Page 101 of At First Flight
The morning creeps in quietly, golden light slipping past the curtains and stretching across the floor in long, lazy ribbons. For a few delicious seconds, I’m suspended in that half-wakeful place where everything still feels like a dream.
Then I feel him. Dean’s arm draped across my waist, one leg tangled with mine, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
We’re tucked together like we’ve always fit this way. And it does feel that way now—easy. Right. But that makes it all the more terrifying.
I shift slightly, enough to stir him. He murmurs something against my skin, pulls me tighter, and presses a kiss to my bare shoulder.
“I love waking up like this,” he mumbles.
I smile into the pillow. “Naked?”
“Naked, wrapped around you, not entirely sure what day it is. Yeah.”
I turn toward him, and his eyes, still sleep-heavy, find mine. He looks younger like this. Softer. Like the years of carrying everything for everyone haven’t caught up to him yet.
“Do you still feel wrecked?” I tease gently, brushing my fingers over his chest.
He catches my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Completely ruined.”
“Good,” I whisper.
We stay curled up for a while longer, cocooned in the warmth of sheets and shared breath. His dick slips in and out of my sex in that lazy way that I’m starting to love until we both crest over the peak. But eventually, reality creeps in.
Pitter-patter steps down the hall.
Dean groans. “Our tiny alarm clocks.”
Sure enough, Evelyn appears in the doorway, holding her stuffed lamb upside down by one paw, wild waves stuck to her cheeks.
“Waffle might be turning into a butterfly today,” she announces like it’s national news.
I glance at the clock. Barely seven.
Dean rolls over. “Let Waffle sleep in, baby. Like me.”
Evelyn climbs onto the bed like a determined squirrel. “Butyousaid I could see her wings. Maybe.”
I grab the sweatshirt on the floor and pull it over my head, laughing as I head to the bathroom. “Give me one second and we’ll check together.”
Downstairs, Oliver’s already at the table, eating a bowl of dry cereal like it personally insulted him. The kitchen is a mess—crumbs, boxes, a single sock on the counter—but I don’t care. This kind of chaos feels good. Lived-in.
Evelyn races to the dining room windowsill, where Waffle still hangs motionless inside her little case.
“No wings yet,” she sighs.
“She’s not ready,” I tell her, smoothing her hair. “Some things take time.”
Dean appears with coffee in hand, still barefoot, wearing yesterday’s jeans and the softest look I’ve ever seen on his face.
He hands me a mug and kisses my temple. “I think she’s ready.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s not talking about the chrysalis.
My stomach flips.
The kids chatter on, voices overlapping like birdsong. Oliver declares he’s going to build Pancake, Waffle, and Maple a habitat out of LEGOs. Evelyn insists butterflies need tiaras. But all I can feel are Dean’s eyes on me—steady, quiet, hopeful.
And the truth hits me like an explosion. I want this. I want this messy, beautiful life. I want the tired mornings and sticky counters and conversations about butterfly royalty. But more than anything, I want the way he looks at me when I don’t even know I’m being watched. The kind that you can just… feel.
