“That meant a lot,” I add softly. “More than you probably realize.”
His chest rises, shaky. “I told you I would.” He leans forward, voice rough. “And that was only the beginning.Janie—” He swallows. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Not to prove I deserve Beckett. To prove I deserve you. To prove I can do this with you.Withyou, Janie.”
The repetition lands like a fist against my ribs. My fingers curl into the table’s edge to steady myself.
“You say that now,” I whisper. “But saying it isn’t enough. You can’t just tell me. You have to show me.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Then let me. Please. Let me reset. Let me try again, the right way. Not hiding. Not holding back.” His hand presses flat against the table, closer to mine. “I want everyone to know I’m Beckett’s father. And I want everyone to know I love his mother.”
Air leaves my lungs in a rush. I grip the edge harder, blinking fast. His words are bold, reckless even, but they’re everything I’ve wanted to hear and was too scared to hope for.
“You don’t make this easy,” I murmur, a tear sliding free before I can stop it.
"What, forgiveness?"
"No, saying no."
"Well, good, then. I want you to say yes. I want to make it easy for you to sayyes."
My hand trembles as I lay it over his. His palm is warm, steady, waiting. I want to believe him, God, I do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted—this, him, us. A family.
But wanting isn’t the same as trusting.
“I need to see it,” I whisper. “Not just tonight, not just in words. We both need to rebuild what we broke.”
“You will.” His eyes lock on mine, unblinking. “I’ll show you, Janie. Every day. I want us to be a family, out in the open. No more hiding. No more halfway.”
My chest aches so fiercely that I press my free hand against it. I don’t say yes, but I don’t let go of him either.
The silence stretches. His thumb brushes against mypalm, tentatively, almost reverently. I know if I don't pull back now, there's no going back.
“Janie…” His voice drops, hoarse with need and fear.
I lift my eyes to his, and the breath catches in my throat. Everything I’ve ever wanted stares back at me. Love, regret, determination, accountability.
He stands and leans in slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. I don’t. His lips press to mine, soft at first, almost questioning.
The ache in my chest breaks wide open. I fist his shirt, pulling him closer, and his kiss deepens, rougher now, a lifetime of holding back spilling out. His chair scrapes back as he fumbles forward, his hands sliding to my face, then my hips, desperate but careful.
I let myself melt into him, my body answering what my words can’t yet promise.
Every nerve in my body is tuned to this man, this moment.
It’s desperate, rough, our kiss swallowing the weeks of silence, the years of hurt, the endless wanting. I clutch at his shirt harder, twisting the fabric in my fists as if I can keep him tethered to me.
“God, Janie,” he mutters against my mouth, his breath ragged. “I've missed you. I missed this.”
My answer is a whimper as I shift my middle into him, pressing hard. His hands slide to my hair, then down to my ass, dragging me flush against him. There’s no mistaking how badly he wants me.
We stumble back from the table, fumbling, laughing into each other’s mouths when my hip knocks into the corner of the counter.
His hands are everywhere: under my sweater, on my skin, kneading like he can’t decide where to touch first. I yank his shirt over his head, our mouths breaking only longenough to strip it off. My sweater follows, tossed somewhere on the floor.
We bump into the wall, hard, his palm slapping against it beside my head. His other hand slides beneath my waistband, fingers hot, causing a broken sound to escape my throat.
“Bedroom,” I pant.
He groans like the word itself undoes him. “Lead the way.”