Chapter Twenty-Five—Riley
The first thing I notice is the light, slipping in around the curtain edge, pale and undecided.
The second thing I notice is Andrew.
Still here.
My first instinct is that I'm wrong. That it's a shadow, something my brain is building because it wants to. I lie still and wait for him to dissolve.
He doesn't.
He's sitting against the headboard right beside me, head dropped toward one shoulder, eyes closed. Breathing even. Still in yesterday's jeans and t-shirt. One hand resting on his knee.
He stayed the whole night. In my bed.
I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest like it's proof of something I don't trust yet.
People don't stay overnight when things get complicated.
Not when there's a baby involved.
Now he's here.
Still breathing beside me.
Still choosing this.
I don't know what to do with that.
I lie there and look at him. The way you can only look when someone's asleep and can't catch you doing it.
He looks younger like this. The guarded version of himself, the one he keeps on during waking hours, is gone.
What's left is just a man who sat up against the headboard all night so he could stay close and didn't leave.
And somehow that makes him more handsome than I remember.
He told me about the group home on Adams Street. About growing up learning that good things get taken. So you take them first. You burn them down yourself. You don't give anyone the chance to do it to you.
I told him I understood.
I meant it more than I wanted to.
I've been doing the same thing since he left.
Different method, same result. Build a life small enough that losing it won't destroy you. Stay in Portland. A place you chose because nobody there knew Connor or Andrew or any of your history. You just hadn’t found another place to go.
Take the freelance contracts, not the jobs with benefits and roots and things to grieve.
Say yes to a free Vegas trip because at least it has an end date. At least you know when you're leaving.
He blew up everything we had at twenty-one because he was sure I'd eventually see what he was and go.
I look at him and I think: That's what scares me—how much of you makes sense to me.
His eyes open.
Slow, then focused, then on me. Not surprised. Like some part of him never stopped keeping track.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
Neither of us moves.
“You stayed,” I say.
“I told you I would.”
“People say things.”
“I know.”
He doesn't add anything to it. Doesn't build a case or soften it into an apology. He just lets it sit there, honest and plain, like he's already made peace with the fact that I don't have to believe him yet.
I look at the ceiling for a moment. Then back at him.
He's still watching me with those dark eyes. The ones I spent years learning and years trying to forget. I know his face so well it's like reading a language I thought I'd lost. The line of his jaw when he's thinking something through. The way his hands go still when he's being careful.
He is measuring every movement right now.
“I'm not going to pretend last night fixed anything,” I say.
“I know.”
“We talked. We said real things. That doesn't mean it just goes back to what it was.”
“There's no back to go to.” He shifts, sitting straighter. “Only now.”
I hate how much sense that makes.
I push up to sitting. My hair is a disaster and I don't bother with it. He's already seen most of the worst of me at this point, so.
“I keep waiting for the moment you change your mind,” I say.
The words come out before I've decided to say them. Too honest for this hour. Too honest, maybe, period.
He moves closer.
“I'm not going anywhere.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it.”
I look at his hands on his knees. The same hands I used to know by touch in the dark.
“I'm scared,” I say.
“That's not nothing.” He reaches over, just his fingertips against mine. Not pushing. Just there. “But you're still here. You didn't kick me out last night. You didn't wake up and go.”
“I thought about it.”
A quiet exhale. Almost a laugh. “I know that too.”
I turn my hand over.
He laces his fingers through mine, easy, like he's been doing it for years instead of for the first time since everything fell apart.
I look at him for a long moment. The man who left. All the distance between us, and somehow we are back together, early morning light spilling across the sheets, and he is holding my hand like it means something.
I lean forward and close the space.
He goes still when my mouth meets his. A held moment, just a breath.
Then he kisses me back—slow, intentional, like he's afraid I'll pull away.
His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and the familiar taste of him hits me harder than I expect.
No rush. Just the quiet press and retreat, the soft catch of breath when our noses brush.
