Page 84 of Worth the Fight

Once he’s satisfied, he lays me down on my back, then he rises to his forearms, hips thrusting as he lets loose.

A smile crosses my face, thinking that almost twelve years ago we handed over our virginities to one another on the floor of this exact room. It was different back then, obviously, both of us were nervous, excited, a little unsure of what to expect from it all.

I loved Lukas, that much hasn’t changed. But it’s a different love now, a worn-in love. One that comes from distance, time, growing as people. One that also comes from pain, from fights, from angry words and bruised egos.

As teenagers, we thought we were invincible. We knew we’d end up where we are today, together, but I don’t think either of us could have anticipated the ride it took to get here.

“Lukas,” I moan, my toes curling as my orgasm starts.

He groans against my neck, his face buried deep in my hair, and I do the same, clinging to the muscles of his back, pulling him to me and pressing my lips to his shoulder. My back arches to meet him, and he slides a hand under my ass, fingers digging into my skin as he lifts my lower body off the floor.

My screams echo off the walls surrounding us when I come, and not a moment later, he pauses as his own orgasm takes over.

He pulls out, rolling to his back with his arm wrapped around me to take me with him. I immediately crawl into my favorite spot, pulling his arm open and draping it around me. My cheek falls to his bicep, where his Magnolia and Ivy tattoo rests, and I smile against his skin.

We’re still panting when the sun finally sets, shrouding the room in darkness. The kitchen light that Lukas had turned on to show off the chandelier glows from down the hall, the beam nearly reaching us where we lay.

“I love this house,” I tell him, and he hums his agreement. “I love you.” He twists his head to press a kiss to my hair somewhere.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

Rolling onto my elbows, I prop myself up to look around the space, my mind racing with all the ways I want to decorate.

Lukas sits up, twisting around, so his chest presses against my back. He pulls me to him with his long legs spread on each side of me. “Baby,” he whispers, and a hand comes up to smooth back my messy hair.

When I twist to look over my shoulder to face him, I’m taken aback by the sudden serious expression. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes search my face before a small smile crosses his closed lips. “I don’t want to say this, but…” He huffs out a breath. “I think you need to go back to Paris.”

I physically jerk back at his words. My body twists to face him. “What? Why? I⁠—”

He reaches out to snag my wrist, bringing it to his mouth to kiss my skin. He scoots forward, pulling me to guide me onto his lap. I straddle him, and he holds me close, forehead resting against mine. “I think you need to go back to Paris, but temporarily.”

I rest my head against his, not ready to acknowledge what he’s saying.

“I think you should finish this season. You’ve worked so hard, Mags, so fucking hard to quit at peak time. I know you’re sad, lonely, and I hope you know that I don’t ever want to be apart from you, not for another day. But you have fans, Mags. You have people that have followed your career from your first day in France and have watched you grow into the magnificent woman you are. They deserve to watch one final show. You deserve to be standing on stage, hearing the roar of the crowd as you take your final bow.

“I want to be there, too. I want to watch you dance your last professional ballet. Then I want to go home with you and help you pack up your apartment. I want to be the one that gets to close that chapter with you before I bring you to our home. Maybe some of it is selfish, but I think you should do it for you, too.”

Tears burn my eyes. This, this is the Lukas I know. The sweet boy I’ve always loved. The one who was my greatest support, my biggest fan, my absolute best friend.

“I think you’re right,” I agree, my head falling to rest on the swell of his shoulder. Tears trickle down my cheeks, dripping against his bare chest. “But…” I puff out a breath. “I don’t want to do long distance again.”

“Me neither,” he croaks. “But we’ve done ten, almost eleven years, baby. We’ve made it that far, what’s…” he trails off, counting. “What’s another five months? It’s five more months, then we get a lifetime together.”

I know he’s right. I know if I really didn’t return to ballet, if my performance last week was truly my last, there might be a day down the road where I look back and regret the way I went out.

But if I finish out the season, give my company notice and, like Lukas says, get to dance on stage one final time, that’ll be a memory I’ll hold forever.

I sit up, and his hands come up to smooth away my matted hair. When I peer up at him through tear-filled eyes, he’s smiling. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Lukas.”

He smiles, and his palm comes up to brush over the side of my face. He cups my chin, thumb grazing my cheek. “Forever.”

A relationship takes work. Well, it takes work to have a healthy one, anyway.

We loved each other as teenagers, yes, but love was easy then when the biggest responsibility we had was finishing homework on time or getting home before curfew.