Because I’m choosing what I want, not choosing out of obligation or what was right.
Chapter Twenty Five
The Aftermath
Sarah
Morning comes in soft and cautious, like it’s not sure it’s welcome.
Light slips in around the edges of the curtains, pale and tentative, and for a few seconds I lie there without moving, my body heavy in that way where everything feels bruised but dull. The kind that settles into your bones and waits.
I stare into the dark and listen to the house breathe.
The hum of the heater. The faint tick of cooling pipes and Jace is wrapped around me.
His arm is draped over my waist, heavy and warm, his hand splayed low on my stomach, the soft fabric of his shirt brushing my skin. His chest rises against my back, slow and steady, and his breath brushes the back of my neck every time he exhales.
For one suspended second, I let myself pretend we’re waking up like this because nothing went wrong.
Then reality settles back in, familiar and heavy.
What happened between us last night felt like a turning point. Yes, we have so much more to work through but I think we are headed in the right direction.
We didn’t talk through things or dissect the damage that happened. That wasn’t something we were ready for last night.
We just held on.
I shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his arm tightens immediately, instinctive. His fingers curl, pulling me closer, like even asleep he’s unwilling to let go.
That does something dangerous in my chest.
I turn slowly in his arms until I’m facing him. His face is calm but worn, like he didn’t sleep so much as drift in and out of it. His jaw is shadowed, his brow faintly creased, even now, like his mind never fully shut off.
I wonder what he’s thinking.
Then I stop myself. Some questions don’t need to be answered yet.
His eyes open. “Morning,” he says quietly, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.”
That’s all we say, and somehow it’s enough. Nothing else is asked for, nothing else pressed into the space between us. For a few seconds, we just look at each other, close enough that I can see faint red lines on his cheek from the pillow, close enough that pretending distance feels impossible.
His gaze drops. Not to my face.
Lower.
Something in his expression changes. Not hunger exactly. But need. Raw and unguarded, like everything else has been stripped away.
I inhale slowly, and the sound seems loud in the quiet.
“Sarah,” he murmurs.
I don’t answer, instead I shift closer, sliding my leg over his hip, pressing my body into his like I’m reminding him I’m here. That I didn’t disappear overnight. That last night was real.
His hand moves slowly, sliding up my side, fingers spreading along my ribs, thumb brushing just under my breast like he’s testing whether I’ll stop him.
I won’t.
