32. Alaina
ALAINA
It starts with the dishes.
Which sounds stupid. I know.
But sometimes the way someone scrubs your old chipped bowl like it’s sacred instead of trash is enough to make your knees weak.
Troka’s standing at the sink, sleeves rolled, steam curling up his forearms, veins flexing like low-slung lightning beneath his skin. His head’s down, mouth set in that line he gets when he’s concentrating, and all I can think is: That’s mine.
Or maybe it could be.
His shoulders are still wet from Caelix’s bath splash attack. He didn’t even flinch when the kid dumped half a cup of soapy water down his spine. Just growled like a soggy wolf and then let Caelix giggle himself breathless.
I’ve never seen a man look more natural in a home he technically doesn’t belong to.
I lean against the doorframe and just… watch.
The lights are low. Baby’s down. The street outside hums with a low-frequency drone like the planet itself is holding its breath.
“You missed a spot,” I say, teasing.
He flicks suds at me without turning. “You want clean or shiny?”
“I want you to turn around and look at me.”
He pauses.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water trails from his fingers to the floor, and he turns slow, towel in hand, like he’s afraid the air might break between us.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
No.
Everything’s finally right, and that’s the problem.
“I missed you,” I say.
The words hang there. Soft. Heavy. Measured.
He doesn’t smile.
Just steps forward.
“I’m right here,” he says, voice low. “You want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Then tell me what you want.”
I take the towel from his hand.
Toss it onto the counter.
And walk backward toward the bedroom.
He follows.
Silent.
Predatory.
Not a hunter—but someone desperate not to spook the thing he wants most.
He touches me like I’m carved from stories.
Like every curve, every freckle, every stretch mark is a passage in a book he’s memorized and still can’t get enough of.
There’s no rush this time.
No frantic desperation like the first time, when we were two broken things looking for something warm.
This time, it’s slower.
Deeper.
His fingers trace down my spine like he’s counting ribs, and when his mouth meets mine, it’s soft—almost reverent.
“I don’t know how to be careful with you,” he murmurs, breath hot against my jaw.
“I don’t want careful,” I whisper back. “I want real.”
His hand slides beneath my shirt. My skin jumps under his touch.
I press my mouth to his collarbone and feel his pulse beat against my lips.
“I wish things were different,” I say, in the space between his breaths.
“They can be.”
I shake my head.
“I’m scared.”
He stops.
Leans his forehead against mine.
“Me too.”
The sheets wrap around us like a secret. The night outside is quiet, but in here, everything roars.
His body presses against mine, all heat and weight and gravity.
We move together like tides—sometimes pulling, sometimes crashing, but always returning.
He kisses the corner of my mouth like it’s a promise he doesn’t know how to keep.
I press my palms against his shoulders, drag my fingers down his back, feel every tremor in him like it’s mine too.
When he finally sinks into me, I don’t cry.
I don’t tremble.
I breathe.
For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, I breathe without pain.
Without doubt.
Just him.
Just us.
Afterward, we’re tangled in the sheets.
His chest is against my back, arm draped heavy over my waist, one leg thrown over mine like he can keep me still just by existing.
His breath is even.
I think he’s asleep.
Caelix’s baby monitor hisses softly in the corner. White noise. A lullaby of static and silence.
And my heart is so full it hurts.
“I lied to you,” I whisper.
The words catch in my throat. I taste them like blood.
But he doesn’t stir.
Doesn’t move.
“I told myself it was to protect him. Or to protect you. But really, it was me. I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you. Didn’t want you to see how scared I was to hope.”
Still nothing.
I close my eyes for a beat—just long enough to find the courage.
“I love you.”
That’s the real secret.
Not biology.
Not paternity.
This.
The way my soul has built a home in him and won’t leave.
He shifts then.
Just enough to tighten his grip.
A sleepy sound escapes him. Not quite a word.
But it sounds a lot like my name.
And I can’t do it.
Not yet.
Not when he looks this peaceful.
Not when the storm in my chest might tear us both open.
So I press my hand to his.
Tangle our fingers.
And let the truth wait one more night.