Page 21 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Eighteen

Penny

The house is too quiet.

I sit on the couch with my knees tucked up to my chest, staring at my phone where it lies face-down on the coffee table, as if by flipping it over I might stop it from taunting me.

I haven't heard from Richard since the day I kicked him out except for his half-hearted generic apology in the break room.

Not a text. Not a call. Not even a cowardly middle-of-the-night voicemail he could pretend he didn’t mean.

I should be relieved. I told him to go. I meant it. Didn’t I?

But every time the house creaks, every time a car drives past, some part of me lights up, stupid and hopeful.

I pull the throw blanket tighter around my shoulders and stare at the clock. Almost 7:00. It’s too late to pretend I’m just busy. Too early to pretend I’m asleep.

The worst part is, I keep picking up my phone.

Thumb hovering over his name.

Thinking about texting something—Anything. Hey. Can we talk? I miss you.—and then setting it back down like it weighs a hundred pounds.

I’m mad at him. I’m still hurt.

But somewhere beneath that, coiled tight and impossible to ignore, is the memory of his mouth on mine, his hands steady on my waist, the way he said he hoped we'd find our way back to each other.

I drag a hand through my hair and stand up, pacing the living room.

I don’t know how to start.

I don’t know if it even matters anymore.

Maybe he’s moved on already. Maybe he decided it was easier to let me believe I wasn't worth fighting for.

The thought makes my chest ache.

Bijou lifts her head from her bed in the corner, ears perking up at the sound of tires crunching on gravel outside.

I freeze.

No one’s supposed to be here.

I cross to the window and push the curtain back just enough to peek out.

And there he is.

Richard.

Standing on the porch, truck still running behind him, looking like he just ran a marathon and lost a fight with a hurricane somewhere along the way.

He’s breathing hard, hair tousled, hands fisted at his sides like he’s trying to physically hold himself back from kicking the door down.

My heart slams against my ribs.

I don’t move at first. Just stand there, watching him, frozen by the force of wanting and fear and hope all crashing together in one overwhelming wave.

He shifts his weight, about to knock.

About to say something.

And I know, in that split second, that whatever happens next—

It’s not going to be quiet.

It’s not going to be simple.

It’s going to be real.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and move toward the door.

Because I’m tired of being afraid of the things that matter most.

I open the door before he can knock.

Richard startles slightly, like he wasn’t sure I’d answer, like part of him expected me to leave him standing out there in the dark.

He looks up at me, and for a second neither of us says anything.

It’s all there between us—the apology in his eyes, the fear in mine, the thousand things we never said because we were too proud, too scared, too stubborn.

“I’m sorry,” he says first, voice rough around the edges, like he ran here through a storm even though the night is dry. “Penny, I am so goddamn sorry.”

I fold my arms tightly across my chest, not to push him away, but to hold myself together. I don’t trust myself not to break if he gets too close too fast.

“For what, Richard?” My voice is low, steadier than I feel.

“For lying to your parents? For making me feel like I was something to be ashamed of? Or for not fighting for me when it should’ve been the easiest thing in the world to tell them the truth?”

His face crumples, just for a moment.

He steps forward, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but he doesn’t touch me. His hands hover at his sides like he’s afraid even that would be too much.

“For all of it,” he says, voice breaking.

“I was scared. Not of you. Not of us. Of... failing you again. Of screwing it up like I always do. Of my parents looking at me the way they always have—like I’m not good enough for the life they imagined.

And somehow, instead of choosing you—the only thing I ever got right—I defaulted back to being the son they wanted instead of the man I’m supposed to be. ”

The words hit me like stones—not because they hurt, but because they’re raw and real and his. He’s not hiding anymore, not smoothing the edges to make it easier for me to forgive him.

He scrubs a hand through his hair, jaw tight.

“They’re in town. They came to visit. Took one look at this place and told me I was wasting my life. My mother... she asked about relationships again.”

He lets out a sharp breath, half laugh, half broken noise. “And today, I didn’t lie. I told them everything. About you. About us. About how I love you more now than I ever thought was possible when we were kids who thought we knew everything.”

I blink, stunned, my hands dropping to my sides. “You told them?”

