The steadiness. The choosing. Again and again.
Even when it’s not sexy. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when I don’t get immediate payoff.
Because if I’m honest? I don’t want to win her. I want to deserve her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EMMA
It wasn’t just about sex.
I mean, the sex was incredible, when the kids didn’t interrupt, anyway, but that night, it became more. Something shifted, something I hadn’t quite expected. We weren’t just making love; we were seeing each other again, really seeing each other, in a way that hadn’t happened in months, maybe even years.
It started in the little things. Dan, leaning casually against the counter as I poured my third cup of coffee, nudged my hip with his own and smirked. "Careful, that’s your third cup. Pretty sure too much caffeine turns you into a velociraptor."
I rolled my eyes but laughed, the kind of laugh that tickled your lungs and made your cheeks hurt. I hadn’t laughed like that with him in forever, not since before we became a life mapped out in PTA meetings, shopping lists, and bedtime negotiations.
Then there was the way he looked at me. Not just when I put on a pair of leggings and a hoodie and called it “sexy,” but when I was mid-rant about the PTA cake sale, or trying to wrestle Ruby into her shoes while muttering curses under my breath. He watched me like I was something rare, something dangerousand fascinating all at once. Like I was still that girl he fell in love with before life became about routines, responsibilities, and surviving on three hours of sleep.
I noticed him too, more than I had in months. The way his hands fidgeted when he was thinking, the way his jaw tightened when he tried not to laugh at me, the way he smelled like fresh laundry with an undertone of him. And I realised how much I’d missed noticing him. Really noticing him.
That night, after two rounds of bedtime negotiations (thanks, Ruby, for your stamina), I wandered into the kitchen, only to freeze in the doorway.
Dan was dancing.
By himself.
To an awful 90s pop song that somehow sounded even worse blaring at full volume.
I stopped, torn between horror and amusement. "Oh my god. What are you doing?"
He spun dramatically, pointing at me. "Living my best life, obviously."
"That’s debatable."
"Dance with me," he said, his grin full of mischief.
"Absolutely not," I shot back, arms crossed, though my heart was already beating faster.
"Emma."
"Dan."
"Come on, I know you know the words."
I groaned, but when he grabbed my hand and pulled me in, I didn’t resist. I let him spin me around the cramped kitchen, laughter bubbling between us, ridiculous and freeing. And then, because he always had to add theatrics, he dipped me. An actual, rom-com-worthy dip, just like the ones we used to joke about.
And then he kissed me.
Slow. Deep. Perfect.
I melted against him, like I had a hundred times before, but this felt different. This wasn’t just habitual. This was remembering each other, piece by piece, as if we’d forgotten what it was to just be us.
His lips moved with urgency and patience all at once, exploring, teasing, claiming. My fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and I moaned, a sound swallowed by him, returned to me multiplied. Heat pooled low in my belly, spreading up through my chest, my limbs, every inch of me alive and aware in a way that had been dormant for far too long.
When his hands trailed down my back, over the curve of my waist, and beneath the hem of my top, I shivered, my body arching into him, hungry for more. Every touch was deliberate, every kiss a reminder, every movement a promise.
And then it was slow, teasing, desperate. His lips left mine to trail a path down my neck, nipping softly, sending shivers through me, his hands pulling me flush against him. The heat between us was immediate, a fire I had almost forgotten existed.
