Chapter 20 The Night
The Night
Julian
Late September, Saturday evening
The apartment looks different with her in it.
I spent three hours preparing for tonight, making sure everything was right.
Fresh flowers on the table, nothing expensive, just something bright.
Wine she likes, already open and breathing.
A meal from the Italian place she mentioned loving, so we can spend the evening together without me running back to the kitchen.
Eliza arrived twenty minutes ago, and she's been walking slowly through the rooms, touching things, looking at spaces that used to be hers. She stopped at the study for a long moment, staring at the desk where she used to work, the shelves that still hold some of her books.
Her fingertips rest on a book spine. "You kept them."
"They're yours. They'll be here when you want them."
She turns to look at me. "You were sure I'd come back?"
"I hoped you would." I move closer but don't touch her. Not yet. "Some nights I'd sit in here and read the spines, just to feel like part of you was still in the apartment."
"That's either romantic or creepy."
"I was aiming for romantic."
"You landed somewhere in the middle." But she's smiling.
Dinner is easy, conversation flowing naturally. We talk about her upcoming trip, the research protocols she's been reviewing, the specific kelp species she'll be studying. I ask questions and actually listen to the answers, asking her to explain the parts I don't understand.
I lean toward her across the table. "You're going to be amazing."
"I'm going to be cold. British Columbia in winter is no joke."
"You'll have very fashionable cold-weather gear."
"I'll have practical cold-weather gear. Fashion is for people who don't have to crawl through tide pools."
"You're fashion-adjacent."
"I'm waterproof. Put that on the invitation."
After dinner, we move to the couch, wine glasses in hand, shoulders touching. The familiar comfort of her presence makes my chest ache. I've missed this. I've missed her, here, in our space. Even if it's not our space anymore.
She looks toward the study. "It's strange being back. Everything looks the same, but it feels different."
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Like I'm a guest in a house I used to live in. Like I have to be invited into rooms I used to own."
"You're always invited. This is still your home if you want it to be."
She sets her wine glass on the coffee table. "Julian."
"Yes?"
"Stop talking."
She kisses me, and this time there's nothing tentative about it. She climbs into my lap and I pull her close, and we lose ourselves in each other the way we used to, back when things were good, back when touching her felt like the most natural thing in the world.
She takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom. This time, when we close the door, neither of us is shutting the other out.
The second it clicks shut, something hungry takes over. Months of wanting her and not having her. Months of video calls and careful dates and keeping my hands to myself when all I wanted was this.
I turn her, back her toward the bed, and kiss her hard. She matches me—teeth, tongue, fists in my shirt. I strip her fast. Blouse. Bra. Skirt. Underwear. She does the same to me, clumsy with want, and when my cock springs free she wraps her hand around it without being told.
"Fuck." The word comes out rough. "Look what you do to me."
"I missed this," she says. Her eyes are on my cock, then on my chest, then on my face. Female hunger. No apology.
"Say it properly."
"I missed your cock. I missed you fucking me."
"Good girl."
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull her between my knees. "On your knees."
She drops. Wraps her mouth around me and takes me deep on the first try. Hot. Wet. I groan and fist her hair—not shoving, just holding.
"That's it. Take what you can. Perfect. So fucking perfect with my cock in your mouth."
She hollows her cheeks and sucks. It's been months and my control is garbage. I pull her off with a wet pop before I finish too soon and tip her face up.
"Enough. I need inside you."
"Then put me where you want me."
I stand, spin her, bend her over the edge of the mattress. Spread her open with my thumbs. She's soaked. I drag the head of my cock through her cunt until she's pushing back for it.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please put your cock in me."
"Ask nicer."
"Please fuck me, Julian. Please—"
I push in in one hard thrust. She cries out. I stay buried to the hilt, one hand on the small of her back, breathing through the urge to come right then.
"Fuck. You feel like mine again."
Then I fuck her.
Hard. Deep. The kind of rhythm that has nothing soft left in it. Her hands fist the sheets. Every thrust punches a sound out of her. I reach around and find her clit, rub in tight circles while I pound into her.
"Take it. Take your husband's cock after months of not having it." My mouth finds her ear. "This cunt was made for me. Say it."
"This cunt was made for your cock—"
"That's my girl." I slap her ass once, light, possessive. "So fucking wet for me. You've been thinking about this. Haven't you?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"Come on my cock. Right fucking now. Be good for me."
She shatters, clenching so hard I have to grit my teeth not to follow her. I pull out, flip her onto her back, and climb over her before she can catch her breath. Knees spreading her thighs. Eyes on hers.
"Look at me."
She does. Flushed. Lips swollen. Beautiful.
