49. Reese
Chapter 49
Reese
Rap. Rap. Rap.
For seven minutes, I’ve stood in the entryway, fingers tracing absent patterns against my jeans. Two weeks feels like an unfamiliar distance after months of Dante and I orbiting each other daily.
When I open the door, his presence fills the space in that quiet, unshakable way it always does. My breath catches with the subtle hitch of muscle memory. The way a body remembers what it means to want.
Dante.
My Dante.
He stands framed against the golden sky. His dark hair curls at his temples in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush it back. He’s wearing a fitted charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tattooed skin of his forearms. One hand is buried in his jeans pocket, and the fingers of the other are flexing around a small white box.
“Hey.” He says it like he’s been holding the word on his tongue for days. He hands me the box. “Happy New Year’s. I got these for you.”
I don’t have to look to know what’s inside. The scent reaches me first—butter, sugar, something golden-brown and warm. “Mama Jones’,” I whisper.
For a second, I’m back up north in the redwoods, sitting on the hood of his car.
“Thank you. These are definitely a treat.” I take the box and set it on the credenza in the entryway. “Please, come in.” I step aside. “Happy New Year’s to you too, by the way. Did you do anything last night?”
“I was with my family, failing at not counting down the hours until seeing you again.”
“Me too,” I admit.
He crosses the threshold like he belongs here. And maybe he does.
Then Dante Hastings is perched on my sofa, broad shoulders curved forward, hands clasped between his knees. He’s staring around at my space while I stare at the pitcher full of iced tea on the coffee table between us. Mama’s doilies rest beneath two glasses.
I pour us some tea, but neither of us goes to reach for it as I settle into my armchair across from him.
“How have you been?” I ask softly. “Amara told me that you were petitioning the committee.”
“I did. Not to lift my suspension,” he explains. “But I needed to be there for Em’s matches. Made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. I’m her official coach now.”
The title suits him. “That makes me so happy to hear.”
“Your Women in Media speech was spectacular, no surprise there.” He shifts, ringed fingers drawing slow, absentminded circles on his knee.
This is too stiff. Too artificial.
I want to be over there, in his lap, holding him so close that words become unnecessary. I want him to feel how much I still care, how desperately I want us to try again. How much I need us to try.
Be brave, Reese. Say the vulnerable things out loud.
“Thank you for giving me space. I’ve sort of been able to start to understand where I end and the headlines begin.” I pause. “You’ve helped me realize that I can be both versions of myself. Reese Sinclair and just Reese.” The one everyone sees and this quieter, messier person who loves him. Who wants to be both versions. “And that I want my life to be real. I want to be real.”
And I want just us , I almost say, but not yet.
“I’ve been thinking too,” he says. “Had a lot of time to reflect on how I’ve been showing up in the world. When all that shit first happened with Susan, I panicked. Thought I could protect you—protect myself—by keeping everything locked down.”
“I understand,” I say softly. “I really do. I understand why you did it.”
“I should’ve still given you the respect you deserved and been honest from the start. There were so many fucking opportunities, and yet I was still too afraid.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Afraid because I’ve never…” He trails off, the usual confidence in his voice faltering. “I’ve never had someone worth being honest with. Weak excuse, but there it is.”
We’ve both been guilty of projecting polished versions of ourselves, carefully controlling what others see. It’s time to move past that defensiveness and be more authentic with each other.
“We can be honest with each other.” I inch forward on the armchair.
“Complete transparency from now on. Magazines and media have been sniffing around for dirt on you, on us, but just know I’ve turned them all down.” He nods. “Every article and press request that comes, you’ll know everything first.”
There’s a path forward.
“We can’t go back to using each other either,” I say, thinking about how this all started—arrangements and agreements. “No more arrangements or deals.”
“Fuck that.” He laughs. “I want something real with you, Reese.”
“Just us.”
“Just Reese and Dante.”
The sound of our names together feels like home.
“In the spirit of honesty, I’m a bit terrified,” I admit. “I’ve never done this before—been completely myself with someone. Been in a real, true, adult relationship.”
“Me neither, baby.” He moves and comes to kneel beside my chair. “I’ve spent years keeping everyone at arm’s length, playing at being some charming bastard because it was easier than letting anyone in. Then you came along and saw right through all my bullshit.”
“I like your bullshit,” I snort.
“I’m going to earn back every bit of your trust,” he promises. “I love you,” he says. His painted fingernails graze my thigh. “That’s what I want, Reese. I want you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper.
“We’ll probably make a fucking mess of it, but at least we’ll be honest about it.”
I nod and take his hands in my own. “I’m fucking tired of being flawless anyway.”
When he kisses me, it’s gentle. Tentative. I think about the strangeness of intimacy, how we’ve shared so many careful words, and now this. He holds my face between his hands like I’m made of morning light. I could cry from the sweetness of it.
His smell wraps around me. I map my palm up his firm pecs, feeling his heart write its own wild story beneath my fingers.
The kiss deepens, softens, deepens again.
This is what truth feels like in the body. This is what happens when someone sees all your hidden corners and decides to build a home there.
“Want to see what it looks like upstairs?” I ask against his mouth.
“I’d love to.”
Each footstep feels like we’re ascending into a different version of ourselves. His fingers find the exposed skin at my lower back where my jeans hang low. I wrap my hands around his neck and pull him close. Once we reach my bedroom, my hands move to his jacket, and it drops to the carpeted floor.
When I stumble toward the bed, his hands catch me. Without breaking away from each other, we undress. My sweater and jeans pool on the floor beside his jacket, his shirt abandoned by the bed.
I pull him down on the bed and break our kiss for a brief moment. My body feels pliant and happy to be with him again. Every inch of my skin simmering under his touch.
“You’re here, in my room.” I laugh, barely believing it. “I really like it.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says with a crooked grin.
His tattoos look softer in this light. I want to trace each one with my fingertips as if they were new to me. Maybe in some way they are new to me again. His hand brushes over my duvet—my favorite one, with the floral pattern—and his ring snags on a loose thread.
We both notice it at the same time and share an awkward laugh that somehow makes everything feel perfect.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, fumbling with the sheet. “I’m a bit nervous, I think? I’ve never…”
“Made love?”
“That.”
“Me neither,” I say, and the admission feels like another kind of intimacy. “But I like that we can be kinda nervous together.”
He touches my face gently, touching his lips to my forehead. “God, I missed you. Not just…this. But the way you want to be careful about things. The way you make me want to be careful with you.”
There’s no rush now, no need to count minutes or listen for footsteps. Just us, learning each other again, slowly and completely. I wrap my thighs around him, and my body responds to his in ways as the weight of him nestles between my legs.
“Wait,” he says softly. “Protection?”
I shake my head. “Not this time.”
“Are you sure? I’m all clear, but—”
“I’m on the pill. It’s okay.”
He whispers my name against my skin, and I pull him closer, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against mine.
When he pushes inside me, it’s so agonizingly slow and gentle. My thighs quiver against his hips.
“Wow, Reese, that’s—fucking hell.” He shakes his head as if he can’t believe how good I feel. I can’t believe it either. We instinctively find our rhythm. Our foreheads touch in quiet communion.
His forearms rest on either side of my head, and I plant kisses along them. His arms tremble slightly, and this small human detail makes my heart flutter. Words feel inadequate now. My body speaks for me, arching into his touch, telling him everything I can’t say.
When our eyes meet, his are soft with wonder. As if he too is amazed by how seamlessly we fit together. How natural this feels. This isn’t like before—not the electric anticipation of first touches or the desperate hunger of reunion. It’s quieter. More certain.
This is love.