Page 51 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

I t’s late by the time I finally get home. Later than I promised, later than I meant. The garage had one last emergency job to attend to. Still, regret gnaws at me as I push open the front door. I hate the thought of Lena waiting up.

The house is dark, except for the soft glow of the baby monitor on the coffee table. Its screen flickers, showing a grainy picture of Rosie fast asleep.

Lena’s curled up on the couch, one arm tucked under her cheek as a makeshift pillow. Milo is sprawled across her ankles. He’s been protective of her since Frank died. I think he senses her grief.

I give him a scratch behind his ear. “Thanks, buddy. I can take over.”

He bounds off the couch.

His shift is over.

A wave of guilt churns in my chest at the sight of her. She looks exhausted, worn down, and now she’s dozed off here instead of in bed.

I step closer, careful not to jostle anything, but she doesn’t stir when I crouch down and brush a few strands of hair off her forehead. She’s out cold, lips parted in a soft exhale. Christ, I know she’s been trying to put on a strong front, but I see the toll in the dark smudges under her eyes.

Exhaling, I press the back of my hand gently to her cheek in a half-formed apology for being late.

Sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, I lift her into my arms. Even with all the times I’ve held her, there’s a softness in this moment that jolts through me.

She must be fully asleep not to stir at my touch; usually, she half-wakes, murmuring my name or leaning into my chest. Tonight, there’s nothing but the steady sound of her breathing.

It’s crazy to think I might be carrying something fragile when I know firsthand how resilient she is.

Still, she doesn’t wake even as I carry her upstairs and into the bedroom. I nudge the door shut with my foot and lay her down.

Taking a selfish second, I linger to trace the line of her jaw with my gaze. There’s a faint worry line etched between her brows, even in sleep.

God, Lena.

I finally force myself to step away and head for the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grease and tension from the day.

When I’m done, I go back into the bedroom, push aside the covers, and climb into bed next to her.

The moment my weight dips the mattress, she stirs, and I curse under my breath.

“You’re home,” she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.

I lay my hand over hers where she’s placed it on my chest. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

Her eyes remain closed, but her brows pinch like she’s not sure if she wants to melt into me or push me away. It breaks my heart, that flicker of uncertainty.

We used to move in sync, no second-guessing. Now, she’s half-lost in grief, still trying to figure out if she’s allowed to need me.

A long pause follows, and I think she’s drifting off again, but then her voice comes, cracking on the edges. “Wes?”

I shift, turning my head toward her. “What’s up, baby?”

She slides her hand up, clinging to me wherever she can. “I need you tonight.”

Those words punch the air from my lungs and stoke a fire in my chest.

Need me.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for weeks, for Lena to finally admit she needs me too. Not just in quiet gestures, but in words that matter. I shift closer, my arm sliding around her waist, pulling her gently against my chest. Her body molds to mine, and I exhale at how perfectly she fits here.

She presses her forehead to my collarbone, her voice so fragile it nearly breaks. “Please…just don’t let go.”

“I won’t. I’m right here.”

Her hands slip up my bare chest, fingertips trembling.

She presses into me, trying to get closer, trying to erase the lingering grief, if only for tonight.

My hand trails down her spine, feeling her warm through the thin fabric of her tank and shorts.

When she tilts her head back, exposing the delicate line of her throat, I kiss her there, breathing her in .

“Please,” she whispers again.

This need she feels tears me wide open, but it also sets my pulse racing.

My lips find hers in the quiet stillness of the room, tender at first, careful to let her lead and set the pace.

She sighs softly into my mouth, parting her lips to invite me deeper, and my heart pounds painfully.

This is what she needs—comfort, warmth, connection.

And fuck, I’ll give her every bit of myself if it helps erase even a fraction of her pain.

I pour every ounce of reassurance I have into that kiss, letting her know she’s safe, she’s wanted, she’s not alone. But soon, her hands are pushing at my boxers, fingers grazing my skin in restless need.

I let her strip them off. Her clothes soon follow until she’s bare beneath me, and her pale curves are illuminated by the faint moonlight slipping through the window.

God, she’s beautiful.

Her gaze locks on me, glassy but intense.

“I’ve got you,” I say, kissing her again, deeper this time, a slow drag of lips and tongue that coaxes a quiet moan from her throat.

She arches under me, letting her legs fall open in silent invitation.

Taking my time, I explore her body, memorizing every curve, every shift of muscle, each small gasp or sigh that tells me I’m giving her what she needs.

This isn’t about chasing my pleasure, even though it’s there, thrumming under my skin.

It’s about soothing her grief, replacing her pain with warmth, with life.

I shift between her thighs, guiding myself in. She gasps softly, her nails biting at my shoulders, and that single sound resonates through my entire body .

“Wes,” she whimpers, face contorting with emotion—pleasure, relief, heartbreak, all tangled together.

I move gently at first, each thrust deliberate, sinking into her over and over.

This, I tell myself. This is how we remind each other we’re alive.

Her eyes flutter, lids heavy, and the smallest smile lifts her lips.

Legs wrapping around my hips, she draws me deeper, wanting more. I comply, tension coiling in my stomach, but I maintain a careful pace. Each push and pull is about giving her what she wants.

With a quiet moan, her nails scrape down my back, urging me faster. I growl low, head dipping to trail kisses over her neck, wanting to worship every part of her that trembles beneath me.

The pressure builds between us. I hear her breathing stutter and her body tighten around me, as I stroke my hands up her sides, cupping her face again. Her eyes flick open, meeting mine with a heat that sends shivers down my spine.

Pressing my lips to hers at the exact moment she dissolves, her body seizes around me with a soft cry of my name. The rhythmic clench of her orgasm pulls me under too, a rush of warmth flooding my veins as I groan into her mouth.

It feels like forever before the tension ebbs.

I hold her tight, chest heaving, mind spinning with the mingled swirl of desire and tenderness.

Her breath comes in unsteady gasps, arms still looped around my neck.

I kiss her shoulder, her collarbone, any part of her I can reach, reassuring her it’s okay to let go.

Finally, I roll carefully, keeping her close. She curls into me and tucks her head under my chin. Neither of us speaks. We just breathe with our hearts thumping. The silence is thick with the words we can’t say yet. But that’s fine. We have time.

I feel her soft lips press a final kiss against my chest, and she drifts off, lulled by the steady drum of my heartbeat.

For the first time in weeks, she sleeps peacefully.

She might not realize it yet, but she’s my everything. My solace, my home, my goddamn purpose.

And I’ll spend every moment I have proving to her that I deserve to be hers.