17. Freya
— ? —
Freya
I told myself I was only coming up for the movie.
The one date I gave him stretched to six weeks of roadside diners and walks in the park and long phone calls that stretched past midnight. Rex was showing up, consistently, without expectations or pressure, learning me the way he should have from the beginning.
There had also been six weeks of almost-touches. His hand brushing mine across a table. His fingers grazing my back as he guided me through a door. Moments where we stood too close and neither of us moved away, the air between us charged with something neither of us was ready to name.
Tonight was supposed to be movie night. We’d worked our way through the first two Lord of the Rings films over the past month, spread across multiple evenings because Rex kept pausing to ask questions about the lore, and we were finally ready for Return of the King.
“My hotel has a better TV,” he’d said when I suggested Clara’s place. “And a couch that doesn’t have a spring poking through the cushion.”
He had a point about the spring.
So here I was, in his hotel suite, sitting on a very comfortable couch that definitely didn’t have any poking springs, watching the Battle of Pelennor Fields while Rex made comments about military strategy.
“The Rohirrim should have flanked left,” he said. “They’re completely exposed from that angle.”
“Rex. It’s a movie about wizards and magic rings. Tactical accuracy is not the point.”
“Tactical accuracy is always the point.”
I threw a piece of popcorn at him.
Somewhere around the scene of ghost ships, his hand found mine on the couch. A simple touch, nothing dramatic. Our fingers interlacing like they’d done it a thousand times before.
My heart started beating faster.
I kept my eyes on the screen, trying to focus on Frodo and Sam and the fate of Middle Earth.
But all I could think about was the warmth of his palm against mine.
The way his thumb traced slow circles on my skin.
The fact that we were alone, in a hotel room, and the air suddenly felt too thick to breathe.
When I finally looked at him, he was already looking at me. The TV flickered forgotten in the background, casting shadows across his face.
I kissed him first.
It wasn’t a decision, exactly. More like gravity. Like I’d been fighting the pull for six weeks and my body finally gave up the fight.
His response was immediate. One hand came up to cup my face, the other slid around my waist, pulling me closer. He kissed me like he was drowning and I was air. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the day I left and could finally stop holding his breath.
“Wait.” I pulled back, breathing hard. “I need to say something first.”
He went still, but his hands stayed on me. “Okay.”
“This doesn’t mean I’m coming home. This isn’t me forgiving everything or deciding we’re okay. And this is just…” I struggled for words. “I don’t know what this is. But I need you to know it’s not a promise.”
He was quiet for a moment, studying my face. Then he nodded slowly.
“I know,” he said. “I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me, Freya. Tonight, tomorrow, whatever this is. I’m not going to push for more than you’re ready for.”
“You’re getting better at that.”
“I have an excellent teacher.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch impossibly gentle. “We can stop. Watch the rest of the movie. Pretend this didn’t happen if that’s what you want.”
I should have taken the out. Should have nodded and turned back to the TV and kept my walls intact.
Instead, I kissed him again.
He groaned against my mouth and pulled me into his lap. I felt him hard beneath me and rocked against him before I could think better of it. His hands slid under my shirt, warm on my back, then up, dragging the fabric over my head.
“Freya.” He kissed down my throat. “Tell me if this is too much.”
“It’s not.” I got his buttons open and shoved the shirt off his shoulders. My palms found his chest, the heat of him, the way his heart was pounding. “I want this. I want you. Just tonight.”
“Just tonight.” He stood with me in his arms and carried me to the bedroom.
He laid me down on the sheets and stood over me for a moment, just looking, like he was afraid I might vanish.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he breathed.
“Then show me.” I reached for his belt. “Stop staring and put your hands on me.”
His mouth twitched. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
“I love it.” He said it too easily, then caught himself, jaw tightening. He kissed me instead of taking it back.
He got my jeans down my legs, then my underwear, slow enough that I felt every inch of air on my skin. I shoved at his, impatient, and he helped, kicking them away, and then there was nothing left between us but heat.
His mouth mapped trails down my neck, across my collarbone, lower. When he pulled my nipple into his mouth I arched off the bed, fingers in his hair.
“Rex.”
“I know. I’ve got you.” His hand slid down my stomach, between my thighs, and he made a sound like it hurt him. “Fuck. You’re already this wet for me.”
“Six weeks of almost.” I gasped when his fingers stroked through me. “What did you expect?”
“I expected you to make me wait longer.” He pushed a finger inside, then another, watching my face. “God, Freya. You feel like coming home.”
“Don’t.” It came out sharper than I meant. “Don’t make this more than it is.”
He stilled. His eyes found mine, careful, open.
“Okay. Okay. Just this. Just us. Right now.”
