Without looking back, I walk toward my empty house, each step taking me further from the mistake I almost made.
Again.
TWENTY
Woody
I pull away from Lane's curb, my fingers squeezing the steering wheel until my entire forearm aches. The dashboard clock reads 7:43, but time is suspended in this moment.
Holiday emotions.
The phrase echoes in my head like a bad joke. Is that really what she thinks? That I'm caught up in some seasonal Hallmark bullshit? That what just happened between us was nothing more than Christmas lights and nostalgia?
My jaw locks so tight my teeth grind. "Fuck that," I mutter, hitting the turn signal harder than necessary.
Instead of heading home, I turn right at the stop sign and loop back through the circle to her house. Her neighborhood is quiet, most windows dark except for the glow of Christmas decorations.
Multi-colored lights blur through my windshield as I take another right back toward her street. My thoughts race faster than my truck, which is going too fast for a residential area.
This isn't some temporary insanity brought on by jingle bells. This is seven years of wanting her back. Seven years of regret. Seven years of wondering what could have been if I hadn't been so goddamn obsessed with proving myself at the hospital.
I make another turn, pulling onto her street again.
She's been running from this, from us, for years. And I've let her. I've respected her space, played by her rules. Co-parented from a safe distance.
Not tonight. Not after I saw how much she was fighting what was right in front of her.
My tires crunch against the gravel of her driveway before I even realize I've made the decision to return. I kill the engine, the sudden silence deafening. My heart hammers against my ribs as I climb out, slamming the door behind me.
I take the porch steps two at a time, ignoring the voice of reason in my head telling me to turn around. For once in my life, I refuse to take the easy route.
My knock is sharp, almost defiant. Three rapid hits that echo my pulse.
I wait, seconds stretching into eternity. What if she doesn't answer? What if?—
The door swings open, and the sight of her punches the air from my lungs.
Lane stands barefoot in black leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder, her hair loose around her face. She's wiped away her makeup, leaving her face bare and vulnerable. Her eyes widen when she sees me.
"Woody, what are you?—"
I don't let her finish. I put a finger to her mouth. "This time I'm going to do the talking."
The light from a single lamp in her entryway catchesthe gold flecks in her hazel eyes, wide with surprise at my return.
Lane stands frozen, her lips parted slightly. The soft curves of her face without makeup hit me harder than any memory. This is Lane stripped of all her armor. This is the woman I've known since we were barely adults. Not the careful co-parent who is always put together and leaves no question about our respective lanes.
For a second, we just stare at each other, the only sound our uneven breathing.
"I won't keep walking away," I finally say, the words tearing from somewhere deep inside me. Not planned. Not calculated. Just truth.
Her breath catches, something crossing her face. It could be fear, recognition, desire? I can't distinguish the difference, but I know it isn't resolve. When I step forward, she doesn't back away.
The distance between us vanishes. My mouth finds hers, rough and unrelenting. She gasps against my lips, and I use that moment to move us further inside, my foot kicking the door shut behind us. The slam echoes through the quiet house.
The kiss deepens, urgent and wild. Seven years of pretending we're nothing more than Sanders' parents ignites between us. Her fingers clutch at my shirt, bunching the fabric as she pulls me closer. I press her against the wall, my hands sliding into her hair, soft and familiar between my fingers.
"Woody," she breathes against my mouth, not a protest but a recognition.
