19. Selene
— ? —
Selene
I wake up slowly, consciousness seeping in.
The first thing I notice is the weight. There’s a warm arm anchored around my waist, pulling me back against a solid chest. There’s rhythmic breath fanning across the sensitive skin of my neck. There’s the familiar scent of cedar, a scent that is uniquely Dylan, surrounding me completely.
The second thing I notice is the bed.
This isn’t my apartment. The sheets are softer, the mattress bigger, the room filled with the kind of ambient light that only comes from floor-to-ceiling windows in the Hollywood Hills.
I’m in the mansion.
For the first time in over a year, I woke up in the home I fled from.
The realization should trigger panic, or the urge to bolt. Instead, all I feel is a bone-settling calm. My body has been holding its breath for twelve months and has finally remembered how to exhale.
I shift slightly, trying not to wake Dylan, and the cool metal of my rings catches the morning light. The diamond throws tiny rainbows across the white sheets, and I find myself staring at the familiar sparkle with something approaching wonder.
I’m wearing my rings again, lying in Dylan’s bed again.
I’m his wife again. Not just legally, but in every way that matters.
The arm around my waist tightens, and Dylan stirs behind me. His face burrows deeper into the crook of my neck, his nose nuzzling against the sensitive spot below my ear.
“You’re thinking too loud.” His voice is rough with sleep, barely more than a rumble against my skin. “I can hear your brain spinning from here.”
“I’m not thinking.”
“Liar.” He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “What’s going on in that beautiful head?”
I turn in his arms until we’re face to face, and the sight of him makes my breath catch. Sleep-rumpled, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his jaw filled with stubble. He looks younger like this. More vulnerable. More like the man I fell in love with before everything got complicated.
“I’m just… processing.” I reach up to trace the familiar lines of his jaw, marveling at how a year apart has made him look even sharper. More defined. Like the boy I married has finally finished becoming a man. “Being here again. Waking up next to you.”
His eyes flutter fully open, warm, instantly locking with mine. The affection in his gaze is so unguarded it makes my chest ache.
“Good processing or bad processing?”
“Good.” I smooth my thumb over his cheekbone. “Definitely good.”
His face breaks into a smile that’s part relief, part joy, and what looks suspiciously like adoration. He pulls me flush against his chest, one hand sliding up my nape to cradle the back of my head.
“Good morning, wife.” He rasps the words against my lips before capturing them in a slow, deep kiss that makes my toes curl.
I melt into him, into the familiar heat and pressure of his mouth, into the way his fingers tangle in my hair like he’s afraid I might disappear. The kiss is unhurried, thorough, the kind of kiss that says I have all the time in the world and I plan to spend it exactly like this.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathless.
“Good morning.” My voice comes out embarrassingly husky.
His hand roams downward, tracing the curve of my waist before sliding over my hip. He grips my thigh and pulls it over his hip, settling me more firmly against him.
“Stop looking at me like that, baby.” His chuckle vibrates through his chest. “Or we’re never leaving this bed.”
“Is that supposed to be a deterrent?”
“It’s supposed to be a warning.” His voice has gone thick with desire, and I can feel the evidence of his interest pressing against my thigh. “I’m trying to be a gentleman. I had plans for today that involved actual activities outside this bedroom.”
“How boring.”
“I know.” He nips at my collarbone, making me gasp. “But I promised myself I’d make you breakfast before I ravished you again. Something about being a better husband. Taking care of my wife. That whole thing.”
“That does sound like something you’d promise.”
“I’m a man of many promises now.” His mouth trails up my jawline, pressing a lingering kiss just below my ear. “And I intend to keep all of them.”
He pulls back before I can drag him down for another proper kiss, and I make a sound of protest that would be embarrassing if I had any dignity left.
“Patience, wife.” He’s grinning as he extracts himself from the sheets. “Breakfast first. Then we’ll discuss how to spend the rest of our day.”
***
Dylan
She follows me to the kitchen wearing nothing but my button-down shirt.
It hits her mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and she’s left just enough buttons undone that I can see the shadow of her collarbone every time she moves. Her hair is a tousled mess from sleep and other activities, and there are marks on her neck that I put there last night.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’re doing it again.” She hops up onto the kitchen counter, crossing her legs in a way that makes the shirt ride up dangerously.
