Chapter 11 #3
Lightning illuminates us through the window—tangled together on his couch, soaking wet, crying and laughing at the same time. Six years of separation, weeks of circling each other, and we're finally here.
"I love you," I say, because I can, because it's true, because I should have said it a hundred times already.
"I love you too," he responds, voice breaking slightly. "Never stopped."
The storm rages outside, but in here, we're finally safe. Finally home.
Finally us.
"Bed," he says against my mouth, standing and pulling me up with him. "I'm not doing this on a couch."
I follow him, stepping out of my soaked jeans, his eyes tracking every movement.
"Six years," he breathes, hands framing my face as we reach his bedroom. "Six years of imagining this."
"Too long," I agree, pulling him down onto the bed with me. "Far too long."
When we're finally together, skin to skin, we both pause for a moment, just looking. He's broader now than in college, more defined. There's a scar on his shoulder I don't recognize, that constellation tattoo over his ribs that makes my chest tight.
"You're staring," he says softly.
"You're beautiful." The words slip out, making him flush.
"That's my line."
"Then say it."
"You're beautiful, Harper. You've always been beautiful. But right now..." His hand traces from my collarbone down, reverent and slow. "Right now you're everything."
The tenderness of it makes me arch toward him. "Nate, please—"
"No rushing. I want to remember every second of this."
And he takes his time, worshipping every inch of me until I'm gasping his name, fingernails digging into his shoulders.
"I need you," I finally manage. "Now. Please."
He pauses above me, eyes searching mine. "Harper, are you sure? We should probably—"
"I'm on the pill," I admit quietly. "Never stopped taking it. Regulated cycles, even when there was no point."
Understanding flashes across his face—that there's been no one else who mattered.
"I got tested after Rebecca," he says. "Clean bill. Haven't been with anyone since."
We stare at each other, the weight of this trust, this choice, settling between us.
"No barriers," I whisper. "Just us."
"Just us," he agrees, forehead pressed to mine.
When we finally come together, it's everything—desperate and tender, years of longing poured into every touch, every whispered promise. Like coming home after the longest journey.
He enters me slowly, both of us gasping at the sensation—nothing between us, just skin and heat and trust. My body remembers him, welcomes him, even as I need a moment to adjust after so long.
"God, Harper," he breathes against my neck, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying still. "You feel..."
"I know," I whisper, shifting my hips to take him deeper, watching his eyes flutter closed. "Move, Nate. Please."
He does, starting slow and adoring, like he's afraid I'll disappear. But when I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, something in him breaks. His control shatters, and suddenly we're moving together with desperate need, finding that rhythm that was always ours alone.
"Missed this," he groans against my mouth. "Missed you. Every day, Harper. Every fucking day."
I can't form words, can only hold on as he drives into me, angle perfect, pace building. My nails rake down his back when he hits that spot that makes me see stars, and he does it again, deliberate now, watching my face.
"There," I gasp. "Right there, don't stop—"
"Never stopping," he promises, voice rough. "Never leaving you again."
The emotion of it, combined with the sensation, sends me over the edge. I come apart beneath him, his name on my lips. He follows immediately, face buried in my neck, my name a broken sound against my skin.
We stay locked together, both shaking, hearts pounding in sync. He lifts his head to look at me, and there are tears in his eyes that match mine.
"I love you," he says, like he needs me to know, like he'll never stop saying it.
"I love you too," I whisper back, pulling him down for a kiss that's soft now, gentle. A beginning rather than an ending.
"Worth the wait?" I ask afterward, still trying to catch my breath, still tangled in his arms.
He lifts his head to look at me, and the expression on his face makes my chest tight. "Worth everything. Worth six years. Worth a lifetime."
Outside, the storm is passing, thunder growing distant. Inside, we're finally whole.
"So," I say, tracing lazy patterns on his chest, "should I call the Post now or wait until Monday to decline?"
He laughs, pulling me closer. "Monday. Definitely Monday."
"Good plan." I press a kiss to his shoulder, right over that new scar I'll ask about later. "I have better things to do tonight."
"Oh really?" His hand trails down my spine. "Like what?"
"Like making up for six years of lost time."
"That could take a while."
"Good thing I'm not going anywhere."
"Good thing," he agrees, and kisses me again.
The Washington Post can wait. My whole life can wait.
Right now, there's just this. Just us. Just the future we should have had all along, finally beginning.