Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jules
I stand at the back door, cradling a warm mug of coffee in my hands as I watch Corbin and Tate rake leaves in the backyard.
The golden afternoon light bathes them both, turning the crisp autumn air into something softer, something almost dreamlike.
Tate laughs as he tosses a handful of leaves into the air, and Corbin humors him, shaking his head with a half-smile before nudging a pile toward the growing mound in the center of the yard.
The sight of them together—the way they move in sync, the ease between them—makes my chest ache.
It’s been a hard five days. I feel like I’ve lost everything.
The fire spared the walls of my apartment, but it didn’t spare my things.
The clothes I carefully picked out over the years, the little mementos from trips with Tate, the paintings I’ve poured myself into—ruined.
Damaged beyond repair. The pieces of the life I built without Corbin, gone in an instant.
But Corbin.
He’s still here.
He’s holding onto me like I’m the only thing that matters. Like losing me would be a greater tragedy than all the burned and smoke-stained remnants of my past.
And that terrifies me.
It was easier when I had space. When I had my own apartment, my own escape, a place to step back and process things without his overwhelming presence pressing in on me.
None of this is his fault. I know that. It’s me.
It’s the way I can’t seem to think straight when I’m around him.
The way my body betrays me, craving the warmth of his arms. The way my heart races when I catch him looking at me, like I’m something precious he never wants to lose again.
My fingers tighten around my coffee mug as I glance down at my right hand.
At the diamond band I slipped on that day I walked through the smoke-damaged wreckage of my apartment.
I don’t know why I put it on. I don’t even know why I kept it.
But I do know that every time I see it there, my pulse stutters with the weight of what it means.
I love him.
I never stopped loving him.
The thought both steadies and unravels me.
Because love has never been the problem.
We loved each other before, and we still got it wrong. We still fell apart. What if we mess this up again? What if we love each other, but we can’t live together? What if the weight of the past creeps back in? What if the version of Corbin I have now—gentle, patient, understanding—doesn’t last?
What if he realizes I’m not enough a second time?
My breath catches in my throat as Corbin glances up toward the house. His blue eyes meet mine through the open door, and something flickers there. Something sure, something steady.
And for a moment, the fear quiets.
For a moment, all I want to do is step outside, walk straight into his arms, and finally let myself believe that maybe this time we’ll get it right.
But Tate…
It always comes back to him. His well-being. His happiness.
I didn’t have that kind of security growing up. My home life was chaotic, filled with tension, with moments of uncertainty that settled into my bones. I don’t want that for Tate. I refuse to give him a life where love feels like something that can slip through his fingers at any moment.
Tate launches himself into the pile of leaves, his laughter ringing through the crisp air.
Corbin chuckles, shaking his head as he watches our son revel in the simple joy of fall.
Then, his gaze shifts, settling on me. The warmth in his eyes is quiet, steady.
Something that makes my heart stutter against my ribs.
Does he still love me?
He hasn’t said it, not in words. But maybe he has in other ways. Maybe I hear it in the way he whispers my name in the dark, in the way he holds me when sleep won’t come. Maybe it’s there in the way his hands move over me, reverent and sure, as if he’s afraid to let go.
But if he does, why hasn’t he said it?
“Mom!” Tate hollers from the leaves, waving enthusiastically. “Did you see that?”
I blink out of my thoughts and force a smile. “I did! That was a huge jump.”
He grins before launching himself into the air again, completely lost in his own little world. Corbin, on the other hand, walks toward me, his expression softer than I expect. The second he’s close, my breath hitches.
His hand comes up, fingers gliding gently along my cheek before curling into my hair. I exhale, my body leaning into the warmth of his touch as if it belongs there.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his lips brushing my forehead in a featherlight kiss. It’s nothing grand, nothing overtly passionate, but it still anchors me. Still makes my heart ache in ways I don’t know how to name.
I swallow hard, unsure how to answer. “I think so.”
His eyes darken, a flicker of doubt passing through them. “Have you heard anything about the bakery?”
I take a slow breath. “They’re still assessing the damage. It’s too soon to say if it’s a total loss or if it can be salvaged.” His jaw ticks, but I push through, my voice quieter now. “I just… I really hope it’s not. I want to go home.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I see it. The way his expression shifts, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but stops himself.
Like the word home isn’t supposed to mean something separate from him.
“Yeah.” The words come out even, but the way his gaze flickers downward, how he suddenly won’t meet my eyes, gives him away.
My chest tightens. I didn’t mean it like that. Not like that.
“I—” I falter, licking my lips as I try to gather my words. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s alright.” He forces a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know what you meant.”
I shift the coffee mug in my hands before standing on my tiptoes, brushing my lips against his. It’s slow, intentional, and for a second, he melts into it. But when we pull apart, his features are unreadable again, his walls slipping back into place.
“You wanna grab pizza for dinner?” he asks, the casual tone almost too forced.
I nod, offering a small smile of my own. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“I just need to bag up the leaves, then we’ll go.”
I nod again as he steps back, his fingers slipping away from my skin like he’s afraid to hold on too tight.
I watch as he heads back to Tate, my heart twisting. I hate that I made him feel that way. That my words cut deeper than I intended. But I also hate that I keep questioning my own honesty.
Because the truth is, Corbin was my home—until he wasn’t.