“I told them I’d choose you a thousand times over—every time.” His voice softens. “And I meant it.”

For a long moment, I just stand there, breathing him in.

The anger that had propped me up these past few days wavers, buckles under the weight of everything he’s giving me now without being asked. I see the way his hands shake, the way his mouth presses into a tight line like he’s bracing for me to slam the door in his face.

And maybe a few days ago, I could have.

But not now.

Not after everything.

I step forward, reach out, and fist my hands into the front of his shirt, pulling him toward me with a force I didn’t know I still had.

His arms wrap around me immediately, strong and steady, like he’s been waiting to hold me again since the second he let me go.

He buries his face against my neck and I feel his breath hitch, feel his whole body sag with relief as I clutch him tighter.

“I’m still mad at you,” I whisper into his shoulder.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll earn it back. Every day. I swear.”

I pull back just enough to look him in the eye.

His face is open, wrecked, full of the kind of desperate hope that feels more honest than anything he’s ever said. I reach up, cupping his jaw, my thumb brushing over the stubble there.

“No more running,” I say.

“Never again,” he promises.

I believe him.

God help me, I believe him.

I surge up and kiss him, and he meets me like he’s starving for it, like he’s been holding his breath since the day he left and only now remembers how to breathe.

His hands slide up into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I feel everything in me loosen, unwind, surrender.

This isn’t soft or careful—it’s messy, aching, real. It’s the kind of kiss you give when you have nothing left to lose and everything to fight for.

He backs me into the doorframe, one hand splayed wide over my lower back, the other cradling my jaw like he’s terrified I’ll vanish if he lets go.

I don’t know how long we stay like that—minutes, hours—but when we finally break apart, breathing hard, our foreheads resting together, it feels like something inside me settles for the first time in days.

“I love you,” he whispers.

I close my eyes, let the words soak into my bones. “I love you, too.”

And for the first time, there’s no fear left in it.

Just us.

Exactly where we’re supposed to be.

We don’t rush.

After the door clicks shut behind us, Richard just stands there, arms around me, like he needs a minute to believe this is real.

I don’t move either. I stay pressed against him, soaking in the solid weight of him, the way his heart thuds strong and steady beneath my cheek.

Eventually, he lifts his hand to tilt my chin up. His thumb brushes over my lower lip like he's memorizing the shape of it, and then he kisses me again—slow this time, deep and unhurried, like he’s savoring every second.

It’s not frantic anymore. It’s something quieter, heavier, threaded through with everything we didn’t say, everything we just lived through.

He kisses me like he’s staying.

He kisses me like he’s already home.

We end up in my bedroom without ever really deciding to move there, undressing each other between soft laughter and half-whispered apologies that get swallowed up in the growing heat.

His hands are reverent and sure, like he’s making promises with every touch. I lose myself in the feel of him—the familiar weight of his body, the newness of the way he looks at me now, like I’m not just someone he wants but someone he’s ready to build a life around.

I barely even register the hazy flicker of something I should have remembered, some practical detail hovering at the edge of my mind, before it dissolves under the next slow thrust of his hips and the low, broken sound he makes when I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer.

He lays me down on the bed, his eyes dark with desire. He hovers above me, his weight careful, his hands tracing the curves of my body.

His lips trail down my neck, his breath hot against my skin, as his hands work to undo the buttons of my blouse.

I shiver, my fingers threading through his hair, guiding him lower.

I’ve never been one to hide my desires, and with Richard, I don’t have to. He knows me, knows what I want, knows how to make me feel.

The blouse falls away, and Richard’s hands slide over my bare skin, his touch both gentle and urgent.

My breath catches as his lips find the swell of my breast, his tongue teasing the lace of my bra.

I moan softly, my hips pressing up into his, my body aching for more.

“Richard,” she whispers, her voice pleading. “I need you.”

He looks up at me, his eyes burning with intensity. “I’m right here,” he says, before kissing me again, deeper this time, his hands moving to the zipper of my skirt.

Richard’s gaze rakes over me, his desire palpable, and I feel a surge of power, of confidence. I’ve never felt more beautiful, more desired, than I do in this moment.

He sheds his own clothes quickly, his body lean and muscular.