I sink back into her slow this time, watching every inch disappear. "I'm not assuming anything after this. Not tonight. Not that you're moving back. Not that one fuck fixes months. You hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Good. Then take me anyway."
I fuck her face to face, forehead to forehead, one hand pinning her wrist, the other braced by her head. Deeper. Filthier praise under my breath—how tight she is, how pretty she looks full of me, how I've jacked off to the memory of this cunt and none of it came close.
"Julian—I'm—"
"Again. Come again. I want to feel you."
She does, shaking, and this time I go with her—driving deep, coming hard inside her, spilling into her with a broken sound against her throat. We stay locked together until the shaking stops.
I ease out carefully. Pull her into my arms. Pull the sheet up over both of us.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my hand tracing lazy patterns on her back.
I kiss the top of her head. "I missed you."
"I missed this." She props herself up on one elbow. "But I'm not moving back tonight."
The words land somewhere tender. I want to argue. I want to point out that she's here, in my bed, that we just made love for the first time in months, that surely this means something. But I learned the hard way that wanting her here doesn't decide whether she stays.
I swallow the protest. "I understand."
"Do you?"
"You need to know this isn't a one-time thing. That I won't fall back into old patterns the moment you're here full-time." I reach up and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "One night doesn't prove consistency. I know that."
"I want to believe you've changed. Tonight helps. The last few weeks help. But I'm not ready to bet everything on it yet."
"So what do you need?"
"Time. More consistency. Evidence that you can be this person when the sex isn't the reward."
I pull her close and kiss her forehead. "Then that's what you'll get."
She stays for another hour, wrapped in my arms, talking about nothing important. Eventually she gets up, gets dressed, collects her things. I walk her to the door.
I rest my hand against the doorframe. "Matinee Monday? That disaster movie you mentioned. The one with the volcano."
"The one you said looked terrible?"
"It has a volcano chasing a helicopter. I have questions."
"You should. Mostly about the script."
"I want to see it with you anyway. I want to hear you complain about the lava viscosity."
She laughs. "Lava viscosity is important."
"I'm sure it is. Monday? I'll pick you up at two."
"Two o'clock. Don't be late."
"I won't be."
She kisses me once more, soft and sweet, and then she's gone. I stand at the door for a long moment, listening to her footsteps fade down the hallway, feeling the absence of her already.
Monday afternoon
The movie is exactly as bad as Eliza predicted.
"That's not how lava works," she hisses during the third act. "It doesn't just suddenly speed up because the plot needs it to."
"Maybe it's magic lava."
"There's no such thing as magic lava."
"There is in this movie."
"This movie is an insult to volcanology."
"Is that a real word?"
"Yes. I'm using it correctly."
We're in the back row of a nearly empty theater, sharing a bucket of popcorn and arguing about geological accuracy. She's been muttering commentary since the opening credits, and I've been enjoying every second of it.
When we leave the theater, blinking in the afternoon sunlight, she turns to face me.
"You hated that movie."
"I did."
"You spent the whole time listening to me complain."
"I did."
"And you still came. And you were on time. And you didn't check your phone once."
"I'm trying to be the person you need me to be."
She studies my face. I want her to stop having to check my mood. I missed her after she left, but that doesn't make today something she has to earn back.
I smile at her, easy and warm. "What do you want to do now? Walk? Food? More terrible movies?"
Her shoulders ease. "I wasn't sure you'd still want today after I went home."
"I wanted to see you today. You going home didn't change that."
"Walk," she decides. "The harbor. I want to see the boats."
"Then boats it is."
We walk along the waterfront, her hand eventually finding its way into mine. The afternoon sun is warm on our faces, and for a little while, everything feels exactly right.
She looks out over the harbor. "I leave next week."
"I know."
"Will you be okay?"
"I'll miss you terribly. But yes, I'll be okay."
"Promise you won't bury yourself in work?"
"I promise to try not to bury myself in work. I'm also still seeing the therapist. She's helping me notice when I'm doing it."
"Good." Eliza squeezes my hand. "Because when I come back, I want you to be here. Really here. Not just occupying the same space."
"I'll be here." I stop walking and turn to face her. "I'll be here, Eliza. Waiting for you. Counting the days. Probably texting you too many pictures of things that remind me of you."
"I'd like that." She rises on her toes and kisses me. "The pictures, I mean. Not the counting days. That sounds obsessive."
"Mildly obsessive at most."
"Acceptable levels of obsession."
"I aim to please."
We walk until the sun starts to set, talking and laughing and planning video call schedules. When I finally drop her at her apartment, she lingers in the car doorway.
She pauses beside the open door. "Same time next week?"
"Whenever you want me."
"Wednesday. Dinner. Somewhere with good bread."
"I know a place."
"Of course you do."
She blows me a kiss and disappears inside.
I drive home smiling.