Page 31 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Me too,” I admit, because we promised honesty. My hand comes up to cover hers. “Do I need to go now?”
“No,” she says, immediate and soft. “Please don’t.”
I nod once, like accepting orders, and lean in slowly enough for second thoughts to have room if they want them. They don’t. Her mouth meets mine in a kiss that starts careful and goes warm fast. The world narrows to breath and heat and the particular way she tilts her head like we’ve been practicing without trying.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” I murmur against her lips, my default when any line might get blurry. “You’re driving.”
“I’ll tell you,” she says, and then she pulls me closer by the front of my shirt like a decision she’s been saving up for.
Everything after that is a slow climb. No rush, no edges that cut—just the steady escalation of proximity turning into promise. I lift her carefully, easing her sideways so she can lean back, my body bracketed around hers without weight she doesn’t want. Her sweater slides under my palms. Her skin is heat and silk and the kind of right that has no instruction manual.
Her hands glide over my shoulders like she’s been thinking about this for months, which I have. Oh fuck, the amount of times I’ve thought about kissing Melanie again is insane. We kiss until breathing insists and then we rest our foreheads against each other, laughing in small, astonished bursts I want to save in a jar.
“I wasn’t ready,” she says, breath evening, “but maybe being ready is a myth.”
“It is,” I say, cupping her face. “Prepared is real. Together is real.”
“And us?” she asks, searching my eyes, not coy, not fishing—just brave. “What is that?”
“Complicated,” I say, then shake my head. “Wrong word. It’s… building. It’s slow. It’s me showing up and you letting me, until those two things feel like one thing.”
Her eyes shine. “Okay.”
Another kiss. Deeper now, but not frantic. I memorize every incremental yes—her fingers tugging my collar, the way she arches when my hand skims her side, the way she says my name like it turned into a better word than the one I was born with.
When the temperature threatens to outpace good sense, I pull back an inch, press my lips to her forehead, her temple, herpulse. “I want you,” I admit, voice rough. “And we will go as far as you want, but not past where you sleep well after.”
She exhales a sound that’s half laugh, half relief. “I like you.”
“I like you more,” I answer, which is ridiculous and true.
We settle—her tucked under my arm, my hand splayed over the curve of her belly like a promise and a guardrail. The baby nudges my palm once like a tiny fist bump, and my chest does something I’m not built to describe.
“Stay?” she whispers, already drifting.
“Yeah,” I say, already committed. “I’m on your couch. I’m your sandbags.”
Before she falls fully asleep, I get up long enough to run one more perimeter—deadbolt engaged, wedge secure, blinds set to kill outward visibility without killing stars. I text Duke:
With M. Standby here tonight. Mercer still on your grid?
Last seen near marina. We ghosted him south. Sleep when you can.
I slide back under the blanket, cue the part of my brain that listens while the rest rests, and watch the shape of her breathing even out.
She says she isn’t ready. Maybe neither of us is.
Doesn’t matter.
I build readiness for a living.
One sandbag at a time.
12
Melanie
I wake to the smell of toast and something citrusy—and to the sight of Lucas in my kitchen like he’s always lived there. He’s in a soft gray tee and my favorite sight: bare forearms, coffee mug in one hand, spatula in the other. For a second I wonder if I dreamed last night, but then I spot the rubber wedge under my door, the one that definitely wasn’t part of my décor before he arrived.
