Page 116 of If Love Had A Manual

The problem is, they’re right.

Lena isn’t casual. She isn’t something temporary, or something I can keep at a safe distance. I’ve had plenty of casual before—quick flings, meaningless hookups that barely made a dent. But Lena feels permanent, like the kind of story you tell people years from now.

It’s more than just incredible sex, though God knows that’s part of it. It’s the little things: the way she hums softly while cooking, the quiet warmth in her eyes when Rosie toddles toward her, and how she touches me as if she sees through every wall I’ve built and isn’t scared of what lies beneath.

Last night, when the dog ran off with Rosie’s favorite stuffed elephant, Lena laughed until tears streamed down her face. When she looked at me, breathless, with bright, hopeful eyes...fuck, something cracked open inside my chest.

I thought my life was simple: work, Rosie, sleep, repeat. Stay detached, avoid complications. But suddenly, my life has morphed into bedtime stories, rescue dogs, and a woman whose kisses feel dangerously close to salvation.

The scary part isn’t just how much I want her. It’s realizing I can’t even picture my life without her in it. Whatever’s happening between us isn’t fleeting or casual. It’s starting to feel like home.

And that’s fucking terrifying.

Because I’ve never had one before, and I have no clue how to keep it.

Forty-Three

Lena

Routines sneak up on you quietly. They’re sneaky little bastards that slide into place before you even realize they’ve changed you. One minute, life is hectic. Next, you’re brushing your teeth in someone else’s bathroom and pouring coffee into a mug you didn’t buy but now can’t imagine your morning without.

That’s what this has become. A rhythm. A life. A family I never expected to have. And it terrifies me how badly I want to keep it.

I wake up to Rosie’s babble most mornings, her voice crackling through the baby monitor. By the time I get downstairs, Wes already has coffee waiting. Nowords, no ceremony. Just that familiar mug on the counter. Sometimes Rosie’s already in her high chair, flinging toast. Other times, she’s in Wes’s lap, trying to feed him instead. Either way, I walk into that kitchen like I belong. Like I’ve always belonged.

On those nights when I’ve got a gig at the bar, he finds me. He doesn’t say he will, and he never promises to show. But every single time, I spot him in the crowd, always in the same chair, his stare a brand on my skin.

Then there’s the other routine. The one we never talk about, the one written in glances and touches. The one where Rosie’s asleep and my feet carry me down the hall before my brain even catches up.

Like tonight.

The hallway is hushed, but my heartbeat is a drum in my throat as I reach his door, where he’s waiting. Arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he knew I’d come. Like he felt the same pull I did.

Neither of us says a word.

We don’t need to.

I step over the threshold, and he’s on me, kissing me like it’s the only thing keeping us both breathing. His mouth is slow yet unyielding. His hands grip my hips as he backs me toward the bed, and I follow without question.

When my back hits the mattress, he follows me down, pressing himself between my legs with the kind of weight that settles deep.

There’s no rush. Just aching intensity. He kisses me like he’s cataloging every part, like he’s afraid he’ll forget the details. His lips trail down my throat, his touch everywhere.

We undress in pieces, not like we’re racing to get there, but like we’re savoring the journey. Every sigh,every tremble, every scrape of skin on skin, it all builds. It all means something.

His mouth drifts lower. Past my collarbone, over the curve of my breast, and the dip of my stomach. I gasp when his hands part my thighs. He looks up at me once, just checking. Asking.

Breath catching in my throat, I nod.

In the next beat, he buries his face between my thighs like he’s been starving for me. His tongue slides over my clit with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes my hips lift clean off the mattress.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he groans, breath hot against my core.

My body jolts, but his hands are firm, spreading me wide like he’s staking a claim, like this is his and no one else’s. He licks me again, then flicks my clit with the tip of his tongue. I try to close my legs on instinct, but he growls and pins them open.

“Uh-uh. Keep those pretty thighs right there, baby. I’m not done.”

I nod frantically, already on the edge.

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