“It’s turning out to be.” I smile up at him.
“You slept in,” he murmurs, kissing my jaw.
“I’m trying the whole ‘rest’ thing.” I sigh in contentment. “It’s new.”
“You’re good at it.”
“I’m excellent at it.”
He laughs softly, forehead dropping to mine. “Stay another week.”
“I was planning on it.”
“Stay two,” he pesters, his grip tightening.
“We’ll see.”
He kisses me again; slow, certain. It’s the kind of kiss that knots something in my chest and unravels everything else. After a moment, he brushes his thumb across my cheek. “Quinn texted me this morning.”
My brows lift. “You’re texting Quinn now?”
“She added me to something called the ‘Michael Needs Therapy’ group chat.”
I snort. “That sounds about right.”
“She said she’s coming here next week. She’s got an interview at a facility downtown.”
My heart does a warm, gentle flip. “I didn’t think she was serious when she said she was going to consider relocating.”
He shrugs. “She said she’s ready for a change. And she liked Chicago when she visited a couple years ago.”
“And Mikey?” I tease.
Dean smirks. “He’s been cleaning his apartment for three straight days. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
“Mikey doesn’t know what love is.”
“He’s learning,” Dean replies softly. “We all are.”
I lean into him. “You’re doing pretty well at it.”
His expression shifts. Something tender, something open, something rare. “Yeah?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I confirm, brushing my lips against his.
He swallows. Hard. And for the first time, I see the nerves flicker behind the confidence. Dean Ross, the man who walked into fire every night on stage, looks afraid of one small thing: the truth.
He cups my face with one hand. “Sadie…” And my pulse stumbles at what he says next. “I love you.”
It’s not dramatic. Not loud. Not a grand gesture. It’s just simple. It’s real and spoken like an exhale he’s been holding for years. Warmth floods my chest, my ribs, my whole stupid heart.
I slide my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, and whisper, “I love you too.”
His breath leaves him in one rough, quiet sound. Relief. Joy. Something bigger. He kisses me like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s found a home he didn’t think he deserved. And when he steps back between my legs, his hands sliding over my skin, voice thick and unguarded as he growls my name, the rest of the world falls away.
Hours later, we’re lying tangled in the late-afternoon heat, the windows open, cicadas singing like a lullaby. Dean traces slow lines down my spine. “Band’s meeting next week,” he shares. “Eight months here. Writing. Recording. Real life.”
“And me?” I wonder out loud.
