Page 158 of Through the Storm

I kiss her, slow and careful, like we’re relearning each other on purpose.

She melts into me, warm and sure, her fingers curling into my shirt, tugging me closer like she’s done waiting. No rush. No pressure. Just us, finding our way back with our patience and laughter still intact.

Still, I hesitate. My hand rests on the mattress between us.

“I mean it,” I murmur. “We don’t have to do anything. I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

She reaches for me first, fingers slipping under my shirt, warm and certain.

“I don’t,” she says quietly. “I just want you. I always want you. And it’s been too long.”

I feel that everywhere. I kiss her again, not as gently this time. Her hand slides to the back of my neck, and she makes this soft sound, barely there. Her breath catches against my mouth, and then again when my lips gently brush her neck, testing what she needs, and it’s enough to undo me.

We take our time. There’s no urgency, no rush. Just hands learning familiar shapes again, mouths lingering like the moment might break if we move too fast.

When I pull back, I look at her. Really look.

“You okay?”

She nods, eyes steady, dark and sure. “Yeah.”

I kiss her again, deeper. My hand settles at her waist, thumbbrushing slow, like I need to memorize her all over again. Every movement deliberate. Chosen.

Later, when we’re tangled together beneath the sheets, her head resting on my chest, she traces lazy patterns over my ribs.

“I missed you,” she murmurs.

I press a kiss to her hair. “I never went anywhere.”

She hums, already drifting. I stay awake a little longer, listening to the quiet of the apartment, the baby’s soft breathing through the monitor.

Same love.

Still us.

The baby wakes before the alarm. He doesn’t cry. He just makes this small, offended sound, like he’s disappointed the world hasn’t noticed him yet.

I check the clock. Jesus, it’s way too early. Of course it is.

I slide out of bed carefully. Katy doesn’t stir, just shifts slightly, one hand resting over her stomach in that protective, unconscious way she’s had since the second trimester. She was up late writing. I know better than to wake her.

I go into Mini-Ben’s room to check on him. “Hey buddy,” I whisper.

That does it. His mouth puckers. Not screaming yet, but we’re heading there. I scoop him up, and he settles immediately for me.

It makes me feel ten feet tall.

The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the soft sounds drifting in through the window. Early morning near campus always feels suspended, like everyone’s holding their breath before the day starts.

I warm his bottle by muscle memory now. I measure, shake, test it on my wrist.

Perfect.

Mini-Ben grips my shirt while he eats, eyes half-closing, body relaxing against my chest.

“Big day, little guy,” I murmur, because talking to him feels natural now. “For me too.”

I notice Katy is watching us from the doorway. She’s wrapped in a blanket, her hair a mess, her eyes heavy with sleep. She just leans against the frame and looks at us like she’s trying to hold the moment still.