I pulled him back to my mouth. “I want you. That’s all I can give you tonight.”
“Then that’s what I’ll take.” He kissed me like he meant it. “That’s more than enough.”
He kissed lower. My stomach. The inside of my thigh. Then his mouth was on me, and I clapped a hand over my own mouth because the sound I made was too honest.
“Don’t hide from me.” His voice was rough against my skin. “I want to hear you. I’ve been starving for this.”
“Then don’t tease.” I tugged at his hair. “Rex. I need you inside me.”
He looked up at me, eyes dark, mouth wet. “Say that again.”
“I need you to fuck me.” Heat flooded my face, but I didn’t look away. “I missed this, and I missed how you feel. So stop being careful and show me.”
“Christ, Freya.”
He crawled back up my body and pushed in, slow, watching my face the whole time. The stretch stole my breath, familiar and devastating, and I had to hold onto his shoulders.
“Christ,” he breathed, forehead dropping to mine, holding still like he didn’t trust himself to move yet. “I missed this. Missed you. Missed how you feel.”
“Move.” I hooked a heel behind his thigh and dragged him closer, and he cursed under his breath. “Don’t you dare be gentle with me now.”
He didn’t.
He built a rhythm that undid me by degrees, slow and then not slow at all. His hand closed over my hip, gripping hard enough to leave a mark I’d find in the morning.
Every kiss felt like a promise he was trying not to make out loud.
He failed anyway.
“I love you.” He said it against my skin, over and over, like he couldn’t stop it. “I love you, I love you. You don’t have to say it back. Just let me have this. Let me love you.”
I didn’t say it. I held him tighter instead, met every thrust, let my mouth do everything except those three words.
“Harder.” My nails found his back. “Rex, please. Right there. Don’t stop.”
“I won’t. I’ve got you. Look at me.”
I did. He looked wrecked and certain and so in love it almost hurt to see.
“Stay with me,” he whispered against my mouth. “That’s it. Right there. Come on, Freya. Let me feel it.”
And I did let go. It hit hard and fast, my whole body drawing tight around him, his name coming apart in my mouth. I held onto his shoulders and rode it out, past caring how loud I was, past caring about anything but him above me and the one thing between us that had never been a lie.
A breath later he came apart too, a low, broken sound against my throat, pressing deep, my name warm on his lips.
Not once did I say it back. But I held him tighter, and when we fell apart together, I let myself feel everything I’d been trying to lock away.
Afterward, we lay together in the dark. My head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear. Just like it used to be, in that brief window when I’d let myself believe we could be happy.
“I forgot how good this was,” I whispered.
“The sex?”
“All of it. Being close to you. Feeling safe.”
His arm tightened around me. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel unsafe.”
“I know.”
We lay there in comfortable silence, the sounds of the city filtering through the windows. I was half-asleep when my throat went dry, and I carefully untangled myself from his arms.
“Water,” I explained when he made a questioning noise. “Go back to sleep.”
The suite had a small kitchenette, and I padded across the carpet in one of his t-shirts, feeling pleasantly sore in all the right places. The mini-fridge had bottled water, and I grabbed one, twisting off the cap as I wandered through the living area.
His briefcase sat open on the desk.
I shouldn’t have looked. It was none of my business what he kept in there. But the lamp was on, casting a warm glow over the contents, and my eyes landed on something familiar before I could look away.
The divorce papers. Still in their manila envelope, still unsigned.
And sitting right on top of them was my wedding ring.
I set down the water bottle with shaking hands.
He’d kept it. All these weeks, all these months, he’d kept my ring and carried it with him. Alongside the papers I’d signed, the ones that would end our marriage if he ever added his signature to mine.
He could have signed them at any time. Could have let me go, moved on, found someone more suitable like his mother wanted. Instead, he’d carried my ring next to his heart, waiting for me to come back.
I picked up the ring, feeling its familiar weight in my palm. Such a small thing to mean so much.
“Freya?”
I turned to find Rex standing in the bedroom doorway, wearing only boxers, his hair mussed from sleep. His eyes dropped to my hand, to the ring glinting between my fingers.
“You kept it,” I said.
“Of course I kept it.” He walked toward me slowly, like I might spook if he moved too fast. “It’s yours. It was always going to be yours.”
“I thought you’d sign the papers. After enough time passed.”
“I told you I wouldn’t.” He stopped in front of me, close enough to touch. “I meant it.”
My eyes went from the ring to his face. “I’m not ready to put it back on.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t know when I will be.”
“That’s okay.” He reached out and closed my fingers around the ring, his hand warm over mine. “Keep it. Or don’t. Whatever you need.”
I slipped the ring into the pocket of his t-shirt, over my heart. For safekeeping. For now.
Then I took his hand and led him back to bed.