Page 122 of Returned Mail

“I don't know how to do this anymore,” I admit quietly. “I don't know how to be someone's person. Someone's choice.”

“Then let me show you,” he says, and there's no hesitation in his voice. “Let me keep choosing you. Every single day, I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you.”

My breath catches. “George…”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, lowering me onto the bed carefully, like I'm something precious. Like I'm something worth protecting.

His mouth follows the line of my jaw. The edge of my throat. I run my hands across his back, feeling the strength there, the scars, the proof that he's still here. With me.

“I truly love you so much,” I whisper into his shoulder.

“I love you too, Mia.” He moves closer, bracing himself above me. His eyes never leave mine. I can feel his hands roaming the rest of my body, my ribs, my stomach, and landing at the hem of my panties.

“What happens now?” I ask, a little scared of this answer, a lot scared of what comes next.

“Now?” He says as his thumb brushes my thigh. The corner of his mouth lifts, and there's something possessive in his smile, but not in a way that scares me. In a way that makes me feel seen, loved, cared for. “Now I make you mine.”

My heart swells, and his smile deepens.

“I want that,” I say, kissing him.

“Good,” he says softly. “Because now that I found you, I’m not letting you go.”

He slides my panties off slowly, taking his time, his eyes darkening as he positions himself between my thighs. I can feel the heat of him there, the anticipation coiling down in my stomach and between my legs. My hands find his shoulders, gripping, anchoring myself to him.

“Look at me,” he whispers, and I do. His gaze is locked on mine, intense, hungry, but tender all at once.

He moves closer to me, and my breath hitches. When his mouth finally finds me, a gasp tears from my throat. My head tilts back, but he makes a soft sound of protest.

“No,” he says, his voice rough. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. I want to see you.”

I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze, and the intimacy of being watched, of being seen, while he's touching me like this is almost more intense than the physical sensation.

His tongue circles, then dips, and my hips move instinctively toward him. He presses his hand flat against my stomach, holding me there, controlling the pace.

This is the type of intimacy I didn't know existed. Even being in a six-year relationship before, there’s something about him, something about this moment that just makes sense. It makes everything feel exactly the way it's supposed to.

My legs tremble around him, and he wraps an arm around my thigh, holding me close, his other hand finding mine and threading our fingers together.

We're no longer strangers, and there’s no more fear between us.

For the first time in my life, I feel at home.

He is my home.

Epilogue

two years later

The last box lands on the hardwood with a thump that echoes through the empty house.

Our house.

I stand in the middle of the living room, hands on my hips, breathing in the scent of new walls and fresh paint and the faint trace of George’s cologne drifting in from somewhere down the hall. I can’t believe it’s been over two years since everything started. Two years since the letters, the hospital, meeting him…

My chest warms just thinking about it.

“You good in there?” George calls from the entryway.