Chapter 25
Chapter 25
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Ten months. Ten gloriously chaotic, sarcastic, kiss–stained, life–altering months. Ten months since I first knocked on the door of the most expensive penthouse in Manhattan like I owned the place–armed with sass, thrift–store sneakers, and a resume that basically screamed “don’t hire me unless you like attitude.”
And now?
I live here. He walks now. I kiss him. Often. He doesn’t complain. (Shocking.)
But also…. he doesn’t say it.
The L–word. Not that I need it–not like I used to when I was sixteen and hopelessly in love with the idea of love. Now? I just want honesty. A sign. A label maybe. A roadmap. Not because I’m clingy. Hell no.
But because… I’ve fallen. Hard. Steven McLeon–the ex–racer, ex–underwear model, ex–brooding mess–is now the man I make pancakes for in the morning while yelling at him for not wearing socks. The man I kiss before bed and pretend I don’t want to drag into said bed for reasons beyond PG–13.
And what are we? Something more than friends.
Not quite lovers. Kissing–roommates–with–emotional–support?
It’s weird. Wonderful. Confusing. I told him last week that I wasn’t expecting anything. And I meant it. Kind of. Maybe. Sort of.
But I’m not blind. I see the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching.
Like I’m not just the woman who helped him stand. But the one who helped him rise.
And that’s terrifying. Because what if he wakes up one day, fully healed, and realizes he doesn’t need me anymore?
What if I was just a chapter in his comeback story? Today he stood two full steps without my help. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just smiled–that big, watery smile that betrays everything I pretend to hide. Then I made him mint ice cream (gross) and pretended not to watch his every move like a proud momma bear- slash–situationship girlfriend.
But God, I’m proud of him.
Not just for walking–but for surviving. For letting me in. For letting himself smile again.
Even if he hasn’t said the words yet… Even if he just kisses me like I’m the air he breathes and says nothing after…
I know. I know what it feels like when he touches me. I know the love in his silence. The confession in every kiss. The truth in the way he lets me hog the blanket and wear his shirts.
So where do we go from here? Wherever the hell he wants. Because whether he says it or not…
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Chapter 25
:
I’m already his. Now I just need him to admit that he’s mine.
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It was past midnight when I heard it–the softest knock. Barely there. Like hesitation wrapped in hope.
I was curled up under my blanket, already half–asleep, the room dipped in moonlight and quiet. But something told me–it was him.
I didn’t move at first. I just lay there, heart starting to beat a little faster. The door creaked open an inch. Then
two.
“Madison…”
His voice was low, rough with something that felt like longing and disbelief. “Are you awake?”
I could’ve pretended longer. Let him stand there awkwardly in the hallway, murmuring to the dark like a lovesick Shakespeare. But then he whispered:
“I don’t know when it happened… but you changed everything. This place used to feel like a tomb. But now I see colors. Flowers. Light. You brought it all in with you.”
God. I melted.
I sat up, blanket falling from my shoulder as I met his gaze in the half–light. He was already walking–no wheelchair, just him and that cane, like some brooding romantic hero with wounded pride and a heart he never thought he’d give away again.
He froze when he saw me awake. “You heard that?”
“Every word,” I whispered.
And then, without waiting, I kissed him.
Not a teasing kiss. Not a peck. Not an accident.
It was real, full, raw–like we’d both been holding it back for far too long.
His jacket slid from his shoulders like it was never meant to be between us. I tugged him in by the front of his shirt and whispered against his lips, “Stay.”
There was no hesitation.
We moved through the dark together–fingers tangled, breath shared–until we reached the edge of the bed. He touched my cheek like he was afraid I’d vanish. But I didn’t. I stayed.
And when we sank into the sheets, it wasn’t just about passion.
It was the feeling of belonging.
The way his forehead rested against mine as we whispered things we were too afraid to say in daylight. The
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way his hands traced my skin not with hunger, but with reverence. Like he needed to remember every curve, every line, not because he wanted to possess me–but because he wanted to never forget.
