Chapter 11 #2
"I haven't done this in a long time," she said quietly.
"Neither have I." At her raised eyebrow, I clarified, "Not like this. Not with someone who matters."
Something shifted in her expression. The last bit of hesitation fell away.
She reached up and started unbuttoning my shirt.
I reached around to find the zipper at the back of her dress.
The zipper slid down slowly. I watched the fabric loosen, watched her shoulders rise with a quick breath.
Then the dress was pooling at her feet, and she was standing there in nothing but simple cotton underwear, looking at me like she was waiting for judgment.
I couldn't breathe.
I’d thought about this for weeks. Late nights at the station when I should have been sleeping.
Cold showers didn't help. I had lain awake in my apartment, staring at the ceiling, my mind drifting to the curve of her neck, the way her shirts sometimes pulled across her chest when she reached for something, the glimpse of her stomach I'd caught once when she stretched.
But standing here, watching her in the soft lamplight, I realized I'd been a fool to think I could prepare myself for this.
She was stunning. Soft where she should be soft, curved in ways that made my hands ache to map every inch.
The lamp cast warm shadows across her skin, and I could see the slight swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, the rise of her breasts above plain cotton that was somehow sexier than any lace I'd ever seen.
This was real. She was real. And she was looking at me like she was braced for disappointment.
I didn't give her judgment.
I gave her my mouth on her collarbone. My hands spanned her ribcage. Every ounce of reverence I'd been saving for someone who deserved it.
"Beautiful," I said against her skin. "You're so beautiful."
"Shane—"
I found the clasp of her bra. Paused. "Okay?"
"Yes."
The fabric fell away.
She was shaking. I pulled back and met her eyes.
"Still okay?"
"Yes." She reached for my shirt, finished the buttons, and pushed it off my shoulders. "Just... overwhelmed."
"Good overwhelmed?"
Her hands flattened on my chest. I felt her touch like fire.
"The best overwhelmed."
We found the bed somehow. Fell into it together, a tangle of limbs and want and years of loneliness burning away between us.
I took my time. Learned her. The sounds she made when I kissed certain places.
The way her back arched when my hand traveled down her stomach.
The way she whispered my name like a prayer when I finally touched her where she needed me.
"Look at me," I said.
She did. Her eyes were wet, overwhelmed, like she'd said. Like feeling this much after feeling nothing for so long was too big for her body to contain.
I understood. I felt it too.
I kissed her softly. Then again, deeper, as my body found hers.
She gasped. I stilled.
"Okay?"
"Don't stop." Her legs wrapped around me. "Please don't stop."
I didn't.
We moved together in the dark, finding a rhythm that felt less like two people learning each other and more like coming home.
She clung to me, and I held her, and somewhere in the middle of it, I felt something crack open in my chest. The wall I'd built after the calendar, after the fame, after years of being looked at and never seen, crumbled.
Because Maya saw me.
And I wasn't going to let her go.
When we finally fell apart, both of us breathing hard, I pulled her against my chest and pressed my lips to her hair.
"Stay," she whispered.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
I tightened my arms around her.
"I promise."
I woke to sunlight and warmth and the familiar scent of Maya’s shampoo.
She was still asleep, curled into my side like she belonged there. Her hair was a disaster, tangled from my hands, and there was a mark on her shoulder that I didn't remember making but didn't regret.
I watched her breathe. In, out. The flutter of her lashes. The small furrow between her brows that appeared even in sleep.
I'd woken up next to women before. More times than I was proud of. But it had never felt like this—settled, grounded, like the world had finally clicked into place.
I was in love with her.
I didn’t know exactly when it started. Maybe in the teacher’s lounge… Maybe that first dinner… Maybe it was all the moments in between, stacking up so quietly I hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
All I knew was that I was. Completely. Irrevocably.
Maya stirred. She blinked awake, saw me watching her, and smiled, soft and sleepy.
"Morning."
"Morning." I kissed her forehead. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than okay." She stretched against me. "You?"
"Best night's sleep I've had in years."
She laughed quietly. Buried her face in my chest. "Liar. Neither of us got much sleep."
"Okay, fine. Best night I've had in years." I pulled her closer. "Better?"
"Much."
We lay there for a few minutes, tangled together, not talking. I ran my fingers through her hair, working out the tangles I'd put there. She traced patterns on my chest with her fingertip.
Then Zoe's door opened.
Maya's whole body went tense.
"She's going to figure it out," I said.
"I know. I just—"
"We don't have to hide. Unless you want to."
She looked at me. Took a breath. "No. No hiding."
By the time we made it to the kitchen, Zoe was already there, pouring cereal into a bowl. She was in pajamas, her hair a wild nest, and when she saw us emerge together, she rolled her eyes so hard I was surprised they didn't stick.
"Finally," she said.
Maya blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You two have been dancing around each other for weeks. It was exhausting to watch." Zoe took a bite of cereal, supremely unbothered. "So... is this like a thing now? For real?"
I looked at Maya. She looked at me.
"Yeah," I said. "It is."
Zoe nodded like this was the only acceptable answer. "Good. You're making pancakes, right? Your pancakes are better than Mom's."
"Hey," Maya protested.
"Sorry, Mom. It's just facts."
I laughed and moved to the stove, feeling Maya's eyes on me, feeling like I'd finally found the place I was supposed to be.
"Chocolate chip or blueberry?" I asked Zoe.
"Both."
"That's disgusting."
"You're disgusting."
"Compelling argument."
Maya was leaning against the counter, watching us with an expression I couldn't quite read. When I caught her eye, she smiled that soft, unguarded smile that I'd only seen a handful of times.
I smiled back.
For the first time in three years, I didn't feel like a headline or a hero or a fantasy someone had invented.
I just felt like a man.
Making pancakes for his family.
I'd spent three years running from anything real.
Standing in Maya's kitchen, flour on my hands and Zoe critiquing my technique and Maya watching us both, I knew I'd found what I'd been looking for.
Not fame.
Not fantasy.
Not the hollow attention of people who never really saw me.
Home.
I'd found home.