It's different from before.
Not frantic like when we were twenty-one. Not champagne-fueled like the rooftop. This is deliberate. Almost reverent.
He brings his hand up to my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. I lean into it, letting my eyes close for a second.
“Andrew,” I whisper against his mouth.
“I've got you,” he murmurs back. The same words from the hot tub, but quieter now. Heavier.
I pull him with me as I lie back. He follows without hesitation, settling over me but keeping most of his weight on his forearms. His body is warm and solid, the scent of him—soap and sleep and something unmistakably Andrew—wrapping around me.
He kisses me deeper, slower, tongue sliding against mine in long, lazy strokes that make heat pool low in my belly. One of his hands trails down my side, slipping under the hem of my tank top. His palm is rough against my skin as he pushes the fabric up, exposing me inch by inch.
When the cool air hits my breasts, my nipples tighten instantly. Andrew pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and intent.
“God, Riley...” His voice is rough, almost pained. “You're beautiful.”
He lowers his head and presses open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone, then lower, until his lips close around one nipple.
The wet heat of his mouth makes me gasp.
He sucks gently, tongue circling, while his hand palms the other breast, thumb brushing the sensitive peak in slow, thoughtful strokes.
I arch into him, fingers threading through his hair. Every pull of his mouth sends sparks straight between my legs. He takes his time, switching sides, lavishing the same thorough attention until I'm breathing hard and shifting restlessly beneath him.
His free hand slides down my stomach, pausing for a heartbeat over the still-flat plane where my baby is growing. The touch is so tender it makes my throat tighten. Then he continues lower, slipping beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts.
His fingers find me already slick. He groans softly against my breast as he parts my folds, circling my clit with feather-light touches that make my hips jerk.
“So wet,” he whispers. “Just from this?”
I can't answer with words. I only nod and rock against his hand.
He pushes one thick finger inside me, then two, curling them slowly while his thumb keeps those maddening circles on my clit. The pace is unhurried, deep, like he's learning me all over again. Every stroke drags pleasure through me in long, rolling waves.
A moan tears out of me, thighs trembling. He keeps the pace steady, never rushing, drawing it out until I'm gasping and clutching at his shoulders.
When I finally come, it's slow and deep—a shuddering wave that rolls through me and leaves me boneless. He stays with me through every pulse, murmuring soft praises against my skin.
Only when my breathing starts to settle does he withdraw his fingers. He kisses me again, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says against my lips.
“I don't.”
He sheds his clothes quickly then settles between my thighs again, the blunt heat of his cock nudging against my entrance. He doesn't push in right away. Instead, he rocks against me, sliding through my wetness, teasing us both until I'm aching for him.
When he finally sinks inside, it's inch by slow inch. We both groan at the stretch, the perfect fullness. He bottoms out and stills, forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged.
“Feel that?” he whispers. “I'm right here.”
Then he starts to move—long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside me. The pace is unhurried but intense. Skin against skin. The wet sound of him moving inside me. His weight, his heat, the way his hands grip my hips like he never wants to let go.
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper. He drops his head to my neck, kissing and sucking softly as his rhythm builds. Every thrust feels like a promise. Every breath against my skin feels like an apology and a vow at the same time.
When I come again, it's with his name on my lips and his body pressed tight to mine. He follows moments later, burying himself deep as he shudders through his release, murmuring my name like it's the only word he knows.
Afterward, he doesn't pull out right away. He stays inside me, holding me close, one hand stroking slow circles over my lower belly.
I don’t move.
Not because I’m tired.
Because this feels too much like something permanent.
Too much like something I could start believing in.
We lie there in the growing gold light, breathing together.
“I haven't forgiven you,” I say softly.
He doesn't tense. Doesn't argue.
“I know.”
I turn my head. He's already looking at me, those dark eyes calm and steady.
“Andrew—”
“You might, though.”
It's not pressure. Just quiet truth.
He doesn't push.
The light keeps coming in.