16. Rediscovering Love Too long
REDISCOVERING LOVE TOO LONG
I wake up to warmth at my back and an arm heavy around my waist. For a second my brain does that foggy, half-dream thing where it thinks I’m still alone in this bed. That my alarm will go off and I’ll roll into cold sheets and check my phone to see if Reid texted goodnight three hours too late.
Then his fingers twitch against my stomach and his breath shifts at the back of my neck, and it hits me all over again.
He’s here. The memory of last night rolls in slow—our first date redux, the letter, the way his voice sounded when he said he wasn’t done trying, the way everything finally stopped feeling like we were hanging on by our fingernails.
The ache between my ribs is still there, but it’s different now. Less like a bruise. More like a muscle that actually got to relax for the first time in months. I shift carefully so I’m on my back. Reid makes a low sound and blinks his eyes open, squinting at the light coming through the blinds.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough.
“Morning,” I say.
He looks at me for a long second, like he’s checking that I didn’t disappear overnight.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Weirdly… lighter.”
He smiles a little and drags his thumb in a slow line over my hip.
“Same,” he says. “I forgot what it feels like to wake up and not immediately freak out about everything I’m doing wrong.”
“Oh, trust me,” I say. “There’s still plenty you’re doing wrong.”
He huffs out a laugh and drops his forehead to my shoulder.
“Rude,” he says.
“Accurate,” I say.
Liam’s monitor crackles before he can respond. We both freeze, listening for the whine that usually follows. It doesn’t come. Just a little rustle and a quiet babble.
“He’s up,” I say.
Reid sighs like a man about to face war.
“Your son is very loud in the mornings,” he says.
“He’s your son too,” I say. “You don’t just get the cute Instagram pictures.”
He kisses my shoulder once, quick and soft, then rolls away and swings his legs out of bed.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll get him. You start the coffee. We can pretend we’re functional adults for at least fifteen minutes.”
In the kitchen, the routine feels both familiar and strange.
I measure out coffee while Reid walks down the hall, and a second later Liam squeals loud enough to rattle the cabinets.
There’s a thump, some nonsense words, Reid’s low murmur.
When they come back, Liam is on his hip, hair sticking up in every direction, cheeks still puffy from sleep.
“Say hi, little man,” Reid says.
Liam smacks his hand on Reid’s chest.
“Hi,” he says, which comes out more like “haa.”
Close enough. I lean in and kiss Liam’s forehead, then brush crumbs off the counter that weren’t there five seconds ago. Having two hurricanes in the apartment again is going to be an adventure.
“We’ve got a packed day,” I say as I grab a mug. “Work event at noon. Then Mom’s thing tonight. And I still need to log a few hours before the chaos starts.”
Reid groans quietly.
“Right,” he says. “The Big Corporate Gathering and the Gauntlet of Morales Women.”
“Don’t call my family a gauntlet,” I say.
He gives me a look.
“Your mom loves me,” he says. “Your sisters tolerate me. Hazel threatens me for sport. It’s a gauntlet.”
“Accurate,” I admit.
He sets Liam in his high chair and starts cutting up fruit with more confidence than the last time he attempted it.
I watch him move around my kitchen, grabbing the right drawer on the first try more often than not, and something in my chest settles.
This. This is what I want. Not just big gestures.
The unglamorous stuff too. The mornings with sticky fingers and deadlines and double-booked schedules.
“You still sure you want to come to the work event?” I ask. “It’s not exactly thrilling. Just name tags and awkward small talk.”
“I told you,” he says. “I want to see this part of your life. I’m not bailing because there might be bland appetizers and a guy named Greg who talks too much about Q4.”
“It’s not Q4,” I say. “But yeah. There’s definitely a Greg.”
Liam bangs his sippy cup on the tray, splattering milk everywhere.
“Chaos,” I say, deadpan.
Reid grins.
“Now that’s thrilling,” he says.
By the time I get to Nexus Dynamics, the lighter feeling has dulled into something sharper. Not bad. Just… alert. Having Reid here for the boring parts means my worlds are colliding. The Amelia who handles client updates and integration workflows.
The Amelia who scrubs applesauce off the high chair with one hand while bouncing a toddler with the other.
The Amelia who used to sneak kisses behind the bleachers with the star shooting guard and now coordinates daycare pick-up around his practice schedule.
Today, all of that is going to exist in the same twelve hours.
