Page 45 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

The next morning — Ariana

S unlight was creeping in.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Just slow and steady—threading through the gaps in the blackout curtains like it had all the time in the world. The kind of morning light that didn’t demand anything, just offered warmth and clarity.

I blinked against it and stretched, feeling the whisper of sheets against bare skin and the pull of muscles I hadn’t used like that in longer than I wanted to admit.

And then I felt him.

His body, warm beside mine. The slow, even rhythm of his breathing. The weight of his presence in the bed—comforting, undeniable.

Christopher.

Still here.

I shifted slowly, trying not to wake him yet, and let my gaze drift over his face.

The same one I used to watch in high school while he slept off late-night band rehearsals in my twin-sized bed.

Hair a mess. Lips parted slightly. His brow relaxed in sleep the way it never seemed to be when he was awake.

He looked…peaceful. Like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t waiting for the next fight or the next goodbye.

And the ring?

Still on my finger. Still warm from sleep and skin.

Not an accident. Not a leftover from some tequila-soaked joke. I’d had time to take it off. Time to change my mind.

But I hadn’t.

I rolled onto my side and propped myself up on one elbow, watching him breathe.

One of his hands lay relaxed on the sheet between us.

The other curled beneath the pillow like a boy—not a man, not a rock star—but a boy I used to know.

A boy who used to kiss me behind the bleachers and play songs he wrote just for me in the back of his dad’s garage.

A boy who used to fall asleep mid-sentence, my name still on his lips.

God, we’d been stupidly in love.

And now? I didn’t know what this was. Not exactly. But it wasn’t a mistake.

Not anymore.

Last night hadn’t been about adrenaline or drama. Not about making a point or proving anything. After we made love—after I gave in to the pull I’d been resisting for weeks—we hadn’t just passed out like a pair of teenagers.

We talked.

Laid there, tangled up in each other, the kind of close you don’t fake.

He told me things I hadn’t expected. About songs he wrote but never recorded.

About the quiet panic of success—how you could stand in front of a stadium of screaming fans and still feel alone.

He’d wondered, more than once, if I ever listened to his songs.

If I ever thought about him. If I still had the bracelet he gave me after senior prom.

(For the record, I do. It’s in a drawer. I haven’t had the guts to throw it away.)

And I’d told him things too.

About court. About the pressure of trying to be someone who makes a difference.

About how some nights, I stare at case files until the words stop making sense, and I wonder if I’m helping or just pretending.

About how much I miss my dad. About how I’m up for Deputy District Attorney and not entirely sure I’m ready.

We didn’t fix anything.

But we were real.

There were no stage lights. No wedding chapel. No vodka shots or Elvis impersonators. Just us. Raw. Unscripted.

This morning, I didn’t wake up with regret clawing at my throat.

No shame. No panic. No scramble to run.

I felt…still. Present. Ready.

I reached for him.

Carefully, like I wasn’t sure I had the right. My fingers brushed his, and for a second, nothing happened. But then his hand twitched. Turned. Closed around mine.

And his eyes opened.

A little bleary. A little tired. But warm. And clear.

“Still here,” he said, voice low and rough with sleep.

I nodded. “Still married.”

His mouth curved into a sleepy smile, slow and cautious, like he wasn’t sure how much to hope.

“Still want to be?”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Not shaky. Not scared. Just sure.

“I think I do,” I said quietly. “I think…this time, I stay.”

Something flickered across his face then—relief, maybe. Gratitude. Wonder.

He didn’t speak right away. Just brought my hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist. It wasn’t a seduction. It wasn’t a performance.

It was soft. Reverent. Real.

And I let him. Because this wasn’t Vegas. This wasn’t a joke, or a hangover, or a headline waiting to happen.

This was us. The real us.

Complicated. Broken in places. Still healing. But not finished.

He rolled onto his side to face me fully, our hands still clasped between us. “You don’t have to promise anything yet,” he said, his voice gentle. “You don’t owe me that.”

“I know.” I traced the edge of his thumb with mine. “But I want to try.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“I want the version of us that doesn’t crash and burn,” I added softly.

He exhaled. Closed his eyes like he was making a wish. “Then we try.”

The light had shifted by now, casting golden streaks across the sheets and warming the air between us. He pulled me close, his arm wrapping around my waist like we’d never stopped being this—whatever this was.

I rested my head on his chest and let my eyes close again. Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was bracing for impact.

I felt safe. Whole. Like maybe, just maybe, we’d finally figured out how to hold on without falling apart.

And maybe—maybe—we were only just getting started.

We were us again…finally.