Page 12 of The Song We Lost

His hands are shaking. I feel it when he sets me down, feel it in the way he touches me like he’s relearning the shape of me, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t memorize every inch he will forget. His mouth trails along my jaw, my neck, my shoulder, and he keeps whispering my name under his breath like it’s a prayer.

“Bailey,” he murmurs, over and over. “God, Bailey. I missed you,this.”

I clutch at his shirt, fingers digging in, anchoring myself to him. To this moment. To the version of us that still exists when we’re this close.

We don’t undress so much asfall apart. Fabric is pulled too hard, buttons fly, and knees knock into the edge of the couch. It’s clumsy and rushed and desperate in a way that makes my chest ache. Like if we slow down, we’ll have to talk again. Like if we stop touching, the truth will catch up.

He kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally remembered how to breathe. I kiss him back just as hard because my body remembers how to move with his, how to meet him in this without thinking. This isn’t about want, It’s about fear.

He presses his forehead to mine, breath unsteady. “Please,” he whispers. “Please don’t give up on us.”

My heart cracks open at the sound of it, but also… how dare he make this sound like it is me giving up. I try to pull away.

“Luke…” I start, but he kisses me again, swallowing the words before they can turn into something final.

He’s over me now, our bodies lined up like they were always meant to be, and for a split second it feels like the world narrows down to just this, heat, breath, skin. There’s no careful buildup, no teasing. It’s almost as clumsy as our first time, all urgencyand instinct and emotion spilling everywhere. Somehow, that feels right.

It feels like an apology.

It feels like coming home.

But home shouldn’t feel this fragile.

It...

It feels like pretending this one moment can stitch us back together.

He moves like he’s barely holding on, like he’s afraid this might be the last time, and I meet him there, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in, grounding us both. When he comes undone with me, it’s fast and intense and overwhelming, like he’s been carrying this weight in his body for too long. For a few heartbeats afterward, there’s nothing but us, tangled together on the couch, skin slick, breaths slowly finding their rhythm again.

The house is still too quiet.

He shifts, pulling me closer, his arm heavy across my waist like he’s afraid I might slip away if he loosens his grip. His thumb traces slow, absent circles against my hip.

“God,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I missed you. I missedus.”

I close my eyes and a memory slips in uninvited.

It had been a week since we had seen each other. On my first tour, he had some gigs he said were too important to skip. To make it up to me, Luke drove eight hours straight just to sleep beside me. He was so tired by the time he got to me that he crashed. We slept, holding each other close, and then he was gone the next morning.

I want to believe him, I really do. But it is so hard; we have drifted so far from each other. It is not about loving him, I don't think I can exist without that being true. I will always love him.But is it better for me to be on my own, instead of alone in a marriage?

But am I really going to walk away from him?

“We don’t have a lot of time,” I say, softer now.

“I know,” he says, kissing my shoulder. “But let’s take what we have. Just us. No pressure. No plans.”

He pulls away to grab us some wine. The laptop wakes again. He turns, and his dark blue eyes lock onto mine.

"Let’s not worry about the future and what-ifs right now. We’ve got time. I promise to look at all of this with you next time we are home, ok. We can plan it all out together.”

It already is planned out... more than planned out.

I nod anyway. Because he’s here.

Because I still love him.

Because hope is a hard habit to break.