35. Parenthood Redux Too Long #3
He steps closer. Not fast, not slow—cautious, like he’s approaching a fire he wants to warm himself by even if he knows he’ll get burned. “Ames… I’m trying. I know it doesn’t look like it half the time, but I am. I don’t want us like this.”
I swallow. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “I don’t want us like this either.”
He nods once, jaw tight, and there’s something in the air between us—thin, stretched, electric. Neither of us wants to fight again. Neither of us knows how to fix the thing underneath the arguing. But right now, neither of us wants to walk away, either. He reaches for my hand. I let him.
His fingers curl around mine with a kind of desperation he tries to hide. It’s not just longing—it’s fear. Fear of what we’re becoming and fear of what we might lose if we don’t pull ourselves back to center.
When he pulls me toward him, just enough that our bodies line up, my breath catches—not because it’s tender, but because it’s charged. Like both of us are wound too tight and don’t know where else to put the pressure.
“Come here,” he murmurs, but it’s not a command and it’s not soft. It’s need layered beneath all the frustration and love and confusion we haven’t been able to untangle.
I move first. My hands reach for his shirt and grip the fabric. Not gently—just honest. He exhales like that was all the permission he needed, and his mouth finds mine before I can think, before I can decide if this is a mistake or a lifeline.
The kiss isn’t slow. It isn’t patient. It’s two people trying to grab onto something they’re terrified is slipping.
He lifts me, pushing me back against the wall beside the bed, hands firm at my waist. The impact knocks a short breath out of me, not painful—just grounding.
His mouth moves against mine in sharp, uneven pulls.
When I curl my fingers into his hair, he groans—quiet, rough—like it knocks something loose in him.
His body presses into mine, and without meaning to, I press back. Everything between us feels heightened tonight: the ache of missing him, the resentment of how hard this is, the hope that maybe this will pull us together even if only for minutes.
He breaks the kiss long enough to rest his forehead against mine. His voice is low, strained. “I hate this distance, Ames. I hate missing everything. I hate feeling like I’m failing you.”
“You’re not failing me,” I whisper, even though part of me isn’t sure. “I’m tired. That’s all. I’m just… tired.”
He closes his eyes like the words land deeper than I meant them to.
When he opens them again, something shifts—urgent, raw.
He kisses me harder. I tug his shirt upward, breaking contact only long enough for him to pull it off.
His hands slide under mine, traveling up my spine, bringing me flush against him.
The heat of him hits me immediately, sinking under my skin, dissolving the rigid knot in my chest piece by piece.
We move to the bed without speaking. We don’t need to. Everything we haven’t been saying finds its way into the way he touches me—firm, seeking reassurance, seeking closeness, seeking us.
Clothes come off without finesse. They end up on the floor in messy piles that we won’t deal with until tomorrow, and maybe that’s symbolic too—leaving things undone because we can’t handle the weight of them right now.
When he lowers me onto the mattress and follows, hovering over me, his face is open in a way I haven’t seen in weeks.
“Are you sure?” he asks. Even now. Even like this. He still asks.
I nod once, pulling him down. He kisses me again, slower for a moment—just long enough for the emotional hit to land—then the urgency kicks back in, like we’re both trying to pour something into this moment that language keeps failing to hold.
His hands slide down my sides, anchoring me, grounding me.
I wrap my legs around him, drawing him closer.
The shift in pressure makes both of us gasp.
And then he’s inside me. It’s not gentle.
It’s not rough. It’s intentional—full, consuming, pulling a sound from deep in my throat as he fills every aching space I didn’t realize was empty.
He moves with rhythm but not control—not the practiced kind. This is instinct, emotion, desperation. His forehead drops to my shoulder as I arch up to meet him, matching every movement without hesitation. It’s messy. It’s breathless. It’s honest.
He whispers my name like a confession every few thrusts, voice shaking.
My hands drag across his back, holding on, holding tight, not because it’s perfect but because it’s real.
The tension coils fast—too fast—but neither of us slows down.
This isn’t the night for soft. This is the night for holding onto something that feels like it’s slipping.
When I come, it hits hard, sharp, a rush that pulls a sound from me I don’t recognize. Reid follows seconds later, burying his face against my neck like he’s trying to hide the way he breaks apart. For a while, neither of us moves.
His body is heavy on mine, but I don’t ask him to shift off.
I don’t want the distance. Even the smallest bit might make something inside me crack.
Eventually, he rolls to the side and pulls me with him, chest against my back, arm around my waist like he’s bracing us both. His voice is quiet. Too quiet.
“Ames… I don’t want to lose us.”
I close my eyes.
“I don’t want to lose us either.”
But the truth sits there between us—warm on the outside, shaking underneath. Touch fixed something. For tonight. Not tomorrow. I stay tucked against him, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing anchor me even as fear threads through every beat of my own pulse.
Because this—this closeness, this honesty, this desperation—feels like holding on to the edge of something instead of standing on solid ground.
And as the room fades into dark around us, one thought circles quietly through my mind: If this is what holding on feels like…
what will it take to keep from breaking?