Chapter 36
Thirty-six
Luc
I wake before Addie does, the room still dim.
She’s curled against me, her back fitted to my chest. One arm is tucked beneath the pillow, the other draped across my side, her breathing slow and even.
For a few seconds, I don’t move. I just register the weight of her, the warmth, the way my body has oriented itself around hers without thought or effort.
The last three weeks haven’t been quiet in the way things used to be between us. Addie doesn’t shut down or change the subject when something bothers her. She talks about it, even when it isn’t easy. And I stay in the middle of it with her, instead of trying to fix it or steer us somewhere else.
Her hand shifts. Not searching, just wandering, lazy with sleep. Her fingers brush me and linger, and the reaction is immediate, inevitable. I don’t stop it. I don’t say her name. I let the moment take its own shape.
She stirs, presses back slightly, a quiet sound catching in her throat. Her hand closes around me with intent now, her touch slow but sure. I press my face into the curve of her neck, inhale her—paint and soap and something warm.
“Morning,” I murmur.
She smiles without opening her eyes. Her hand tightens, and that’s it. Whatever restraint I thought I had dissolves. I guide her forward, my hands anchoring her hips. She doesn’t protest. She opens to me like she’s been waiting for this exact thing.
I take her from behind, my hands firm at her hips as she shifts to make room for me.
The mattress creaks beneath us, and her breath breaks as I press in.
She braces herself with one hand, flattening it against the sheets as I move, the rhythm rough and unmeasured.
I stay close, my chest against her back, my mouth finding the warm curve of her shoulder.
My hand slides beneath her, my fingers slick almost immediately, circling her slowly, deliberately, even as everything else stays relentless.
She says my name, breathes it into the space between us.
The sound goes straight through me, and I hold there, pressed to her.
Then I come with a sharp exhale, my grip tightening, the world narrowing to her and the way she feels around me.
For a second afterward, I stay exactly where I am, still hard, still pressed into her. I don’t pull away. I don’t roll off.
She shifts first, pushing herself upright, turning to look at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, dark, amused. She reaches back, her hand firm now, decisive, and guides me as she settles over me. The movement knocks the air from my lungs.
“Don’t get comfortable,” she says softly.
I laugh, my hands already on her, sliding up her sides, over the curve of her breasts.
I take my time this time, watching her face instead of closing my eyes.
The way her mouth parts. The way her shoulders tense and then loosen as I touch her.
I roll one nipple between my fingers, and then the other, my thumbs brushing just enough to keep her on the edge.
She rocks against me, slow at first, and then faster.
I stay with her, hands steady, letting her set the pace.
When she comes, it’s deeper, longer, her head falling back as she presses into me.
I hold her through it, feel it move through her, feel the aftershocks echo in my own body.
I’m still hard when it’s over, breath uneven, attention fixed.
We stay like that for a while, tangled and breathing each other back into focus. Her weight settles more fully against me, the edge of urgency gone. I can feel my heart working hard in my chest as everything slows.
Addie shifts, rolling onto her side, one leg over mine. She traces idle patterns on my chest. I rest my hand at her waist, thumb brushing the familiar curve of her belly.
“Happy?” she asks quietly, a smile in her voice even though she isn’t looking at me.
I huff a soft laugh. “Dangerously.”
She meets my eyes then, that look she gets when she’s checking something without wanting to ask it outright.
I hold her gaze, don’t flinch, don’t look away.
I brush my knuckles along her cheek, and then lean in and kiss her—slow this time, no hunger, just contact.
She sighs into it, her hand sliding up my arm, fingers lacing with mine.
We settle again, this time on our backs, shoulders touching, hands still joined between us. Morning light creeps farther into the room, catching on the edge of the dresser, the pale wall, the faint outline of the window frame.
Her stomach shifts under my palm. She inhales sharply. “Did you feel that?”
I nod, my throat tight. “Yeah.”
She turns toward me, guiding my hand this time, her fingers warm over mine. We wait together. A second passes. Then another small flutter.
Addie smiles, something open breaking across her face. I’m sure I look the same way.
“Hi,” I murmur.
She laughs softly and presses her forehead to my shoulder. I kiss the top of her head.
Eventually, she shifts onto her back, her head turned toward me, one hand resting where mine still cups her belly. I trace small, absent circles.
“So,” I say. “How’s the mural coming?”
Her smile softens. “Good. I’m in the final stretch now. A few touch-ups, some shading. It should be finished in time.”
I nod. “That room’s going to feel different once it’s done.”
She hums. “That’s the idea.”
We lie there, quiet again.
The baby shifts again beneath my hand, a small ripple that makes us both still.
“There,” she says. “That was definitely something.”
I press my palm a little more firmly against her, waiting. Another faint nudge follows.
I smile. “He’s impatient.”
She snorts. “Says the man who can’t wait for his coffee in the morning.”
I laugh and kiss her hair.
After a minute, she goes quiet again, her fingers tracing the line of my ribs.
“What do you think,” she says finally, “about Austin?”
“Austin,” I repeat. “I like it.”
“Or Caleb.”
“That one too.”
She studies my face, and then scoots closer.
“I had another thought,” I tell her. “But only if you want to hear it.”
She lifts her brows. “Okay.”
“Jacob,” I say. “It’s my mother’s father’s name.”
The warmth between us dims a fraction. I feel it immediately.
“That’s an idea,” she says without committing. She exhales. “I don’t hate it. I just… I don’t feel it.”
“Okay, he needs the right name.”
She looks at me, searching. I kiss her forehead.
“It should be a name you love,” I tell her. “That’s what matters.”
She settles back, staring at the ceiling. “My parents gave all of us very formal names. Long names. I always felt like we had to grow into them.”
I listen.
“I want something simpler,” she says. “Something lighter.”
I slide my hand back to her belly. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
She turns toward me again. “You’re really okay with that?”
“Yes.”
She smiles and tucks herself closer to me, her head settling beneath my chin. I stay still, letting her breathing even out before shifting the blanket higher over her shoulder.
When she murmurs and relaxes again, I keep my hand where it is. I feel the house settle, the light change, her body soften fully against mine.
Only then do I close my eyes as well, grateful we don’t have anywhere we need to be.