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“So was I,” I whisper. “But I didn’t leave.”

“I know.” His voice is thick now. “And I’ll never stop being sorry for that. I hated myself for it then, and I still do.”

A tear breaks free, hot against my cheek. I swipe it away fast, but another follows.

“I thought maybe you regretted everything,” I admit, choking on the words. “That you wished none of it happened. That if you could go back⁠—”

“I wouldn’t change a damn thing,” he cuts in fiercely. “Not the twins. Not you. Not us. I’d just go back and do it better.”

His hands come up, then drop again. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch me. And maybe that’s fair.

“I was scared,” he says again, softer now. “And when you went quiet… when you slipped under… I thought I lost the chance to say all the things I should’ve said months ago.”

I stare at him. At the man who once walked away, and the one who hasn’t left my side since I woke up.

And it wrecks me—how they’re both him.

How he’s learning, slowly, painfully, to choose being present over being perfect.

“You hurt me,” I say, voice trembling.

“I know,” he whispers.

“But I never stopped loving you.”

That breaks him.

Fletch staggers back a half-step like the words hit harder than anything else I’ve said tonight. His eyes close, his shoulders dip, and for a second, all I can hear is the wind moving through the trees and the frantic beat of my heart, unsure if it just leapt toward something beautiful or dangerous or both.

And then⁠—

He’s kissing me.

Not gently. Not carefully.

But like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His mouth crashes into mine, desperate and wild, his hands finding my face like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. And I should hesitate—should stop and think and breathe—but I only falter for the briefest heartbeat before I melt into him.

Because it’s him. It’s Fletch.

And when I kiss him back, it’s not with questions or caution—it’s with everything I’ve been holding back. All the ache, all the anger, all the impossible love that never stopped pulsing under the surface of my skin.

He groans against my mouth, low and guttural, like he’s starving and I’m the first taste of something real after too long without. His hands slide down, gripping my hips like he’s trying to ground himself—and it only makes me press closer, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.

It escalates fast.

The kind of fast that makes my breath stutter and my knees weaken, the kind that makes me forget about cold porches and chipped paint and all the ways we’ve broken each other.

His tongue slides against mine, and I gasp into his mouth. The sound turns him feral. He grabs the backs of my thighs, hoisting me up with effortless strength, and suddenly my legs are wrapped around his waist, my back pressed to the wood siding of the house.

“Fletch,” I whisper, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe.

He looks at me, eyes wild and wrecked, lips kiss-bruised, chest rising like he’s holding back the storm he’s barely containing.

“I want you,” I say, voice shaking.

Because I do.