“I’m admiring.” I force myself to focus on the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and vegetables and cheese. “There’s a difference.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.” I set the ingredients on the counter beside her and steal a quick kiss before she can react. “Now sit there and look pretty while I make you breakfast.”
“That’s slightly sexist.”
“Fine. Sit there and look intellectually formidable while I make you breakfast.”
She laughs - the real one, not the version she saves for cameras. “Better.”
I move around the kitchen with a competence that still surprises me sometimes.
A year ago, I barely knew where we kept the pans.
Now I can make a halfway decent omelet, thanks to YouTube tutorials and a desperate determination to have something to offer Selene beyond apologies and grand romantic gestures.
“When did you learn to cook?” She’s watching me crack eggs with a raised eyebrow. “Last time I checked, your culinary skills peaked at ordering takeout.”
“Amazing what heartbreak can motivate a man to learn.” I add vegetables to the pan, the sizzle filling the kitchen. “I had a lot of empty hours to fill after you left. Turns out, cooking is meditative.”
“You. Meditating over a stovetop.”
“I contain multitudes.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “The image of Dylan Riego watching cooking tutorials alone in this giant kitchen is simultaneously sad and adorable.”
“Mostly sad.” I flip the omelet with only moderate difficulty. “There was a lot of trial and error in the early days. I think I ruined seventeen dinners in the first month.”
“Seventeen?”
“I was very determined.” I glance over at her, drinking in the sight of her perched on my counter where she belongs. Because she does belong there. She always has. “And very bad at following instructions.”
“Some things never change.”
I abandon the stove long enough to steal another kiss, this one deeper, my hand cupping her jaw as I tilt her face up to mine.
“Some things do.” I murmur the words against her lips. “I’m living proof.”
***
Selene
Breakfast is perfect.
The omelet is fluffy, and Dylan has somehow remembered the little things - fruit sliced on the side, the hot sauce set within reach before I even ask for it.
We eat at the kitchen island instead of the formal dining room, our knees bumping together, stealing bites off each other’s plates like we used to do when we first started dating.
“This is really good.” I take another forkful of eggs. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m sorry, but the man who once turned a whole pot of rice into a single solid brick-”
“That was one time.”
“It fused to the pot. We had to throw the whole thing out.”
“It was structurally impressive.” He’s trying to look offended, but he can’t quite suppress his grin. “And in my defense, the instructions were confusing.”
“The instructions said add water. You didn’t add water.”
“Details.” He waves a dismissive hand. “The point is, I’ve improved. Significantly. I can now make rice that actually qualifies as food.”
“A true milestone.”
“I’m thinking of putting it on my resume.” He sets down his fork and fixes me with a look that makes my stomach flip. “Director. Producer. Husband. Rice-maker.”
“That’s quite a list.”
“I’m a man of many talents.” His expression softens, turning more serious. “Speaking of husbands…”
“Yes?”
He reaches across the island and takes my hand, his thumb tracing over the rings that are back where they belong.
“I really like seeing you in our house.” His quiet voice is filled with intent. “Waking up with you this morning… having you here while I cooked breakfast… it felt right. The past year feels distant now. A bad dream we’re finally waking from.”
My throat tightens. “Dylan…”
“I know it’s soon. I know we’re still rebuilding. But…” He takes a breath. “Would you please move in with me again?”
The question hangs in the air between us, full with hope and history and the weight of everything we’ve been through.
“You want me to move back in here?” I look around the kitchen - the kitchen I used to drift through like a ghost, the kitchen I fled from in the middle of the night with two suitcases and a broken heart. “Into the mansion?”
“I want you wherever you want to be.” He squeezes my hand. “If you hate this house, we can sell it. We can buy something new, something that’s ours instead of just mine. A fresh start.”
“You love this house.”
“I love you more.” He says it simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “This place was a mausoleum without you. All these rooms, all this space, and none of it meant anything because you weren’t in it.”
I think about my Silver Lake apartment. The tiny kitchen. The bedroom that barely fits a queen bed. The view of a parking lot instead of city lights.
I love that apartment. It represents everything I rebuilt when I thought I’d lost everything. It’s proof that I can survive on my own, that I don’t need Dylan or his money or his massive house to be whole.
But survival isn’t the same as living.