She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, and we find a rhythm together. It's slow and sweet and nothing like the frantic, desperate encounters I've had since Evie died. This is about connection, about showing her with my body what I can't quite say with words yet. That she matters. That she's wanted. That she's safe here with me.
When she comes apart beneath me, crying out my name, I follow her over the edge, burying my face in her neck and holding her so tight I'm afraid I might break her. But she just holds me back, her arms wrapped around me, her face pressed against my shoulder.
I roll to the side and pull her against my chest, my hand tracing lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, following the curve of muscle and bone, mapping her body in the darkness.
"You're safe," I whisper against her hair. "You're beautiful. You're wanted. And you never have to settle for less than this ever again."
She makes a small sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and I feel wetness against my chest. I tilt her face up, worried I've done something wrong, but she's smiling through her tears.
"I'm falling for you," she admits, her voice shaking. "That terrifies me. Because the last time I let myself fall, I ended up broken. And I don't know if I can survive being broken again."
"Me too," I confess, the words pulled from somewhere deep and honest. "I didn't think I'd feel this again. After Evie died, after we lost her, I thought that was it. I thought I'd used up my chance at this kind of connection. I didn't think I deserved to feel this way about someone again."
She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me in the dim light from the window. "Tell me about her. About Evie. About what she was like."
I tell her about Evie's laugh, this bright, musical sound that could fill a whole room. About how she'd sing off-key in the shower and dance in the kitchen while cooking dinner. About how she loved with her whole heart, fierce and complete, holding nothing back.
"She was sunshine," I say quietly. "Like you. The kind of person who made everything better just by being in the room. And she'd be happy for us. For all of us. She wouldn't want us stuck in grief forever, wouldn't want the kids growing up in a house full of sadness. She'd want us to find joy again."
"I talk to her sometimes," Amelia admits, curling back into my side. "To her pictures. I tell her about the kids, about how well they're doing. I hope that's okay. I don't want to overstep."
My throat goes tight. "It's more than okay. It's perfect. That's exactly what she'd want."
We lie there in silence for a while, just holding each other, the weight of everything we've shared settling over us like a blanket. Eventually, Amelia's breathing evens out, her body going slack against mine as she drifts off to sleep.
But I stay awake a while longer, watching her sleep in my arms, feeling the steady rhythm of her breath against my chest. This woman who walked into our lives and started putting us back together without even realizing it. This beautiful, broken, brave woman who's terrified of falling but doing it anyway.
"Fall," I whisper into the darkness, knowing she can't hear me but needing to say it anyway. "I'll catch you. I promise I'll catch you."
Amelia
I wake up in Wyatt's bed feeling more rested than I have in months, maybe years. The early morning light is just starting to filter through the curtains, painting everything in soft shades of gray and gold. Wyatt is still asleep beside me, one arm thrown over his head, his face peaceful in a way I rarely see when he's awake. There's always this tension he carries during the day, this awareness of everything he needs to do and everyone who depends on him. But asleep, he looks younger, softer, and Ilet myself watch him for a moment before carefully extracting myself from the bed.
My clothes from yesterday are scattered across the floor, and I gather them quietly, pulling them on with movements I hope are silent enough not to wake him. He needs the sleep. They all do. This house runs on too little rest and too much coffee, everyone pushing themselves past their limits trying to keep everything together.
I slip out of his room and down the hallway, flipping on every light switch I pass. The hallway, the stairwell, the living room, the kitchen. Each one floods the space with brightness that pushes back the shadows, makes everything feel safer. It's a compulsion I can't shake, this need for light, for the ability to see every corner and know nothing's hiding there waiting to hurt me.
The house is quiet in that peaceful way that only happens in the early morning before anyone else is awake. I check the time on the microwave. Five forty-five. Earlier than I usually get up, but my body is still adjusting to actually sleeping through the night without nightmares jolting me awake every few hours.
I decide to make something special for breakfast. These past two weeks have been so good, better than I ever thought possible, and I want to do something to show my appreciation. To prove that I'm not just taking and taking without giving anything back.
I find all the ingredients I need for a streusel coffee cake, one of those recipes my mom used to make on special occasions. The kind that makes the whole house smell like cinnamon and butter and home. I work quietly, creaming butter and sugar, mixing in eggs and vanilla, folding in flour with movements that are automatic from years of practice.
There's something meditative about baking. The precise measurements, the careful folding, the way everything comestogether in stages to create something greater than the sum of its parts. My hands know what to do even when my brain is elsewhere, lost in thoughts about last night.
About Wyatt's hands on my body, gentle and reverent. About the way he whispered that I was safe, that I was wanted, that this was making love instead of just having sex. About how I'd cried afterward and he'd held me like I was something precious instead of broken.
Heat floods my face just thinking about it. I've never felt like that before, never understood that intimacy could be tender instead of demanding. That someone could care about my pleasure as much as their own. That I could have control, could say stop or slow down or more and be listened to.
Vincent never gave me that. Vincent took what he wanted and made me feel grateful he wanted me at all, even when his touch left bruises and his words left scars deeper than anything physical.
But Wyatt is different. They're all different. Hunter with his quiet protectiveness, Silas with his thoughtful gestures, Wyatt with his easy affection. None of them make me feel small or worthless or like I should be grateful they tolerate my presence.
They make me feel wanted. Cherished, even. And I'm still trying to figure out how to accept that without waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I'm mixing the streusel topping when I hear footsteps on the stairs. My heart jumps into my throat, that immediate spike of adrenaline that comes from years of being startled by Vincent's arrival. But I force myself to breathe, to remember where I am. This is the Kane house. I'm safe here. Nobody's going to hurt me.
Wyatt appears in the kitchen doorway, his hair mussed from sleep, wearing the same sleep pants from last night but no shirt. The morning light catches on the planes of his chest and stomach, and I have to actively look away before I get distracted.
