I reached for his hand. “Thank you for staying.”
He leaned in, forehead to mine. “I didn’t stand a chance.”
The cottage seemed to breathe with us, the air thick with a warmth that felt older than time. A hush swept through the room as if the house recognized the promise in our voices, sealing Millie’s wish once more.
“Come here,” I whispered.
The dress slid down in a sigh. His suit followed, piece by piece, like confession made flesh.
The bed welcomed us like witness. We came together slow—deliberate, reverent, earned.
No chase. No flight. Just breath and promise and the steady pulse of being known.
When I exploded, I held his name in my mouth like truth.
When he followed, the sound left him like a promise.
After, we lay tangled under the quilt, Billie’s voice fading into hush. Rain began against the glass—soft, forgiving, like the sky’s own benediction.
We spoke in murmurs—plans for the retreat, dreams of the future, the possibility of a crib someday and what courage might look like if love grew larger.
“We found ourjust right,” he whispered.
“We built it,” I replied, tracing the lines of his chest.
Sometime before dawn, I woke to stillness.
Pressed my palm to the window.
Watched mist curl over the garden.
Felt the truth of it—love as a daily yes.
When he reached for me, I went back willingly.
Home wasn’t a place. It was this.
26
LENNOX
Morning spilled soft gold through the curtains, pooling across the quilt and hardwood floors like melted sunlight. Outside, the hills wore a crown of mist, the world paused — a breath caught between what had been and what was to come.
Naima slept beside me, hair splayed across the pillow, her breathing even, calm. My arm was still around her waist, my fingers resting against the rise of her round hip. For a while, I didn’t move. I just watched her. The peace in her face. The soft rhythm of her presence.
I used to think love was supposed to be wild, consuming — proof of something I’d earned. But this right here…this stillness…it was proof enough.
The cottage creaked as the house woke with us — the kind of sound old wood makes when it’s learning to breathe again. I eased out of bed, careful not to wake her, and padded across the room. The air smelled like roses and rain, the scent that seemed to live on her skin now.
In the kitchen, I poured hot water for tea and tried to steady the beat in my chest. The ring box sat on the counter, waiting.I’d carried it home from Pittsburgh like it was made of glass. My father had pressed it into my hand before I left, eyes soft behind his glasses.
“Your mother would want her ring to find its way back to love,” he’d said.
I hadn’t been ready for that. For years, I’d built walls around the memory of her — and around him too. But somehow, standing in his office that morning, the distance between us didn’t feel so sharp. Maybe grief dulls into grace if you let it. Maybe men like us just take longer to learn how to forgive.
Now, here I was — standing in a house that had seen its own redemption — about to offer her the only thing that ever felt certain.
When I walked back into the room, Naima stirred, blinking against the light. Her voice was soft, still thick with sleep. “You’re up early.”
