Chapter 43
forty-three
Liana
I don’t feel the room until I stop writing.
Up until that moment, everything is just…
movement. Thought bleeding into words, words into sentences, sentences into something that feels like it belongs to me again instead of something I have to force into shape.
My fingers ache from how hard I’ve been pressing into the keys, my shoulders tight, my breath uneven, but there’s something underneath it that feels almost like relief.
Like I’ve been holding something inside my chest for too long and finally let it out.
I don’t remember the last time I felt like this.
Not since before everything.
Not since before him.
The apartment is quiet when I finally pause, the cursor blinking back at me like it’s waiting, like it knows I’m not actually done, just catching up to myself.
The front door opens.
The sound drags through me slower than it should, like I’m still halfway inside whatever I just wrote, like I have to pull myself back piece by piece.
They’re home.
I don’t look up straight away. I finish the sentence I’m on. Then another. Then my fingers still.
I close the laptop slowly, my hands lingering on it for a second as I take a breath that feels deeper than anything I’ve taken all day, my head still slightly fuzzy, my emotions sitting too close to the surface.
When I look up, Elijah is already watching me.
“You’re done?” he asks quietly.
I nod, still a little dazed.
“I think so.”
His gaze moves over my face, taking something in that I can’t quite place, something I don’t have the energy to question right now.
“I’m heading out,” he says. “I’ll be back later.”
And then he leans down.
His lips brush my cheek.
Soft.
Careful.
Too careful.
“I love you.”
That’s when something in my chest tightens. Not when he said he was leaving. Not when he walked over.
Here.
In the way it feels like he’s holding something back from me. My hand moves before I think about it, fingers fisting into the front of his shirt, pulling him back toward me before he can straighten.
“Elijah…”
My voice comes out softer than I expect, rougher, like there’s something underneath it I don’t quite want to name.
I tilt my face up toward him, closing the space between us, needing more than that careful distance, needing something real, something grounding.
For a second, I feel it. That shift. That tension in him. Like he might meet me there. Like he might give me what I’m asking for. But when his mouth meets mine, it’s not what I need.
It’s gentle.
Controlled.
A soft press of his lips against mine that doesn’t deepen, doesn’t take, doesn’t claim.
I try to pull him closer, my grip tightening in his shirt, leaning into him, asking without words.
He doesn’t follow. He pulls back. Just enough to break it.
“I’ll see you later,” he murmurs.
And then he’s gone. The door closes behind him. And the quiet that follows feels… wrong.
Like something just slipped through my fingers. I don’t get time to sit in it. Jackson is already moving toward me.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
His voice is softer than usual, but there’s something tight underneath it, something restless, something that feels like it’s been building for too long.
His hand comes up to my face immediately, his thumb brushing over my cheek, grounding, checking, like he needs to feel that I’m real.
“I missed you.”
I lean into him without thinking.
“I missed you too.”
He exhales like that matters more than anything else, like that settles something in him, before his mouth presses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my lips.
Soft. Careful. Measured. And I feel it again. That distance. Zach steps in beside him.
His hand slides along my jaw, tilting my face back so I have to look at him.
“Hey, baby.”
And then he kisses me. And it’s different.
Still controlled, still aware, but there’s something underneath it, something that presses into me instead of hovering above me, something that makes my breath catch as I lean into him without thinking, my fingers curling into his shirt as I chase it.
Because I need it. Because I’ve been missing it. He feels it. I know he does. The way I respond. The way I don’t hold back from him. The way I lean into it like I’ve been waiting for it.
He lingers just long enough for it to matter before he pulls back, his thumb brushing gently over my lip.
“I’m gonna shower,” he murmurs.
His gaze flicks briefly to Jackson, then back to me.
“Go easy on him.”
My throat tightens.
I nod.
His thumb traces my lip once more before he steps away, leaving me alone with Jackson.
The air shifts.
He’s still watching me.
Too closely.
Too carefully.
“Do you need anything?” he asks quickly. “Food? Water? What can I get for you?”
I reach for him before he can move away, catching his wrist and pulling him back toward me.
“Jackson.”
He stills instantly.
“All I need is you.”
“I’m right here,” he says, immediate, like that should be enough.
