My chest is hollow. How many times have I run to Jerry after Woody disappointed me? How often did Jerry become the calm after every storm, the easy fix for an ache I couldn't soothe?
"You've been good to me and Sanders," I say quietly. "And I do care about you. But it's not fair to keep your hopes up when my heart's still with Woody. Even if that terrifies me. Even if that goes nowhere."
The words hang between us. Jerry's face shifts, a flash of pain quickly controlled. He exhales through his nose, the hint of bitterness softening into resignation.
"Then I guess that's it," he says, pushing back his chair. "I hope he doesn't screw it up this time. You deserve the world, Lane."
My shoulders tense. I'm not proud of the comfort Jerry gave me, only grateful.
"Jerry—"
"It's okay, Lane. I think I always knew."
He leaves money for his coffee and walks away. No dramatic exit, no scene. Just Jerry, being Jerry—neat, dependable, gracious even in goodbye.
As I step outside into the cold, my breath fogs the air, sharp and clear. For the first time in years, I'm free, even if it means walking straight into uncertainty.
My footsteps echothrough the quiet house as I move around my kitchen. Sanders crashed hard after the excitement of Luke's successful surgery, barely making it through his bedtime routine before falling asleep mid-sentence about helicopter rides and going to see him.
I wipe down the marble countertop, letting my mind drift. The navy cabinets gleam in the soft lighting, everything in its place. Through the wall of windows, my winter garden sits in darkness, waiting for spring.
The Christmas tree's multicolored lights pulse gently in the den, casting shifting shadows across the floor. I've always found peace in this hour, the quiet after Sanders sleeps, when the house belongs just to me.
My fingers trace the gold cabinet pulls, cool beneath my touch. Everything is somehow different tonight. Clearer, somehow. Like saying goodbye to Jerry cleared away a fog I needed clearing to be able to really let myself trust Woody fully.
I needed to not have a safety net.
The knock on the door is soft, but it jolts me anyway. My heart knows who it is before my mind catches up.
When I open it, Woody stands there, casual but tense, hands shoved into his pockets. The porch light catches the gold rim around his hazel eyes. Neither of us speaks at first. Then he steps in, closing the door behind him, the air between us shifting instantly.
"He's asleep?" he asks, voice low.
I nod, hyperaware of every inch between us. Our eyes lock, and whatever words might've come next dissolve into the charged silence.
He crosses to me in three strides, his mouth finding mine. The kiss starts gently, then deepens, heat sparking between us like it's always been waiting. I laughagainst his lips when my hip bumps the counter, and the sound turns into a soft moan as his hands find my waist.
My fingers slide up his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering beneath my palm, tugging at his shirt. "Woody," I whisper, not a question or a statement, just the truth of him, here in my kitchen, after all these years of pretending I didn’t want exactly this.
“I’m here,” he murmurs against my neck, his lips dragging fire across my skin. No hesitation. No doubt.
No angry words. No unfinished sentences. Just this quiet surrender to what’s always been there, waiting for us to stop fighting it.
He lifts me easily, setting me on the counter, my legs locking around him as he starts unbuttoning my shirt. His hands slide around me, hot against bare skin, pushing higher.
“God, Lane,” he groans, grinding against me, voice ragged. “I can’t stop this. I don’t want to.”
My answer is a moan torn from my throat, my hips surging to meet him. Years of walls shatter in an instant. There’s no going back.
Woody carries me from the kitchen, our lips never separating as we stumble through the hallway. My back arches as he lowers me onto my bed, the comforter cool against my heated skin.
The frenzied urgency from the kitchen transforms into something different here, something reverent and measured. His weight settles over me, familiar yet new. Moonlight spills through the half-drawn curtains, painting silver streaks across his shoulders.
"We don't have to rush," he whispers, his breath warm against my collarbone.
His fingers trace the line of my throat, trailing down to the curve of my hip. I shiver despite the heat buildingbetween us. There's something about the way he touches me, like he's rediscovering territory once known by heart.
"Woody," I breathe, his name escaping like a prayer I'd forgotten how to say.