And if he wants to be that again, he has to tell me.
Once the leaves are all bagged and Tate is bundled up in new clothes, we head out the door. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of burning wood from some distant chimney, the promise of winter just around the corner.
As Corbin starts the car, I help Tate into his booster seat. His small hands clutch the seatbelt as if he’s weighing something in his mind.
Then, in a quiet, thoughtful voice, he asks, “Mom, do you think we should live with Dad forever?”
My breath catches mid-motion, fingers frozen on the buckle.
“I, uh…” I scramble for the right response, my brain short-circuiting at the unexpected weight of his question.
Tate tilts his head, as if trying to decipher my hesitation. “I like that we eat breakfast together and do bedtime stories every night together,” he continues, completely unaware of the way my chest tightens at his words. “It feels like how things are supposed to be.”
I clear my throat, brushing a stray lock of blond hair from his forehead. “You like that, huh?” I manage.
Tate nods earnestly. “You do too, don’t you?”
I swallow against the lump rising in my throat. I do. More than I’m willing to admit. But it’s not that simple.
“We’ll just take it day by day, okay?” I say instead, tucking the moment away before it has the chance to unravel me.
Tate studies me for a beat before nodding. “Okay.”
I close his door gently, inhaling a deep breath before rounding the car and slipping into the passenger seat.
The moment I sit down, warmth blooms beneath me.
Corbin already turned my seat warmer on.
The small gesture shouldn’t affect me, but it does.
I sigh as the warmth spreads through my body, sinking into my bones as he backs out of the driveway.
When I glance over, Corbin is already looking at me, something like contentment flickering behind his blue eyes. Then, without a word, he reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. His grip is firm, solid, grounding.
And yet, despite everything, doubt lingers.
Are we giving Tate false hope? Am I giving myself false hope?
Corbin squeezes my hand lightly, as if sensing my hesitation. Maybe that’s the problem. He always knows when I’m hesitating, but he never asks why.
“So,” Corbin says casually, “Thanksgiving.”
I arch a brow, caught off guard by the subject. “Thanksgiving,” I repeat, waiting for him to continue.
“My mom is still coming up next week,” he says, rubbing his thumb absently along my knuckles. “But I booked her a nice suite at the hotel down the street.”
I frown. “Why would you do that when you have a perfectly good guest room?”
He exhales slowly, like he knew I’d ask. “You know why, Jules.”
Realization dawns, and I smirk. “Oh. You don’t want your mom to know I’m… basting your turkey.”
Even in the dim light of the car, I catch the way Corbin’s ears go red. He lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Julianne.”
Ah, full name. I struck gold.
I grin, tightening my grip on his hand as he bites his lower lip, like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“That’s part of it,” he admits, glancing over at me before refocusing on the road. “But also, I want this to feel like your space. It was, once. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to be anything you’re not.”
My heart skitters, my throat tightening unexpectedly. This version of Corbin—the man who pays attention, who wants me to feel comfortable—is both unfamiliar and painfully familiar. He’s always been thoughtful, but never like this. Never in a way that made me feel so… seen.
“I’ll make the side dishes if you make the turkey,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He exhales, visibly relieved. “I was terrified I’d have to make the stuffing.”
Tate and I both laugh, breaking the tension.
“I’ll make the stuffing,” I reassure him.
“And I’ll make the turkey,” he agrees, pulling into the parking lot of Cardini’s, our favorite pizza joint. This time, as a family.
The moment Tate hops out of the car, he practically vibrates with excitement. I still don’t understand why he’s so giddy, but as soon as he races inside, the pieces start falling into place.
The second he spots Kona, the owner, Tate grins and shouts, “Mom and Dad are together! And we’re going to spend Thanksgiving together!”
I freeze. Oh. Oh. That’s why.
Kona raises an eyebrow, looking between Corbin and me, his gaze landing on our still-intertwined hands. A knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.
“Well,” he drawls, “let’s get you guys the best seat in the house.”
Corbin’s fingers release mine, but only so his hand can find the small of my back as we follow behind Tate. His lips graze my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
“We should probably talk to him when we get home,” he murmurs.
I nod, my stomach tightening. He’s right. We should have told him.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m the one who keeps needing to be told something.
Corbin looks down at me. “Does this make you my girlfriend?” he teases, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
I huff a quiet laugh. “You haven’t asked yet, so no.”
His smirk softens into something more genuine. “Jules,” he says, voice laced with amusement, “will you be my girlfriend?”
I laugh again, shaking my head. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I think I’d like that.”
When we reach the table, Tate is still grinning like Christmas came early.
Then, before I can fully process what’s happening, Corbin slides his fingers over the diamond band on my right hand. My breath hitches. Slowly, deliberately, he removes it, his thumb skimming over my bare skin.
He looks at me, waiting.
I hesitate—but only for a second—before extending my left hand.
Silently, carefully, he slides the ring onto my fourth finger.
Where it used to be.
My heart thunders so loudly I think he must hear it.
Corbin smiles, satisfied, like this is exactly where we’re supposed to be.
And yet, something in me doesn’t settle.
Because even now, with my wedding ring back where it once belonged, he still hasn’t said it.
And until he does—until he tells me he loves me—I don’t know if I fully trust that this is real.