I slide my badge, step through the glass doors, and immediately hear Callie.
“There she is,” she says from her workstation. “Big day, Morales. You ready?”
“As ready as I’m going to be,” I say. “Did they bring the good coffee cart or the sad one?”
“Good one,” she says. “Fancy syrups and everything. Management’s really trying to buy our loyalty today.”
“It’s going to take more than hazelnut syrup,” I say, but the thought still makes me smile.
I answer emails, tweak the talking points Eric and I worked on, and try not to overthink the part where Reid will be in this building soon.
He said he’d swing by around lunch, before the event starts.
That gives me just enough time to panic and then talk myself out of it.
Around eleven-thirty, my phone buzzes on my desk.
Reid: I’m here. Front lobby. I didn’t get lost. Please clap.
A short text. No emojis. The bare minimum of chaos.
Progress. I stand, smooth my blouse, and make my way toward the lobby.
The glass doors slide open and there he is—jeans, clean sneakers, a button-down that I definitely didn’t buy, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying not to fidget.
For a second I just take him in, standing under the Nexus logo like this is normal.
“Hey,” I say.
He turns, sees me, and his shoulders drop.
“There you are,” he says. “I was starting to think this was an elaborate prank and security was going to escort me out.”
“That would’ve been funny,” I say. “Mean, but funny.”
He steps closer and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. It’s technically workplace appropriate. Barely.
“You look very official,” he says. “Like you’re about to fire someone named Greg.”
“Greg is safe for now,” I say. “Come on. I’ll show you the world’s least interesting tour.”
I introduce him to the receptionist, then to Callie, who gives him the kind of friendly once-over reserved for men who’ve made my eyes look softer lately. Mark waves from his desk and says something about “the boyfriend who lives on airplanes.”
Reid laughs it off, but I feel the slight stiffening in his shoulders at the word. Boyfriend. Not partner. Not co-parent. Not father of my child. Just the college boyfriend who flies in when he can. I touch his arm lightly and steer him toward the conference room where the event will be held.
“So this is where the magic happens,” he says, looking around at the sleek table and the wall of screens.
“This is where the chaos happens,” I say. “The magic happens when we leave on time and something doesn’t break overnight.”
He smirks.
“I want to see both,” he says.
“You’re about to,” I say. “We’re starting in like thirty minutes.”
“Is Eric the one running it?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s leading, I’m presenting a section, and management is pretending it’s all casual when it’s very much not.”
He nods, mouth flattening for a second at the name. I don’t miss it.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Just trying not to embarrass you in front of your boss.”
“Eric’s not my boss,” I say. “He’s my lead. And he likes you already.”
“He doesn’t know me,” Reid says.
“He knows you’re the reason I drink so much caffeine,” I say. “He respects that.”
That makes him laugh, and some of the tension eases. Still, as people start filtering into the room, I feel the air shift around us—my worlds stacking on top of each other. Work. Love. All in one place. Eric walks in with his tablet and a stack of handouts. He spots me first, then Reid at my side.
“Amelia,” he says. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I say. “Eric, this is Reid. Reid, this is Eric.”
They shake hands. Eric’s grip is firm, professional. Reid’s matches it.
“Nice to finally meet you,” Eric says. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Oh?” Reid says. “Hopefully good things.”
Eric smiles.
“Well, you’re the only reason she ever leaves on time, so we’re pro-Reid in this office,” he says.
Heat creeps up my neck.
“Don’t listen to him,” I say. “They’re all just jealous of my thrilling daycare schedule.”
People laugh. The tension loosens a little.
But under all the polite smiles and small talk, I can feel it—the awareness in Reid’s eyes when Eric casually mentions the integration project, when he tells someone that I “basically saved the timeline,” when he looks to me mid-conversation to back up a point.
It’s not jealousy, not exactly. It’s something quieter.
The realization that there’s a whole version of me he only sees through a screen.
And today, he’s watching it in real time.
The conference room fills fast, people milling around the catered spread like they haven’t seen food in days.
Tech leads talk metrics, interns try not to look terrified, and senior management shows up late on purpose so everyone else knows they’re important. It’s the usual circus.
Reid stands beside me at the edge of the room, hands tucked in his pockets as he watches it all with an expression I can’t quite read—curiosity, nerves, pride, something else brewing under the surface. Eric steps up to the front as people settle.