Page 99 of At First Flight
But neither of us saysforever.Neither of us dares.
We lie on the couch, tangled under a knit blanket. My head rests on his shoulder, our fingers intertwined, the TV murmuring quietly in the background. We’re still and we’re not. My thoughts are racing. My heart feels too big for my chest.
“I used to think I wanted a life that made sense,” I murmur.
He doesn’t move. “And now?”
“Now I want one that feels like this.”
His arm tightens around me. “Me, too.”
And in the quiet of that moment, with the scent of candles and rain lingering in the walls, I finally let myself believe in the kind of love that stays.
The house has gone still again. The kids are down, the TV off. The silence that fills the space now is heavier than before—not lonely, but expectant. Like something important is about to happen, and neither of us is pretending to ignore it.
I head to the kitchen to wash out my wineglass. Dean follows a beat later, barefoot, his shoulder brushing mine as he passes me to grab a glass from the cabinet.
We’re dancing in that space between comfort and need again—close, familiar, but edged with something far more dangerous.
My fingers fumble with the dish towel. “Still doesn’t always feel real.”
“What doesn’t?”
“This. You. The kids. The ever-growing butterfly population.” I glance at him, forcing a smile. “Sometimes I feel like I stepped into someone else’s life.”
He studies me with that same patient, unreadable expression he wears when Oliver is melting down or Evelyn won’t let him brush her hair.
“But itisyour life,” he says softly.
“And what if I don’t know how to live it right?”
Dean sets the glass down. His voice is even, but low. “You think you have to be perfect to deserve this?”
I look down at my hands. “I think I’ve spent so long being useful that I forgot how to be wanted.”
He steps forward, one hand cupping my jaw, tilting my chin until I have no choice but to look at him.
“I want you.”
The words hit harder than I expect. Not lustful. Not possessive. Just a truth, spoken like a vow.
“You have me,” I whisper, leaning into his touch. “But I’m still learning how not to brush it off when something feels good.”
His thumb brushes under my cheekbone. “Then I’ll take it slow.”
But when he kisses me, it’s anything but slow.
It’s soft at first—lips brushing, teasing—but there’s heat under the surface, a hunger barely contained. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me closer. I feel him everywhere—chest to chest, breath to breath.
When I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him deeper, he groans low in his throat, backing me up against the kitchen counter. I reach for the hem of his T-shirt and tug gently. He helps me pull it off, then rests his forehead against mine, chest rising and falling like he’s holding himself back.
“Bedroom,” I murmur.
He sweeps me up in his arms before I finish the word.
As he carries me, his eyes never leave mine with a look that steals my breath. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he looks away. Like he’s memorizing me.
The door shuts behind us, soft and final. He sets me down beside the bed but doesn’t rush. His hands settle at my hips, warm and sure, and he just watches me for a moment. My heart is pounding, and I know he can feel it under his fingertips.
