.
Somewhere outside, the ocean crashes against the shore. Somewhere in my future, a wedding on that same beach.
But tonight, in this bed, we are just two people who found their way back.