Page 38

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

RHYS

I try to give Ally space—even though every instinct inside me protests like a scream under my skin.

After everything—the public seizure that shattered the illusion of stability, Hayden free-falling into a version of himself I barely recognise, and the suffocating stress of her medication changes—I know she needs time.

To breathe.

To think.

To just be .

But knowing doesn’t stop the ache. Doesn’t stop the way my body leans towards hers even when I’m standing still. The way my fingers twitch with the urge to touch . To reassure . To anchor her and, in doing so, anchor myself.

So when she grabs my hand and pulls me into her room, silent and deliberate, I go without question. My heart lurches against my ribs like it’s bracing for something it’s wanted for too long.

The door shuts behind us with a quiet click . It’s not loud, but it echoes like something final. Intimate. Like we’ve sealed ourselves in a world that doesn’t belong to anyone else but us.

The room is soaked in twilight, soft shadows dancing across the walls. Her bedside lamp glows warm, painting her skin in light that makes her look almost surreal—like something from a dream I haven’t let myself fully have.

And the smell—it’s her . Vanilla, soft fabric, and something skin-warmed and subtle I couldn’t name if I tried, but I’d recognise it anywhere. It’s in my hoodie, my pillows, my goddamn bloodstream.

She doesn’t speak. Just stands there, chest rising and falling, her fingers curling into the hem of my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.

Like she’s choosing this.

Choosing me .

“I need you,” she says quietly.

Her voice is barely more than a breath, but it lands in the centre of my chest like a punch.

I swallow hard.

She’s not just saying she needs comfort.

She’s saying she needs me .

And that’s all it takes.

I step into her like I’m answering a question we’ve both been asking for years. My hand finds her waist, the other slipping into her hair, and then—our mouths meet.

It’s not hesitant. Not gentle.

It’s hungry .

Our lips crash like we’re making up for every moment we held back. Her fingers fist into the fabric of my shirt, and I’m already pulling her closer, anchoring her against me like I’m terrified she’ll vanish if I blink too long.

It feels like she's trying to etch the shape of my mouth into her memory with every kiss. Like she needs it to breathe. And God, I’ve never wanted anything more than to be the air she inhales.

Her hands slide beneath my shirt, brushing over the skin of my stomach, slow and purposeful. Her fingertips are soft, but they ignite me. Like every nerve ending is lighting up just because she touched me there.

I raise my arms and let her peel my shirt off. The cotton brushing my skin sends a shiver down my spine. Her eyes linger as she takes me in—her breath hitching just enough for me to notice.

And fuck, if that doesn’t make me ache for her.

I guide her backward, our mouths still locked together, until the backs of her legs hit the bed. She sits first, her eyes locked to mine, lips parted, cheeks flushed. Then slowly— so slowly—she lowers herself back onto the mattress like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

She’s all flushed skin and messy hair and trembling breath, and I have never seen anything more beautiful.

She looks up at me like I already have her—but still dares me to earn her.

My heart pounds so hard it might shake the room.

“Are you sure?” I ask, voice rough, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. I’m not sure how I keep my hands from shaking. It’s not our first time together, but this time feels different. Like she’s finally giving me her everything.

Though barely audible, her reply sears right through me. “I’m sure.”

Then her hands are back on me, gliding over my chest, tracing the lines of my body like she’s discovering something new. Her nails scrape lightly down my stomach, and I stifle a groan—because if I start letting this unravel me now, I might never come back.

I press her into the mattress, her legs wrapping around my waist like instinct. Our bodies mould together in a heat I swear I’ve never felt before—not like this. It’s not just physical. It’s something else. Something deeper. Like she’s not just under my skin—she is my skin.

We kiss like we’re desperate to feel everything —slow and lingering one second, fast and breathless the next. Her hands in my hair. My mouth on her neck. Her hips arching up to meet mine in slow, teasing movements that make my self-control slip one notch at a time.

Every brush of skin, every gasp and soft moan, every heartbeat pounding beneath my palm— it’s all her .

After what felt like an eternity, we finally let go.

Let go of fear. Of control. Of pretending.

Just us—breathless, tangled, and undone.

* * *

The light in the room shifts—soft, streaks spilling in through the blinds and painting the sheets in long lines of morning sun.

Ally is curled up beside me, tucked beneath my arm, her bare shoulder exposed. Her breathing is slow.

Peaceful.

I can feel it, soft and rhythmic, where her chest presses against mine. Her fingers trace slow circles over my sternum like she’s sketching words she’s not ready to say aloud.

I lie still, afraid to move. Afraid to wake whatever delicate truce has settled over the space between us.

She hasn’t looked this calm in weeks. No nightmares. No tension lining her spine. Just… quiet.

I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in.

“Morning, baby,” I murmur, my voice hoarse with sleep and something gentler.

She hums, nuzzling deeper into my chest, her smile lazy and real. “Five more minutes.”

I laugh softly, the sound low in my throat. “You can have forever if you want.”

Her only reply is a contented sigh, one leg sliding between mine like she wants to sink even deeper into me.

I could stay like this forever.

Wrapped in quiet. In her.

But the world doesn’t stay quiet for long.

A loud knock rattles the door, followed by Chase’s voice, far too chipper for the hour. “Hey, lovebirds, get dressed. You’re gonna want to see this.”

Ally groans into my chest, her body stretching like a cat beneath the covers. She lifts her head just enough to shoot me a look—one of those half-amused, half-murderous glares that say this better be worth it .

I grin, reaching for the sweats crumpled at the end of the bed. “Come on, let’s go see what fresh chaos awaits.”

She rolls her eyes, then tugs my hoodie over her head. It’s massive on her. She drowns in it—and somehow still looks like she owns every damn room she walks into.

I follow her out of the bedroom and into the hum of the house.

The living room is already alive with quiet chatter and shifting energy. Everyone’s here—Yasmin curled into the arm of the couch, Chase leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. And in the middle of it all—Hayden.

He’s standing next to the couch, holding his son.

Really holding him. Not like he’s a burden, not like he’s glass. Just… holding him.

His hands are cradled gently around his tiny form, his posture cautious but steady. The tension that’s been radiating from him like smoke for days is still there, but it’s muted now.

Contained.

Controlled.

And in his eyes—there’s something new.

Something like wonder .

Millie watches from nearby, her expression a delicate balance of hope and caution. Like she wants to believe this is a turning point, but she’s afraid to lean too hard into it. Afraid it’ll vanish if she looks too closely.

Hayden looks down at his son, his thumb brushing lightly over his blanket. His jaw clenches, but there’s no anger in it. Just emotion. A kind of reverence I wasn’t sure he had in him.

Ally nudges me gently, her smile crooked. “Told you he’d get there.”

I don’t answer right away. My throat tightens as I look at my brother—this boy who’s spent the last few weeks unravelling right in front of us. I’ve been bracing for him to break again. For him to vanish into the same darkness that swallowed our dad.

But he’s still here.

And maybe—just maybe—he’s found a reason to stay.

“Yeah,” I say quietly, my arm wrapping around Ally’s waist. “He did.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe —we’re all going to be okay.

Not perfect. Not clean. Not healed.

But okay.

And for now… that’s enough.