Alex didn’t flinch. “I know.”
“I didn’t mean to shut you out.”
“I know that too.”
They sat in the quiet hum of the kitchen, a box waiting in the hallway, memories littered across the house, and something unfamiliar settling between them.
Not peace. But maybe something like it.
Charlotte watched Alex clear the empty pizza box from the counter, moving with the easy confidence of someone who had spent years cleaning up other people’s messes. His shoulders were tight with fatigue, but he didn’t complain. He just rinsed the plates, wiped down the counter, and straightened the stools she hadn’t noticed were knocked sideways during the search.
She stood at the window, arms folded tight across her chest. The backyard lay still, the garden soft in the dying light. Her voice was low, tight. “I’m not going back to Sophie’s.”
Alex didn’t answer right away. “Then come to my apartment.”
She turned, eyes hard. “No. I’m staying here. This is my home.”
“I get that,” he said. “But I’m not letting you stay here alone.”
She didn’t fight him on that. Just nodded once and walked upstairs.
Outside,Alex updated the Waverly Junction officers—short, direct: they’d be staying the night. No need for in-house patrol. He knew they’d keep a distant watch anyway.
When he came back in, the house felt heavier. Quieter. He locked the doors, checked every latch, then set the alarm. Upstairs, the bedroom door was open just enough for him to see her figure under the blanket. She was curled up, facing the wall, her sweater tossed across a chair.
She wasn’t asleep. He could feel it.
He stripped off his clothes deliberately. No hesitation, but no gentleness either. That part of him—the one that waited, the one that soothed—was still there but buried under something hotter, something edged. Not angry. Just real.
He slid into bed behind her, the heat of her body instantly feeding the tension already coiled in his chest. She didn’t move. But she didn’t pull away either. “I’m still angry,” he said, voice low against her neck. “Still feel shut out.”
She answered quietly, “I don’t know how to let you in.”
His hand traced her hip. “You’re going to learn if we want more in this relationship. I need more, Charlotte.”
He rolled her gently onto her back, eyes locked on hers. His weight settled between her thighs, and for a moment, the air between them pulsed with silence. Then he kissed her—deep, claiming, nothing held back. She responded like she’d been waiting for it, like she needed to be taken and unraveled.
His hands moved over her pajama shirt, pushing it up. She lifted her arms, helping him strip it off, baring her to him completely. He reached over to the nightstand, grabbed the bottle they’d used before. He couldn’t hurt her—not even close. But he could push her. He could make her feel every ounce of what he needed from her.
“I love you, Char.”
He warmed the lubricant in his hand and reached between her legs, coating her slowly, deliberately, watching her lips part as the slickness teased her open. She arched into his touch, hips searching for more. Then he leaned in, took one nipple between his fingers, rolling it until it peaked, then pinching—just enough to make her gasp.
Her hands twisted in the sheets. “I know.” It came out in a whisper.
He lowered his head, kissed the space between her breasts, then moved lower. His mouth worked down her body, tongue brushing over skin until her thighs parted beneath him. She trembled, breath short and uneven, every nerve tuned to him.
He didn’t wait for her to ask. To tell him she was ready. He pushed into her hard, slow only for the first few seconds. Then he moved with raw purpose, hands gripping her hips, holding her still as he drove deeper. This wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was possession, built on everything she hadn’t said and everything he still needed to prove.
She moaned, her head falling back, her legs locking around his waist. She was right there with him—giving, gasping, eyes locked on his like she couldn’t bear to look away.
When she came, it was sharp and sudden, her body shuddering around him, pulling him with her. He only let himself fall after her, hips finally slowing, breath ragged.
He stayed inside her, chest pressed to hers, his hand splayed over her ribs, feeling the frantic drum of her heart. She didn’t speak. Neither did he. But she didn’t move away.
Twenty-Three
Thursday