I shake my head, my grip tightening.
“No… you’re not.”
His brow furrows.
“What do you mean?”
I lift my hands to his face, forcing him to look at me, really look at me.
“I need you,” I whisper. “I need to feel like I’m yours again.”
His breath catches.
“I need to feel you.”
He hesitates. Fear flashes in his eyes.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” I say quickly, my voice breaking slightly as I hold onto him. “I’m here. I’m healing. I’m okay.”
I swallow, forcing the words out.
“I need to feel like a woman again, Jackson.”
The words land between us.
“I need to feel like your woman again.”
He looks wrecked. Like he doesn’t know how to give me what I’m asking for without breaking something.
“I don’t know how to do that right now,” he admits, his voice rough. “I felt you die in my arms, Lia. I...”
“I’m right here,” I whisper, pulling him closer, grounding him, anchoring him to me. “I’m right here. I need this. I need you. Please.”
My voice cracks.
“Please, Jackson… I need to feel something again.”
That’s what breaks him.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, sweetheart… I’m right here.”
And when he kisses me this time, I don’t wait.
I move into it first, pulling him down into me, deepening it, refusing to let it stay soft and distant.
For a second, he hesitates. And then I feel it. The break. The shift. He gives.
The kiss deepens, heat bleeding into it, tension snapping, something real finally pushing through the fear as his hand tightens slightly on me, still careful, still aware, but no longer holding himself completely back.
My breath catches as I lean into him, my hands sliding into his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more, chasing that feeling, that connection, that reminder of who I am to him.
Of who I still am.
The world narrows to just this. To him. To the way he’s finally meeting me instead of holding himself away.
And I cling to it.
Because I need it. Because I refuse to lose this part of myself again.
The kiss breaks only long enough for Jackson to pull back and look at me, eyes dark and glassy, chest rising fast. His hand cups the side of my face, thumb trembling against my cheekbone.
“Let me do the work, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice raw. “Just… let me take care of you.”
I nod, already breathless, my fingers still twisted in his shirt. “Don’t hold back, Jackson. I need this. I need you.”
He exhales shakily, forehead resting against mine for a beat. “I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he’s lifting me, slow, so slow, arms sliding under my thighs and back with the kind of care that makes my throat ache.
He carries me to the bedroom like I’m made of glass, but the way his hands shake against me says he’s barely holding himself together.
The door clicks shut behind us. He lays me down on the bed like I might disappear if he’s not gentle enough, then straightens just long enough to peel his shirt over his head.
I watch the muscles in his chest and shoulders shift, the familiar lines of him, and something desperate blooms low in my belly. He’s beautiful. Solid. Mine.
He comes back to me immediately, kneeling between my legs on the mattress, hands framing my face again. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing me soft and deep, then trailing his mouth down my jaw, my throat. “Missed the taste of you. Missed feeling you under me like this.”
His fingers find the hem of my shirt and ease it up, inch by careful inch, pausing when the bandage on my side comes into view.
The stab wound is still healing, tender, pink, a ugly reminder, but he doesn’t flinch.
He leans down and presses the gentlest kiss just beside the edge of the gauze, lips lingering there like a vow.
“I hate that this happened to you,” he breathes against my skin. “Hate that I wasn’t fast enough. But you’re here. You’re alive. God, Lia… you’re everything.”
I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging lightly. “I’m right here. Touch me.”
He does. Slow. Reverent. His palms skim up my ribs, avoiding the wound, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts until I arch into him with a soft sound.
He groans low in his throat when my nipples tighten under his touch, then dips his head to take one into his mouth, tongue swirling slow and wet while his hand works the other with perfect pressure.
“So perfect,” he praises against my skin, voice thick. “These pretty tits… always so sensitive for me. Look at you, sweetheart, already trembling and I’ve barely started.”
Heat floods through me, sharp and liquid.
I let my head fall back, surrendering to the slow build, to the way he’s coaxing my body back to life.
His free hand slides down my stomach, over the soft swell that’s still almost nothing at seven weeks, then lower, easing my pants and underwear down my legs with agonizing patience.
When I’m bare beneath him he just stares for a long moment, eyes drinking me in like he’s memorizing every inch.