Chapter 43
THATCHER
I’m still catching my breath when I stand and pull her up with me.
Baby Girl is so fucking beautiful like this.
Hell, she’s beautiful all the time.
But I can’t just leave her like this, painted in my sticky release, so I lead the way into the shower.
It’s big—built for two, though I never had a reason to use it that way.
Not until her.
The second the hot water hits the tile, steam curls up around us like a veil.
She steps inside behind me, quiet but trusting, and I swear it punches something loose in my chest.
We don’t talk.
Words feel too small for what’s passing between us.
There’s a look on her face—soft, flushed, content.
And I fuckin’ love it.
Because I put that look there.
I did that.
She stands still, watching me as I grab the bar of soap.
I work it into a thick lather in my palms and reach for her, dragging suds slowly across her shoulders, her arms, the curve of her waist.
Her breath catches when I slide over the swell of her breasts.
She hisses when my fingers drift lower.
Still sensitive. Still mine.
I bend my head and press a kiss to her neck, then lower, tracing the damp skin with my mouth.
Because I can’t be near her and not kiss her.
Not touch.
More like worship.
Her hands come up—slow, searching—roaming across my chest, up to my shoulders. She palms my biceps like she’s checking to see if I’m real.
And fuck, if that doesn’t wreck me a little.
Like she doesn’t quite believe she gets to have this. Me.
When we’re clean and rinsed, she gives me this look—half invitation, half challenge—and turns.
She doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t need to.
She walks out of the shower and heads toward the bed like she already knows I’ll follow.
And damn right, I do.
Because wherever she goes?
I’m going too.
I’m already so fucking hard for her.
It’s not something I can hide—and I don’t want to.
But Willow? She’s not running from it.
She’s not making me feel anything but good about how I want her.
She eyes my cock and licks her lips before pushing me down on the mattress.
I go willingly, holding my breath as she kisses and licks her way down my chest to my navel—and lower.
The first sensation of her mouth around me is like heaven.
She’s hot and warm and wet, and I can’t get enough.
But I want her with me.
Need to be inside her—not just her mouth—so I pull her up gently, and she lets me. She straddles my hips and lifts herself up before coming back down, taking me deep.
We both groan.
Her body rocks into mine with each thrust.
She meets me beat for beat, heart for heart—like we’re writing something ancient in the dark.
And when she shatters above me—soft cries, nails digging into my shoulders—it feels like the stars realign.
Like I finally understand what I was made for.
Her.
Only her.
I follow her over the edge with a groan torn from somewhere deep inside me—the kind of sound a man makes when he’s just lost himself in the only thing that’s ever truly mattered.
And afterward, when she’s trembling in my arms, her breath hot against my chest, I hold her like a vow.
Like I never want to let go.
Because that is the truth.
Sometime later, the room’s gone quiet, the moonlight is throwing lazy shadows on the far wall.
Willow’s curled into me—her cheek pressed against my chest, her leg hooked over mine.
Our skin still warm, still sticky from everything we just shared.
Her fingers are tracing small shapes along my ribs, like she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
God, I love this.
Her.
Being inside her is everything—but this?
This quiet after? This peace?
This is what matters.
I picture the future. My future. Hers.
Us. Together. Here.
Maybe we can have that.
Maybe we can make a family together.
But I don’t know how she feels about any of that.
So then ask her, a voice tells me.
“Willow?”
“Hmm?”
“Where do you see yourself in the future?”
“The future? I don’t know. I never, I mean, w-what do you want your future to be like?” she counters.
Nerves make my chest feel tight.
But I tell her.
“Family.”
“Family?”
“Yeah. You know, I used to think,” I murmur, running my fingers down her back, “that the only kind of normal family was the loud kind. Swore I’d die an old hermit on this mountain.”
She shifts a little, making a soft humming noise like she’s listening.
“Did you? Why?”
“Well, my family is just so loud. You know the type,” I say.
“Annoying older sister yelling from the stands at your baseball games. Not ‘cause she’s cheering for you—nah, she’s eyeing the assistant coach ‘cause he’s the head coach’s kid.
