Page 175 of When the Sky Falls

“But it’s worth it,” Reese finishes for him.

We sit like that a while longer. Picking at the last bites of dinner. Letting Maggie fuss over dessert. Letting the silence stretch again, but not the kind that’s heavy.

The house is quiet.

That kind of stillness that only comes after a day well-lived and a dinner that left everyone too full to overthink. The twins are asleep. Reese and Thorin have disappeared into their corner of the house. Maggie’s gone to bed with a book and a stern warning not to wake her unless the house is on fire.

Fletch closes the door behind us with the softest click.

He drops his duffel bag in the corner without touching the light switch, letting the moonlight spill through the curtains and bathe everything in silver-blue shadows. He turns to me, eyes dark, jaw tight. But it’s not anger. Not tension. It’s that ache—the one I know lives behind his ribs when he’s been gone too long.

I don’t wait.

I walk right into his arms, wrapping around him like I’m reclaiming something that was always mine.

His hands slide into my hair, cradling the back of my head like I’m breakable and sacred and his.

“You’re here,” I whisper, burying my face in his neck.

“I never really left,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But fuck, baby… I missed you.”

Then he kisses me.

Hard.

Hungry.

Like weeks of late-night phone calls and half-hearted goodnights have been building into this exact moment. His mouth moves over mine with reverence and urgency, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it all over again.

I tug at his hoodie, and he lifts it over his head without breaking the kiss, our bodies crashing together like gravity remembered how to work.

Clothes fall away in pieces. Breathless. Desperate.

By the time we hit the bed, we’re nothing but skin and sweat and everything we couldn’t say on the phone.

He rolls me beneath him, hands braced on either side of my head, eyes burning into mine like I’m the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“Tell me this is real,” he says, voice barely a rasp.

I nod, threading my fingers through his hair. “It’s real. It’s always been real.”

His mouth trails down my throat, over my collarbone, lower.

And then⁠—

He’s inside me.

No hesitation.

Just heat. And stretch. And home.

My legs wrap around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, anchoring him there like I need him to feel how needed he is.

He moves slow at first—long, deep strokes that make my whole body tighten. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s afraid to go too fast and miss something.

But the tension builds. Between us. Beneath us.

And soon it’s not slow anymore.