Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
“Really?”
“Really.”
Her shoulders ease. “Okay.”
She wipes her face with the heel of her hand and scampers off to her room, crisis apparently resolved.
Kids are built different.
I stand slowly.
Tessa returns with the broom and dustpan.
“You want me to handle it?” she asks.
Her voice is careful, but not fragile.
“No.”
I take the broom from her. Our fingers brush. She doesn’t flinch.
She watches me sweep the glass, then kneels to gather the broken pieces.
“You kept it out here,” she says gently.
“Yeah.”
She studies the photo now that it’s free from the shattered frame.
“She’s beautiful.”
There’s no edge to it.
No jealousy.
Just truth.
“She was,” I say.
Tessa glances up at me. “Is.”
That word lands differently.
“She is,” she repeats. “In here.”
She taps my chest lightly. Something in my ribcage shifts.
Most people don’t say her name. They talk around it. Avoid it.
Tessa doesn’t.
“Lauren,” she says softly.
I blink.
“You don’t have to tiptoe,” she continues. “She’s part of this house.”
“She’s part of me,” I answer.
“I know.”
She sets the photo carefully on the table.
“You’ll never stop loving her,” she says.
“Yeah. I just…don’t want you to think you’re competing with a ghost.”
I study her face, looking for insecurity. For doubt. I don’t find it.
“She’s Lacee’s mother,” Tessa continues. “She’s the reason you love the way you do.” My jaw tightens. “You love fiercely. You show up. You don’t run.” She pauses. “Even when you want to.”
That hits too close.
“You think I want to run?” I ask.
Her mouth curves faintly. “Every time things get too real.”
I step closer. “That’s not running.”
“It’s retreating.” She doesn’t back down. “You think wanting me means you’re betraying her.”
The words are quiet. Precise. I don’t answer. She takes that as confirmation.
“I don’t want to replace her,” she says.
“You couldn’t,” I utter.
“I know.” Silence breathes between us.
“You don’t scare easily,” I finally say.
“I’m not scared of love.”
“That’s naïve.” I chuckle.
“Or brave.”
I exhale sharply. “You don’t understand what it’s like to lose someone like that.”
“No,” she says softly. “I don’t.”
There’s no defensiveness. Just honesty.
“But I understand what it’s like to stay stuck because you’re afraid to move forward.”
My eyes narrow. “You don’t know that either.”
“Maybe not exactly,” she says. “But I know what grief does when you don’t let it breathe.”
She steps closer. Close enough that the warmth of her body brushes mine.
“You can love her,” she says quietly. “And still want me.”
That’s the problem. I do. God, I do.
My hand lifts before I think better of it, fingers sliding into her hair at the nape of her neck.
She inhales sharply.
“You don’t get to say things like that lightly,” I murmur.
“I’m not.” Her hand settles against my chest. Right over the place she tapped earlier. “You’re allowed to live,” she says.
The fire took so much. It took laughter out of these walls. It took ease. It took certainty. And for nine years, I let it take whatever it wanted.
Because wanting anything felt disloyal.
“You look at me like you’re trying to memorize me,” she whispers.
“Maybe I am.”
Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers. “You don’t have to choose between past and future,” she says. “They can exist together.”
I study her face.
“You’re not jealous,” I say slowly.
“Of a woman who loved you?” she asks. “Why would I be?”
“Most would.”
“I’m not most.”
No. She isn’t. I lower my forehead to hers.
“You’re dangerous,” I murmur.
“Because I understand you?”
“Because you make me feel understood.”
Her lips part slightly.
“That’s not dangerous,” she says.
“It is when I’ve built my life on control.”
“And?”
“And you unravel it.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt. “You don’t want control,” she whispers. “You want connection.”
I drag my thumb along her jaw. “Careful.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll stop holding back.”
Her breath stutters. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
The tension snaps tight.
“Say that again,” I demand softly.
She swallows. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
My mouth finds hers. This time slower. Deliberate. I taste her hesitation and her courage intertwined.
My hand slides to her waist, pulling her flush against me. She melts into it. Her hands glide up my chest, over my shoulders.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur against her mouth.
“So are you.”
I huff a low laugh. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
I pull back just enough to look at her. “You don’t get to honor my past and then pretend you don’t own my present.”
Her cheeks flush. “Own?”
I lean closer. “Yes.”
Her lips tremble slightly.
“You don’t scare me,” she whispers.
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Because when I decide something matters,” I say quietly, “I don’t let it go.”
Her breath catches. “I’m not something to conquer.”
“I know.”
My thumb traces her lower lip. “You’re something to protect.”
Her eyes soften. “I don’t need protection from love.”
“No,” I say. “But you deserve someone who won’t half-choose you.”
Silence hangs between us.
“I won’t,” I add.
Her fingers press into my chest. “Then don’t pull away.”
The plea is quiet. Vulnerable.
I kiss her again.
Not to claim.
Not to escape.
But to promise.
Her hands slide down my arms, grounding us both.
When I finally pull back, her lips are swollen and her eyes are bright.
“Lauren doesn’t disappear because I kiss you,” I say.