Swiping your Gatorade, telling your friends embarrassing shit about how you cried over the family dog. ”
I chuckle, and the sound rumbles in my chest beneath her cheek.
“Kelly?” Willow whispers, soft like she’s tucking the name away.
“Yup. Pain in my ass,” I grin, eyes closed, arm wrapped tight around her.
She laughs—barely—but it’s there.
“What happened with the assistant coach?”
I smirk. “Asshat made me play third base. Then he married my sister.”
Her head lifts slightly. “No. Not… Mike?”
“Yep. That Mike.”
She lets out a surprised breath. “I guess he’s okay?”
I shrug. “I mean… he gave her Evan.”
“That’s your nephew, right?”
“Right. Kid’s a handful. Smart as hell. Thinks the sun rises and sets on his mom.”
“I bet,” she murmurs. And something about her tone—wistful, a little distant—pulls at me.
“Yeah. Thing is, Kelly never thought she’d have kids. Doctor told her she couldn’t. Some issue they found when she was younger. Said it would be impossible.”
“Oh,” Willow whispers. “That must’ve been… hard.”
“It was. The before, I mean. Watching her go through all that.” I pause. “But she had people, you know? Mike. Me. Our folks. We all showed up for her. Reminded her she wasn’t alone.”
And just like that, I feel the shift.
Her hand—where it’s been lazily moving against my chest—goes still.
Her whole body stills.
And the silence that follows?
It’s not peaceful.
It’s heavy.
Weighted with all the things she’s not saying.
I don’t push.
But I feel it. Deep in my bones. That ache inside her.
That ache of not having a net. Of going through life without anyone showing up just to remind you they see you. That you matter. That you’re loved.
I wait. Just long enough to know she’s not gonna say it.
So I do the math.
I think about the way she doesn’t talk much about her childhood.
The way she sometimes watches other people laugh like she’s on the outside looking in.
The fact she never mentioned siblings. That the only thing I’ve ever heard about her mother makes my stomach twist.
And it hits me, low and hard.
She didn’t have any of that.
No loud big sister.
No obnoxious family dinners.
No half-hearted fights over the remote or shared inside jokes or showing up to cheer just because you belonged to each other.
She had absence.
Loss.
And then a mother who probably twisted that into guilt, or shame, or worse.
And a man—a pathetic excuse for one—who saw that hole in her and didn’t try to fill it.
No.
He picked at it.
Made it scab.
Then tore the scab off again and again until it scarred over so deep she forgot she was ever supposed to feel whole.
My jaw tightens. I slide my hand up her back, palm settling against the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair.
“Willow,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be. “You with me?”
She nods once. Doesn’t lift her head. Doesn’t speak for a long while.
“That must be nice,” she says finally.
“What?” I whisper.
“Having people show up for you.”
I feel something hard tighten around my body, like a lock around my chest. And I press a kiss to the crown of her hair and whisper against it.
“I don’t know how long it’s gonna take. I don’t know if I’ll always get it right. But I’m gonna fix that.”
She stiffens.
“It’s not yours to fix, Thatcher.”
“I’m gonna fix that. That feeling,” I say. “That ache, like something’s missing. Like you’re still waiting for someone to show up.”
She trembles.
“If it takes my whole life, Baby Girl, I’m gonna prove it to you. I’m gonna show up.”
“Please don’t make me promises,” she whispers so low I almost don’t hear her.
“You’re gonna believe me someday, Willow.” I pull her tight against me. “You are so worth it. And I’m so sorry you don’t know that because someone should’ve fought for you every fucking day. And now, someone will.”
Her hand fumbles across my chest until she finds my heart.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
I squeeze her tighter.
“That’s okay. I am too.”
“What if I break it? What if I break you?”
“You won’t,” I promise. “And I won’t.”
I squeeze her neck until her big brown eyes are staring into mine.
“And even if we break it all, it would still be worth it.”
She sobs once—just once—and I feel it like a punch to the gut.
Then she’s holding me like I’m the lifeline she never thought she deserved.
And I hold her like I’m never letting go.
Because I’m not.