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I sit up a little, brushing her cheek with my thumb.

“I don’t care about headlines. I care about us. I need to know that you believe in this. In us. That no matter what, you’ll talk to me. You’ll trust me. You’ll come to me. Even when it’s hard.”

She leans into my touch, one of her hands rising to cover mine. Her fingers tremble slightly, but her eyes don’t look away.

And when she speaks, it’s a whisper—but it hits like a damn thunderstorm. Her voice is full of conviction, but laced with something vulnerable too. Real. Raw.

“I believe in us, Nick. I believe in our love. And I trust you. I can’t promise I’ll never have moments of doubt or jealousy. That my mind won’t spiral in situations like the one that tore us apart for months… But I can promise I’ll come to you. I’ll talk to you. I’ll ask you, confront you, yell at you if I have to—but I won’t run. I won’t make impulsive decisions. I’ll give you the chance to explain, to defend yourself, if ever needed.”

Her hands are on me—one cupping my jaw, steadying me, the other drawing lazy patterns over the ink on my chest, sending heat through my body like wildfire. Like she’s waking me up cell by cell.

“I’m here to stay,” she whispers the words like a vow, brushing her lips against mine. “To reclaim the title of your wife—with everything it means.”

Those words nearly undo me.

Something in my chest loosens—snaps open like a cage—and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer, grounding myself in the feel of her body. Her skin. Her presence.

I tilt my head back just enough meet her gaze, and when I speak, my voice is quiet—but thick with emotion.

“Welcome home, wife.”

Her lips curve into a smile so beautiful it almost hurts to look at. And right here—with the morning sun glowing behind her, tangled in my arms, bare skin against bare skin—I know.

There’s no turning back.

Not from this.

Not from her.

Not from us.

FORTY-SEVEN

Sierra

We spent the morning wrapped in each other—arms, legs, confessions. Tangled in sheets and truths that had waited too long to be spoken.

We talked about the night that broke us. About the messages from Samantha, and how every word chipped away at the fragile trust I had. About how scared I’d been—of losing him, of not being enough for him. Of being a fool.

And I was a fucking fool for believing her.

Nick listened. Really listened. His eyes never left mine, and his hands never stopped anchoring me—a thumb brushing my wrist, a palm resting on my thigh, his fingers tracing the inside of my elbow.

And when it was his turn, he told me everything. How it blindsided him. How angry he’d been—hurt, disappointed. Not just in me. In himself too. For not seeing it coming. For not stopping it.

Somewhere between all those broken pieces and stitched-back-together sentences, we found something solid. Something real. Something that felt like peace.

And then we laughed.

Like, really laughed. The kind of laugher that feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long. It started when I reached for his hand and realized he was still wearing his ring. It was there, on his finger. Just like mine.

We just stared at each other for a beat. Then the laughter came—loud, a little teary, full of disbelief and relief.

We’d spent months apart, pretending we’d move on, while secretly refusing to let go. Both of us had walked around this whole time with metal circles on our fingers and hope tucked into our chests.

We avoided our phones like they were landmines. Didn’t even glance at them when they buzzed on the nightstand. We knew. Articles, photos, probably even videos. Messages from our siblings and parents. Missed calls too.

None of it mattered.