31. Honeymoon Phase Too Long #3
He holds my gaze. “I want you,” he says. “Mess and all. I want our life, even when it feels too big. I don’t regret marrying you for a second.”
The words hit something deep. I lean in and kiss him, slow at first. Not rushed or frantic.
Just a press of mouths that says thank you and I’m scared and I love you all at once.
He kisses me back the same way—unhurried, like we have time.
His hand stays at my neck, fingers resting just behind my ear, guiding but not gripping.
The other slides to my waist, pulling me closer until I’m half leaning, half sprawled across his lap.
The tension in my body slowly shifts. It doesn’t disappear, but it changes shape. Less jagged. More like a hum under my skin. When I pull back, his eyes are darker, but there’s nothing demanding in them. Just open patience.
“Come to bed with me,” I say quietly.
He searches my face. “You sure?”
“I’m tired of thinking,” I say. “I want to feel you. Us. The part that isn’t schedules and deadlines.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I can help with that.”
He stands, keeping his hand in mine, and leads me down the short hallway to his bedroom. It’s small and a little cluttered—laundry basket in the corner, textbooks stacked on the dresser—but it’s him. Our weekend bubble away from the rest of the world.
He closes the door gently behind us, not because anyone will barge in, but because it feels like drawing a line between outside and in. The air shifts once we’re alone in the quiet. Not heavy. Just charged.
He steps close again, fingertips brushing my hip. “If you want to stop at any point, we stop,” he says. “Married or not.”
I nod. “I know.”
“I’m serious,” he insists. “This isn’t… automatic. We still get to choose.”
I meet his eyes. “I’m choosing you.”
Whatever restraint he was holding onto slips a little. He leans in and kisses me again, deeper this time, but still slow. His hands slide up my sides, tracing familiar paths, reacquainting themselves with curves they already know.
I let myself lean into it, into him. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart underneath. I kiss him back with more intent, more pressure, more need to be close than need to rush.
He breaks away long enough to peel my top over my head, watching me as he does. There’s heat in his gaze, sure, but also something softer. Admiration. Affection. The kind of look that makes my cheeks warm for reasons that have nothing to do with modesty.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “I don’t tell you that enough.”
“You say it,” I say. “I just don’t always believe you.”
He frowns a little, like that bothers him more than anything else we’ve talked about. “I’ll keep saying it until you do.”
He kisses my collarbone, my shoulder, slow presses of his mouth that make my eyes flutter closed. His hands move with care—no grabbing, no rushing. Every touch feels intentional, like he’s reminding himself of every inch of my skin.
When I tug his shirt off in return, he lets me. I take my time too, palms skimming up his chest, over familiar lines and planes, the warmth of his skin grounding me more than anything else has all week.
We undress the rest of the way like that—unhurried, with small pauses for eye contact, soft laughs when a sleeve gets stuck, little brushes of fingers that say I’m here as clearly as any words.
By the time we’re under the covers, my earlier panic has settled into something quieter. Still there, but manageable. Muffled by the feel of his thigh against mine, the weight of his hand on my hip. He lays on his side facing me, one hand cupping my cheek, thumb sweeping just under my eye.
“Tell me what’s in your head right now,” he says.
I could lie. Say something flirty. Deflect with a joke. Instead, I take a breath and answer honestly.
“I’m afraid,” I say. “Not of this. Of… everything. The future. Messing up. Losing myself. Losing you.”
He nods, like he expected that. “I’m afraid too,” he admits. “Of failing you. Of not being enough. Of screwing up school and putting all of us in a worse spot.”
We look at each other for a beat, fear laid bare between us.
Then he leans in and kisses me, softer than before. “We’re allowed to be afraid,” he murmurs against my mouth. “We just don’t let it be the only thing we feel.”
“What else do you feel?” I whisper.
He rests his forehead against mine. “Lucky,” he says. “In love. And very, very into my wife.”
Despite the heaviness in my chest, I laugh, the sound small but real. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Let me show you.”
When he rolls me gently onto my back and settles half over me, everything slows even more. His hands map my body with a kind of reverence that makes my throat tight. He kisses me like he has nowhere else to be, no deadline pressing in, no alarm waiting to go off before dawn.
I let myself sink into it—into the warmth of his mouth against my neck, the weight of his palm over my ribs, the way his touch never feels like taking, always like asking. Every time he shifts, he checks my eyes, my breath, my body language, making sure I’m with him, not somewhere else in my head.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers when I slide my arms around his back and pull him closer. “You don’t have to carry anything right now.”
For once, I let him be right. I let the mental lists drop: daycare payments, sprint tickets, grocery budgets.
I focus on his skin against mine, the familiar cadence of his breathing, the way our bodies fit together like they’ve learned each other over years of practice and still find new ways to feel.
When we finally come together, it’s not frantic or wild. It’s steady. Gentle. Each movement unhurried, as if we’re more interested in staying in the moment than racing toward the end of it. I match his pace, fingers threading through his hair, eyes open more often than closed.
There’s something different about looking at him like this, married now, everything heavier and more fragile at once.
He’s still Reid. Still the boy who made me laugh in crowded hallways and held my hand in hospital waiting rooms. But he’s also the man I share a ring and a lease and a future with. The father of my son.
The person whose choices are tied to mine in ways that scare me and steady me in the same breath.
The tension builds slow and deep, emotion threaded thick through every wave of sensation.
When it finally crests, it’s not a sharp break.
It’s a gradual release, like something inside me is unclenching for the first time in weeks.
I hold onto him, face pressed to his shoulder, breathing hard, feeling the tremor in his body when he follows. Afterward, he doesn’t roll away. He stays close, chest to mine, one arm banded gently around my waist.
Our breathing evens out together, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the faint traffic outside. My mind wants to jump ahead—to Monday emails, daycare pick-up, his next exam. Instead, I look at the curve of his jaw in the dim light and make myself stay here.
“This,” I say quietly. “Moments like this. This is why I said yes.”
His fingers trace lazy patterns along my spine. “Because of my incredible stamina?” he asks, voice sleepy and teasing.
I pinch his side lightly. “Because of the way you make me feel like I’m not alone,” I say. “Even when everything else is chaos.”
He sobers at that. “You’re not alone,” he says. “Not in this bed, not in our life, not in your head. If you ever feel that way, you call me on it. Deal?”
I nod against his chest. “Deal.”
We fall into a quiet that isn’t heavy this time. It’s full. Warm. Real. I know this doesn’t fix everything. Tomorrow he’ll go back to classes and I’ll drive home to a toddler who throws peas at my face. The bills will still be there. The expectations. The distance.
But tonight, wrapped up in his arms with my ring cool against his skin, I feel the truth settle in my bones: marriage didn’t magically make our life easier. It did something different. It gave us a name for the thing we’re choosing every day, even when we’re tired and scared and unsure.
I close my eyes and let the steady beat of his heart lull me toward sleep. We are far from perfect. We are far from done. But for now, in this small room, with his hand resting over the small ache in my chest, I remember exactly why I walked down that aisle. And for tonight, that’s enough.