We undressed slowly, like peeling away fear and history. Every touch was deliberate. Every kiss meant something.
And when we came together–wrapped in warmth, hearts pressed close–it was slow. Beautiful. Anchored in something deeper than want. It was surrender.
Not to lust.
To love.
To everything we’d both been too afraid to say.
When it ended, we didn’t speak. He just pulled me close, arms wrapped around me like I was gravity itself. His lips found my forehead, my temple, the bridge of my nose.
Then finally, he whispered into the quiet:
“I don’t know how I lived before you.”
I buried my face in his chest, eyes stinging.
“You don’t have to anymore.”
And we lay there, skin to skin, heart to heart–no labels, no doubts, no masks. Just two people who found something sacred in each other.
He didn’t need to say the words. Because he already showed me–with every touch, every breath, every kiss.
And me? I already knew.
He was it. He was the one.
And finally… we were home.
Together.
At midnight… The room had gone still, but nothing about me was calm.
His arms were around me–strong, sure, trembling just slightly with something neither of us wanted to name yet. Love? Longing? The feeling of finally finding home in someone’s skin?
Maybe all of it. The air between us was warm and heavy with everything we hadn’t said out loud but had been screaming through every stolen glance and accidental brush of hands.
“Are you real?” Steven asked softly, his voice barely a breath against my temple. “Because this feels like something I’ve been dreaming for years.”
I tilted my head to look at him. The moonlight carved across his cheekbone, softened the sharpness of his
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jaw. His green eyes–God, those eyes–were staring at me like I was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
“I’m real,” I whispered, curling my fingers at his nape. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
His lips found mine again, this time slower. Slower than any kiss we’d ever shared. Like we had all the time in the world now, and he wanted to memorize the taste of my breath.
His hand skimmed down my back, fingers sliding over the curve of my spine, and suddenly I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Every nerve inside me sparked like fireflies as I pulled him closer, until there was no space between our skin, no question of where he ended and I began.
“You make me feel alive again,” he whispered against the corner of my mouth. “Like a man.”
“You are,” I said, my voice barely steady. “You always were.”
His kiss deepened–hot, searching, reverent. His touch wasn’t rushed. It was full of need, yes, but more than that–it was filled with care. His hands moved like he was discovering me, learning every inch, every soft sigh and whispered moan.
My back arched to meet him. His breath hitched as his fingers brushed across the swell of my waist, then slid along the edge of my thigh.
We moved like music–like the softest, slowest song that only the two of us could hear. Tangled sheets, tangled breaths, hands gripping hands.
“I need you,” he said, voice rough, chest rising against mine. “I’ve needed you for so long.”
“I’m yours,” I breathed.
And I was.
Every inch of me, every heartbeat, every piece that had been cracked or uncertain–he held it now. Not just in his arms but in the way he moved. The way he looked at me. The way he pressed his forehead to mine between kisses like I was something sacred.
He entered me like it was a promise. One slow breath at a time. We didn’t rush. We didn’t chase the high.
We sank into each other.
He moved above me, our hands clasped tight like prayer, and every brush of his lips, every slow rock of his hips, felt like something holy.
It wasn’t just desire. It was belonging.
His name left my lips in a whisper–Steven–like it was the only word I’d ever known. And when I opened my eyes and saw the look in his, I felt it. He was already mine. Even if the words hadn’t been said out loud.
We came undone together–slow, soft, complete. Not like fireworks, but like sunrise. Like warmth spreading over skin that had been cold for too long. He stayed above me for a moment, chest pressed to mine, our breaths uneven. Then he kissed me once more, slow and quiet, before pulling me close and whispering, “You changed everything.”
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I tucked my face into his neck, smiled, and whispered back:
“So did you.”
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We didn’t speak again that night. We didn’t have to. He held me tighter than ever before, and I fell asleep knowing–for the first time in my whole damn life–that this wasn’t temporary.
This was real. This was us. And we were just getting started.
