Page 57 of Life After You

I’ve spent years loving her in silence, watching from the shadows, swallowing every fucking thing I wanted because of a promise I made to a ghost. But last night, for the first time, I let myself have her. And I’d do it again.

No regrets.

Not one.

I prop myself up on my elbow, careful not to wake her, and just look. I drink her in like I’ll never get another chance. Maybe I won’t.

Her skin is still marked from my hands, my mouth, my desperation. I trace the faintest bruise on her hip, right where my fingers held her too tight, a perfect imprint of how much I needed her—how much I still do. The sight of it sends a sharp ache through my chest, something raw and possessive and completely fucking helpless.

She shifts, curling toward me in her sleep, like she belongs here, like I’m not about to rip myself away from her all over again. My throat tightens.

I swallow hard and let my eyes roam her face, the way her lashes flutter slightly, the soft part of her lips, still kiss-bruised, still swollen from whispering my name like I was the only thing in her world that mattered.

And fuck—was I? Even for just one night?

I press my palm over my chest, like I can somehow hold myself together, but it’s useless. She’s already inside me. Always has been. Every song I’ve ever written, every fucking lyric—it’s her. It’s always been her.

I should regret this. I should hate myself for breaking my promise.

But as I watch her breathe, my heart beating too loud in my chest, I know the truth.

I’d break every damn promise I ever made if it meant keeping her.

The room is still dim, dawn creeping in through the thin curtains. My arm is slung low around Mac’s waist, my face buried in her hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no rush to move. No screaming alarms. No brutal awareness of how fucking complicated everything has become.

Just her.

Just us.

Just this.

We talked for hours last night, too. Afterward, she had grumbled about seeing stars, and it stoked my ego, just a bit. Hours of whispered memories, of Braden, of us as kids. Sneaking out to skate under streetlights. Daring each other to jump from the dock into the freezing lake. The first time I ever played guitar for her.

It felt like before.

Mac is warm against me, her bare skin soft under my fingertips as I trace slow, lazy circles on her shoulder. The early morning light slips through the curtains, catching in her hair, turning it to gold. She’s here. Really here. And for the first time in years, everything feels right.

A soft knock at the door shatters the quiet.

Fuck off. What can anyone possibly want this early in the morning?

I tense, and so does she.

Mac shifts, making a sleepy sound that goes straight to my chest, and before I can say anything, Clay’s voice filters through the wood.

“Morning, lovebirds. Everyone’s in the kitchen. Made breakfast if you want some. Doubt you got any sleep.” The last words are muttered, but I catch them anyway.

A smirk tugs at my lips. Yeah, he’s not wrong.

Mac groans and buries her face against my chest, her hand blindly swatting at me like this is somehow my fault. “Too early,” she mumbles.

I chuckle, voice still rough with sleep. “You gonna tell him that, or should I?”

She huffs but doesn’t move, and I swear I could stay like this forever—wrapped up in the girl I’ve loved half my life, in a bed that smells like her, in a moment that feels like home.

But reality doesn’t wait.

Another knock, this time with less patience. “Mac, I know you’re awake. Logan, if she doesn’t come down, I’m blaming you. The guys are up and demanding to plan the day… Something about an escape room.”

---