She rises up slightly, her eyes searching mine. "I never stopped wanting you either, Warren. Even when I hated you for disappearing."
NotI love you, but something just as dangerous. Just as binding.
"I'm sorry." I mean it more than any apology I've ever given. "I think your family will understand now. We’re not kids anymore. You’re not just starting your life—you’ve built one. And I want to be part of it."
"Do you think we can do this?" She echoes my question back to me, her voice steady despite the vulnerability in her eyes.
"I do." I pull her closer, inhaling the scent of her skin. "I want us to talk about it as adults and figure out how to do this. Together."
Janie relaxes against me, her leg sliding between mine, her arm draped across my stomach. The casual intimacy of it hits harder than the sex, this easy claiming of space.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," she murmurs.
I laugh softly. "After all these years? You know me better than almost anyone."
"We haven't spoken in five years. I bet there are a few things I could learn."
My fingers trace lazy patterns on her shoulder. "I learned to enjoy cooking, trying recipes. Not just survival cooking. Actual recipes. And I like it."
"Really?" She tilts her head, surprise brightening her voice. "I never would have pegged you as a chef."
"My specialty is risotto." I press another kiss to her forehead. "And you? What don't I know?"
"Something you don't know about me. Hmm." Janie taps her chin, her smile playful in the dim light. "When I can't sleep, reruns of Forensic Files are my go-to. I know, it sounds creepy. But something about that guy's voice that narrates it puts me right to sleep."
"I have no idea what show you're talking about, but based on your caveat, I have a feeling it is at odds with a peaceful sleep." I prop myself up on one elbow.
"Murder, blood, and luminol. That's all you need to know. Oh, and a soothing narrator that will lull you to sleep as he tells you about the poor woman who was maimed and tortured."
The lamp on her nightstand casts a honey-gold glow across her skin. With the sheets tangled around our legs and her hair spread across the pillow, she looks like something from a dream I never allowed myself to have.
"That sounds unhinged. I will make a note to stay away from that. Not to change the subject, but did you notice Caleb's bow tie at the gala? The thing was so loud I was worried he was causing a scene."
Janie laughs, and it vibrates through me, hitting nerves I didn't even know I had. In the best way."I can't decide if I should be impressed by the variety of bow ties he has, or worried it's a sign of a bigger issue."
We both crack up, shoulders brushing as the laughter lingers. Turns out we’ve both been cataloging Caleb’s fashion choices, neither daring to admit it until now.
This is what it’s always been like with her. Our banter that comes so easily, and jokes that land just right. My chest loosens, my pulse jumping harder than it has in I don't know how long from something as simple as making her laugh.
There's no panic or shame. Just her. Just us.
The conversation slides seamlessly from gossip to vaccine suppliers, staffing models for the outreach sites. We overlap, finish each other’s thoughts, ideas locking into place like puzzle pieces, like we've been doing this forever.
Because we have, just not in this capacity.
I lean back against the headboard, watching her gesticulate as she explains her vision for community outreach. For a dangerous second, I imagine this scene repeated night after night—strategy sessions in bed, shared showers, morning coffee.
It would be so easy to want this forever.
The thought hits me with unexpected force. I've spent my career creating legal frameworks for other people's families while carefully avoiding any permanent attachments of my own.
But watching Janie's lips curve into a smile as she outlines her plans for networks for single parents, I realize I want this. I want her. I want the partnership that extends beyond board meetings and bedsheets.
She breaks off mid-sentence, clearing her throat. Her voice comes out scratchy.
"Sorry, I'm a little—" She clears her throat again.
"Let me grab you some water." I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.