forty-two
. . .
Lucas
The apartment falls silent as the door closes behind Dylan and his crew.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Jess sits at her end of the couch, still holding that pillow like it’s an anchor, while I remain at mine, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands now that the cameras aren’t telling us what to do.
The afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating dust particles dancing in the air between us. It feels significant somehow—all these tiny, invisible things suddenly made visible in the right light.
“So,” I say finally, breaking the silence. “That was…”
“Intense,” she finishes, offering a small smile.
I nod, studying her face. She looks tired—the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from weeks of tension and a sleepless night—but there’s something else there, too, a cautious hopefulness in her eyes that mirrors what I’m feeling.
“Did you mean it?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can consider if it’s the right one. “What you said about us being real?”
She looks down at her hands for a moment and then back up at me with a directness that’s pure Jess. “Every word. Did you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No careful calculations about how to phrase it. Just truth.
She exhales, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “The story—”
“Was fair,” I interrupt gently. “Factual. Necessary. I meant what I said during the interview, Jess. I’m proud of you for writing it.”
“Even though it’s your father?”
“Especially because it’s my father.” I shift closer to her on the couch, close enough that I could reach for her hand if I dared.
“I’ve spent my entire life managing his image, crafting the perfect Carmichael family narrative.
But you chose truth over comfort. You did what was right, even when it was hard. ”
She studies me, searching for any sign of insincerity. “When you saw that footage of me discussing the story with Dylan, I was terrified that I’d lost you for good.”
“I was angry,” I admit. “Not because you were pursuing the story, but because I thought you didn’t trust me enough to tell me first. I felt blindsided, and I lashed out.”
“I should have told you immediately,” she says. “I was trying to gather all the facts first, to be absolutely certain before I brought it to you. But that doesn’t excuse keeping you in the dark.”
“And I should have given you the chance to explain instead of jumping to conclusions.” I run a hand through my hair, a gesture she’s teased me about countless times. “We’ve never been very good at timing, have we?”
That draws a genuine laugh from her, and the sound fills up something hollow in my chest. “Terrible. Absolutely terrible.”
I gather my courage and reach for her hand. When she doesn’t pull away, I intertwine our fingers, marveling at how natural it feels. “I’ve missed you,” I tell her. “More than I thought possible.”
“I’ve missed you, too.” Her voice is soft but steady. “These weeks apart…they’ve been hell.”
“Then why did you stay away so long?”
“Pride,” she admits. “Fear. I thought maybe you’d be better off without me complicating your life. Without my stubbornness and my need to chase the truth, even when it hurts.”
“Better off?” I shake my head in disbelief. “Jess, those are exactly the things I love about you.”
The word hangs between us, finally spoken outright after hovering on the edge of so many conversations. Her eyes widen slightly, and I see her breath catch.
“Do you mean that?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Instead of answering immediately, I move closer until we’re face to face. I reach up to cup her cheek. “I wasn’t playing a part when I said it during the interview. I wasn’t performing for the documentary. I was telling you. I love you.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and as one escapes down her cheek, I catch it with my thumb, amazed at this rare show of vulnerability from a woman who faces down powerful men without flinching, who’s built walls so high that I never thought I’d see over them.
“I love you, too,” she says, her voice quiet but steady despite the tremor in her hands. “I think I have for months, but I was too scared to admit it, even to myself. I kept telling myself it was temporary, that we’d go our separate ways when the six months were up.”
“And now?” I ask, daring to hope.
She smiles then, the first genuine, unguarded smile I’ve seen from her in weeks. “Now I don’t want our contract to end. I don’t want to sign those annulment papers. I want to see what this could be when we’re not pretending, when we’re just us.”
Relief and joy surge through me. I wrap my arms around her, and as I pull her against my chest, her body fits against mine with familiar rightness. “I don’t want it to end, either,” I murmur against her hair. “I tore up the papers already.”
A look of relief crosses her face. “Seriously?”
I nod.
“Are you sure?” she asks, pulling back slightly to look into my eyes. “My career will always involve uncomfortable truths. I’ll always ask hard questions. I’ll always chase stories that matter.”
“I know,” I say simply, “and I love that about you. I love your integrity, your courage, your refusal to settle for easy answers.”
“And your father…”
“My father will survive. He always does. And our relationship has always been complicated. This doesn’t change that.”
She studies me for a long moment and then nods, accepting my answer.
“What about you?” I ask. “Are you sure about this? About us? Your carefully crafted independence, your aversion to commitment…”
“Not so careful anymore,” she admits with a small laugh. “You kind of dismantled all my defenses when I wasn’t looking.”
“Professional hazard,” I tease. “PR guy, remember?”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile remains. “I’m sure, Lucas. I’ve never been more sure of anything. I want this. I want us. Not because it’s easy or because it makes sense on paper, but because loving you feels more right than anything ever has.”
I pull her closer, and our foreheads touch. “Nothing about this has been easy,” I murmur, “but it’s been worth every complicated, messy, beautiful moment.”
“We’re not perfect,” she whispers, echoing her words from the interview.
“But we are real,” I finish before closing the distance between us.
Her lips meet mine with six months of history and weeks of longing behind them. It feels like coming home and setting out on a new adventure all at once.
When we finally break apart, both breathless, I brush a strand of hair from her face. “So, Mrs. Carmichael, what happens now?”
She laughs at the formality. “Now we figure out what our relationship looks like when it’s not for the cameras. When it’s just for us.”
“I think we’ve got a pretty good start,” I tell her, unable to keep the grin from my face. “Want to stay for dinner? I seem to recall promising you pasta.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she says firmly. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
“Good.” I pull her close again, marveling at the fact that I can, that this is real, that the woman who challenged and frustrated and fascinated me from the beginning is choosing to stay. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”
We’ll still have to figure it out—what this looks like in the real world when the pressure’s off, when it’s just two people building something without a script or a contract or cameras. There will be hard conversations and compromises, and probably some spectacular arguments.
But as I hold her in my arms, I know we can handle whatever comes our way. We’re not here to fix each other or change each other. We’re here to choose each other. Not because it’s easy.
But because it’s worth it.