I drive past the coffee truck every morning and get my latte from Ava, who always adds a heart in the foam and a wink I pretend not to see.
I wave to the neighbors now, faces I’ve come to know, people who smile and stop to chat when I water the porch plants. It’s a far cry from the early days, when Saint and I were holed up in his tiny cabin in the woods. That place was quiet, tucked away, safe in its solitude. It gave us space to breathe. But this? This isa home. With creaky floors and porch lights, wind chimes on the railing, and a garden box I keep meaning to weed. It’s bigger. Brighter. Ours.
I grade papers on the porch with a blanket over my knees. I park in the same spot. I kiss my husband before work, and again when I walk through the front door.
And yes—husband.
One week after I met him, Saint slid a ring onto my finger under a sky full of stars and told me he didn’t believe in waiting when something felt like truth.
He was right.
It was fast. Reckless. Probably insane.
But it was real. And it’s only gotten better.
The wedding was small—just family, just the club. Nya, who owns a flower shop, made me a bouquet that looked like something pulled from a dream. Wild, messy, perfect. Sage baked the cake, with Havoc helping in the kitchen like it was the most normal thing in the world. Turns out the man knows his way around an oven. Still not over that.
Saint and I talk about the future a lot. About noise. About laughter. About kids who grow up feeling safe. Held.Unshakablyloved. Not kids who learn to flinch at footsteps. Not kids who go to sleep with a plan for how to run. Ava and I never had the luxury of wondering if we were safe. Weknewwe weren’t.
But we’re safe now.
The guilt I used to carry for leaving Ava behind doesn’t rule me the way it once did. It still stings sometimes, usually when it’s quiet, usually when I see her smile. But she’s happy now. Loved like she should’ve always been. Viper treats her like she’s the sun he wakes up for. And she lets him.
By the time I get home from school today, the sun is low and warm, casting long shadows over the porch. I slip off my flats,nudge the front door open, and step into the scent of cedar and coffee.
Saint’s already there, sitting on the couch with his cut tossed over the armrest and a half-read book in his hand. His boots are off, one foot bare and the other still socked, like he got too comfortable halfway through undressing.
When he sees me, the corners of his mouth twitch up. “There she is.”
“I was wiping glitter off my desk and lost track of time,” I say, dropping my bag near the door.
He sets the book aside and stands. “You’re glowing.”
I huff. “I’m tired.”
“You’re beautiful.”
I roll my eyes and smile, toeing off my second sock. “You’re biased.”
He closes the distance in three easy steps, pulling me into his arms like he’s been waiting all day to do just that. I sink into him, melting into the familiar feel of solid muscle, leather, and home. His mouth brushes my temple.
“I missed you today,” I murmur.
“Missed you too,” he says into my hair.
His hands are under my blouse a heartbeat later, warm and rough and reverent. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me down the hall to our room.
Clothes trail behind us: my skirt, my blouse, his shirt. His body covers mine as he lowers me to the bed, mouth finding my throat, my collarbone, the inside of my wrist like it’s the first time all over again.
Saint makes love like he listens to every sound I make. Like he wants to memorize each sigh, each gasp, each whispered plea. And I let him, because when he touches me like this, I forget there was ever a time I didn’t know what it meant to feel safe.
His lips trail lower, pressing against the swell of my breast above my bra. He unhooks it with a flick of his fingers, sliding the straps down my shoulders.
My nipples harden in the cool air, and he takes one into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, his tongue circling the peak.
I arch into him, my fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. The pull in my core tightens with every swirl of his tongue.
"Nadia," he murmurs against my skin, voice husky and low.
