It's about agency. Independence. Same strength that drew me first.
"Okay. We'll set up a payment plan. Whatever works."
Tension leaves her shoulders. "Thank you."
"But Lucy?" I step closer. "Not sorry I did it."
"I know." She touches my face. Tears on her cheeks. "And I'm not sorry you did either. Just... need you to understand I have to do this my way. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts."
"Understand."
She kisses me. Soft. Slow. Eyes wet when she pulls back.
"Thank you. For caring. For wanting to help. For seeing my dream as something worth saving."
"Always."
She pulls me into a hug. Holds tight. I breathe in the vanilla scent of her hair and feel the terror of it in my ribs.
New territory. Caring about someone so much the thought of losing them makes breathing hard.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of phone calls and paperwork as Lucy finalizes everything with Mrs. Henderson. I stay close, making coffee when she needs it, ordering lunch when she forgets to eat. By the time the sun sets and the last document is signed, she's glowing with exhausted triumph.
"It's mine," she keeps saying, like she can't quite believe it. "The building is actually mine."
"You earned it."
"We earned it." She takes my hand. "I know you say it was nothing, but it was everything to me."
The words stick in my throat again. The ones I should say. The ones she deserves to hear. Instead I pull her close and kiss her until we're both breathless, until gratitude shifts into something deeper.
We barely make it through dinner at Jim's house. Connor's working late at the office. Emma's at a friend's with Maisie. Jim's in his wood shop in the garage. The house feels empty, and the tension between us is electric.
After we clear the dishes, Lucy catches my hand and leads me upstairs. We're being reckless—Connor could come home any minute, Jim could finish his project—but neither of us cares. Not tonight. Not when she's looking at me like I hung the moon,when her gratitude and relief and want are written all over her face.
She pulls me into my room and closes the door. Locks it.
The click of the lock seems loud in the quiet house. She turns to face me, and there's something different in her eyes tonight. Not just desire, though that's there too. Something softer. Deeper.
"Come here," she whispers.
I cross to her in two steps. She slides her hands up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair. Pulls me down for a kiss that starts gentle and builds slowly. Thoroughly. Like she's trying to tell me something she doesn't have words for.
This time is different from the cabin. Less frantic. More deliberate. We've learned each other now, and there's a confidence in the way she touches me, the way I touch her. But underneath it all is something deeper—gratitude mixed with tenderness, relief wrapped in desire.
She tugs at my shirt and I help her pull it off. Her hands map my chest, my ribs, the muscles of my shoulders. Like she's memorizing me. When I reach for the hem of her sweater, she lifts her arms and lets me undress her slowly. Each piece of clothing another layer of vulnerability between us.
When we're both bare, she takes my hand and leads me to the bed. We sink down together onto the quilt Connor's mom madeyears ago, and I try not to think about the risk we're taking. Try to focus only on her.
She pulls me down for another kiss, deeper this time. Her hands slide down my back, nails scraping lightly, and I groan against her mouth. I kiss along her jaw, down her throat, tasting the salt on her skin. She arches into me when I reach her breasts, her fingers tightening in my hair.
"Ryder," she breathes.
I take my time. Kiss every inch of skin I can reach. Learn the sounds she makes when I touch her here, kiss her there. By the time I settle between her thighs, she's trembling.
"Please," she whispers.
I reach for the condom on the nightstand—we've learned to be prepared—and she watches me roll it on, her eyes dark with want. When I settle over her again, she spreads her legs wider, welcoming me.
