Page 96 of The Hotel Room

Kate sighed softly beneath his hands, her shoulders loosening under his touch.

James swallowed hard, his throat tightening with emotion.

Thiswas what he wanted to dedicate his life to.

Not desperate, selfish grasping at some fleeting illusion of freedom.

This.

Her.

Being with her. Supporting her. Protecting her. Uplifting her. Loving her, in every way he could, for as long as she would let him.

He would be here, no matter what. Whether she let him stay in her bed, in her life, in her heart—whatever she allowed, he would honor it.

His fingers moved up to her shoulders now, working gently at the tension there, careful not to press too hard. Her breathing slowed, evening out into a soft, steady rhythm, and he knew she was falling asleep.

The room felt impossibly quiet, but his thoughts were loud, overwhelming.

He had hurt her so deeply, fractured the trust she had given him so completely and freely for so many years.

But she was still here.

Still letting him in.

Still letting him touch her.

His chest ached with gratitude and guilt, the weight of it pressing heavy against his ribs.

“I love you,” he whispered, so softly he wasn’t even sure if she could hear it.

Her breathing didn’t change.

But his hands didn’t stop.

He would keep doing this—keep showing her with every action, every touch, every word, just how much she meant to him.

Because this, here, with her?

This was home.

This was love.

This waseverything.

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The kettle hissed softly on the stovetop, the rising steam fogging the kitchen window as James leaned against the counter. He cradled a mug in one hand, the other drumming idly against the counter as he waited for the water to boil.

Kate was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands resting on her belly in that absent-minded way she’d been doing more often lately. The gold band of her wedding ring caught the soft morning light. She wasn’t looking at him, her gaze focused somewhere on the table, distant and unreadable.

He hated the distance.

Hated knowing he’d put it there.

The moments they spent together now were like this—quiet, tentative, like walking on eggshells, every glance and word heavy with unspoken things.

The kettle whistled, and James moved quickly, pouring the boiling water into the mug and carefully dunking the tea bag in and out. He knew how she liked it—just a little milk, no sugar—and he focused on getting it right, the simple act grounding him in a way nothing else could.

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