“I need my wife,” I tell her, low and urgent.
Her smile is slow and sexy. “I need my husband.”
She tilts her head toward the baby sleeping in her bassinet next to the bed. “She just had a bottle. If my predictions are right, we’ve got a two-to-three-hour window.”
“I’m going to need every minute of that for you,” I say softly, like it’s a promise instead of a threat.
I catch her legs and draw her closer, easing her to the edgeof the bed with unhurried care. She lets me, trusting, watching me with that open look that always knocks the breath out of me. I settle between her knees, grounding myself there like this is home. Because it is, I could live here. I could live anywhere as long as she’s with me.
My smile turns slow and reverent. She squirms under the weight of my attention, already flushed, already undone, and I don’t rush it. I never want to rush this part. I want her to feel how seen she is. Needed. I hit the jackpot with Poppy. I’m going to worship this body.
“I need you,” I murmur, lowering my mouth to her.
I breathe her in as I move closer, the familiar scent of her wrapping around me, steadying me in a way nothing else ever has. My lips brush her skin, slow and reverent, like I’m reminding myself that this moment is real.
“I’ve needed you all day.”
Her hands slide into my hair, not frantic, not unsure. Certain. Like she knows exactly where I belong. Her fingers tighten just enough to make my breath hitch, grounding me, claiming me back in the quietest way.
“I need you more,” she says, her voice soft but unshaking.
I pause, pressing my forehead to hers, eyes closing for a beat. My chest feels too full, like if I open my eyes too soon, I might lose this. Like I need one second to absorb the fact that she’s here, that she’s choosing me, that we’re standing on the other side of everything.
I kiss her again, slower this time. Deeper. Not rushing anywhere. Pouring everything I can’t put into words into the way my mouth moves against hers. Gratitude. Want. Relief. Love that’s been stretched thin and survived anyway.
She sighs into me, a soft sound that loosens something in my chest, and I pull her closer, hands fitting to her like they always have. Like they always will. I trace her back, her sides,memorizing her again, not because I’ve forgotten, but because touching her like this feels sacred.
We fall back onto the bed together, not breaking contact, not wanting to. Knees hit the mattress, and she goes with me willingly, pulling me down with her, laughter and breath mingling between kisses. The dark closes in around us, warm and safe and private.
I hover over her for a moment, just looking. The way her eyes shine. The way her chest rises and falls. The way her hands rest on me like I’m home.
“Hey,” I whisper, brushing my thumb along her jaw.
She smiles, small and real. “Hey.”
That’s all it takes.
I kiss her again, unhurried, letting the world fall away until there’s only us and the bed and the steady rhythm we find together. The way we fit. The way we always seem to come back to each other when it matters most.
Nothing else exists. Nothing else needs to.
Everything else can wait.
Chapter 29
Poppy
You Look Like You Love Me by Ella Langley
School’s out, and Owen and I got home not too long ago. The shop’s closed tonight, and it’s time to finally just breathe. I just got out of the shower, hair still damp and curling at the ends, skin warm and loose in that way that only happens when you’re finally done for the day. I’m in soft pants and a worn T-shirt, curled up on the couch like I don’t have anywhere else to be. Because I don’t.
Ollie’s beside me, stretched out with Ellie tucked against his chest. She’s swaddled tight, tiny and warm, her cheek pressed into his shirt like that’s exactly where she belongs. His hand rests on her back, steady and absentminded, like he doesn’t even have to think about it anymore.
Below us, the shop is alive with music thumping through the floorboards, bass-heavy and loud enough that I can feel it in my chest. I hear Mack’s laugh echo up the stairs, loud and easy, followed by Owen’s higher voice, excited and proud and talkinga mile a minute. They’ve been downstairs working on an old go-kart in one of the empty bays, taking advantage of us only being open two days a week and working on their own fun projects on the off days. This is what I wanted for him. For us. A place that feels safe and normal.
I stare at the ceiling, brain half-on, drifting. What do we want to make for dinner? Something easy. Pasta, maybe. Or breakfast for dinner. Eggs and toast and whatever’s left in the fridge. I should probably ask Owen what he wants. He’ll say something ridiculous but then end up eating seconds of whatever we put in front of him anyway. It’s just what he does—pretend to complain but he secretly loves anything.
Ellie makes a soft noise, and Ollie adjusts her automatically, murmuring something under his breath that sounds like it’s just for her. It makes my chest ache in that quiet, full way I’m starting to recognize.
