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Within a few harsh breaths, he settles between my legs, gaze locked on mine as he thrusts into me. My body arches with a sharp, breathless cry. The sensation isn’t just physical—it’s soul-deep, a connection that feels like coming home.

Each pump of his hips is measured, and so deep my breath stutters in my throat.

“Say it,” I gasp desperately, needing the words again.

His lips brush mine. “I love you.”

Those words alone are enough to bring me right to the edge.

Our bodies move together in an urgent rhythm.

The paint and mess all fade away. All I feel is him, moving inside me, claiming me with every stroke and whispered promise against my skin.

When the pleasure coils and crests, I shatter with a gasping cry that echoes through the half-painted room.

Moments later, he finds his own release, and it tears through him with his face buried against my neck.

We lie tangled together as we catch our breath and wait for our heartbeats to slow.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, pressing gentle kisses across my shoulder.

I nod against his chest. “Better than okay.”

He hums in agreement, holding me closer as his fingers trace soothing circles across my back.

“Lena,” he says with a huff of breath.

I tilt my head to look up at him. His eyes are locked on the wall, so I follow his gaze.

Confused, I ask, “What?”

He squeezes my side as the corner of his mouth edges into a smirk. “You missed a spot.”

Fifty-Three

Morning light streams across the lawn, wrapping everything in the kind of softness that feels safe. My bare feet sink into the cool grass as I sit cross-legged, and the breeze teases strands of hair across my face. I can still see the ladder and paint cans we abandoned yesterday—our chaotic attempt at adulting that ended in laughter, in paint-streaked kisses and declarations I’m not ready to think about too hard yet. Because thinking too hard feels dangerous.

Right now, I’m focused on Rosie.

She toddles around me in lopsided circles, giggling like the world is a game she’s just learned how to win. Milo trails behind her, looking very much like he’s on patrol.

When Rosie stumbles, he gently nudges her upright.

She plants both hands on her sides, glaring. “Milo! No!”

Yep, with all those words came independence, and I swear, Milo looks like he’s trying to apologize.

“Good boy,” I praise him with a smile, digging atreat from my pocket.

“This kid’s been holding out on us. She’s all about the words now.”

It’s true. Once she said “Dada,” it was like someone opened the floodgates.

I credit Wes. He talks to her like she’s in a board meeting half the time, and she soaks it up.

I glance at the house, where Wes is probably finishing the trim we forgot last night. Not that either of us cared when things turned into tangled limbs and whispered confessions. My stomach flips remembering it. The way he looked at me. The way he said he loved me.

I roll onto my stomach, chin resting in my hands. “Rosie Posie, your dad told me something last night.”