Storms
Friday came with the kind of soft, persistent rain that makes you want to stay inside forever.
Lucas had the day off—rare site shutdown for a city inspection—so they woke late, tangled in sheets that smelled like sex and sleep and them. No alarm. No rush. Just the slow drag of fingertips over skin, lazy kisses that started innocent and ended with her on top, riding him slow and deep while rain tapped the window like polite applause.
Afterward they didn't move for a long time.
He traced invisible patterns on her bare back while she listened to his heartbeat steady under her ear.
"You hungry?" he asked eventually.
"Starving."
"Pancakes?"
She lifted her head. "You're gonna cook?"
"I'm gonna try." He grinned—small, crooked, the one that always made her stomach flip. "Don't get your hopes up."
They padded to the kitchen naked, laughing when the floorboards creaked under their feet. He pulled on boxers; she stole one of his flannels, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hem brushing mid-thigh.
He cracked eggs, measured flour with surprising care, cursed when the first batch stuck to the pan.
She hopped onto the counter, watched him, legs swinging.
"You're cute when you're domestic," she teased.
He shot her a look—half glare, half heat. "Keep talking and breakfast is gonna be cold."
"Promises, promises."
He plated lumpy but golden pancakes anyway, drowned them in maple syrup and a handful of blueberries she'd found in the back of the fridge. They ate standing at the counter, feeding each other bites, licking syrup from fingers, turning breakfast into something obscene and sweet.
After they cleaned up—mostly him washing while she dried, hip bumping hip—they curled on the couch with coffee and the rain.
No phones. No plans.
Just quiet.
She tucked her feet under his thigh, leaned against his shoulder.
"Tell me something I don't know," she said.
He thought for a second. "I used to want to be a carpenter. Not construction—real shit. Custom furniture. Tables people pass down to their kids."
"Why didn't you?"
"Money. Life. After the divorce I needed steady paychecks, not dreams." He shrugged. "Still think about it sometimes. Got a small workbench in the storage unit downstairs. Tools collecting dust."
She turned to face him fully. "You should start again."
"Maybe." His fingers played with the ends of her hair. "What about you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah. What's the dream you shoved in a drawer?"
Emma hesitated. "I wanted to write. Not novels—more like essays. Personal stuff. The messy, honest kind. I used to keep a blog in college. Shut it down after… everything with Jake."
"Why?"
"Felt too exposed. Like if I put the real shit out there, someone would use it against me."
He studied her for a long moment. "You still write?"
"Sometimes. Late at night. Never show anyone."
"Show me sometime?"
The question hung soft between them.
She swallowed. "Maybe."
He didn't push. Just kissed her temple. "Whenever you're ready."
They spent the afternoon like that—talking in circles, laughing at nothing, fucking slow on the couch when the mood hit, napping in a pile of limbs when it passed.
Around four her phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Mom.
She groaned.
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You gonna answer?"
"Eventually."
It buzzed again. Text this time.
Mom: Sweetie, just checking in. Dinner tomorrow? I fly out Sunday. Would love to see you both again.
Emma stared at the screen.
Lucas leaned over her shoulder. "She's persistent."
"Yeah."
"You want to go?"
She exhaled. "I think so. But… I don't want to talk about Jake in front of you. Or Marissa. Or any of it."
"Then we won't." He squeezed her hand. "We'll eat pasta, drink wine, talk about the weather. If she brings up exes, we change the subject. Simple."
She looked at him—really looked. The way he made hard things feel manageable. The way he didn't flinch from the messy parts.
"Okay," she said. "Tomorrow. Italian again?"
"Same place. Seven."
She texted back: Sounds good. See you at 7. Love you.
Mom: Love you more. ❤️
Emma set the phone face-down.
Lucas tugged her closer. "You good?"
"Yeah." She curled into him. "Just… grateful."
"For?"
"For you. For this. For the fact that even when old shit tries to crawl back in, we're still here. Together."
He kissed her slow—deep, lingering.
"Always," he murmured against her lips.
That night they ordered pizza, watched some dumb action movie neither of them paid attention to, ended up on the floor again because the couch felt too small for how much they wanted to touch.
He took her from behind this time—slow at first, then harder, one hand wrapped around her throat just enough to make her pulse jump, the other rubbing tight circles on her clit until she came shaking, clenching around him so hard he followed with a choked groan.
After they collapsed in a sweaty heap, laughing at how they'd somehow ended up halfway under the coffee table.
"Shower?" he asked.
"Only if you carry me."
He did.
They stood under the hot spray until the water ran cold, kissing like teenagers who'd just discovered how good it could feel.
Saturday morning they slept in again.
Woke to sunlight—actual sunlight—cutting through the blinds in sharp, hopeful bars.
Lucas made coffee while she scrolled idly through her phone.
Stopped cold when she saw the notification.
Instagram. A new follow request from marissa.kline87.
The profile picture was the same one from years ago—dark hair, red lipstick, that same half-smile that used to make Lucas's voice catch when he talked about her.
Emma's thumb hovered over Accept. Decline. Block.
She chose Block.
Then went into Settings → Privacy → Blocked Accounts.
Typed in the username again, just to be sure.
Gone.
When Lucas came back with two mugs, she was sitting on the bed, knees drawn up.
He read her face instantly.
"What?"
"Marissa tried to follow me on Instagram."
He set the mugs down carefully.
"Did you—"
"Blocked her. Immediately."
He exhaled. Nodded once.
"Good."
"You okay?"
"No." Honest. "But I will be."
She reached for him. He came willingly, sat on the edge of the bed, pulled her into his lap.
They sat like that for a long minute—her cheek against his chest, his arms around her like armor.
"She doesn't get to touch this," he said quietly. "Not anymore."
Emma nodded against his skin.
They spent the day preparing for dinner in small, grounding ways.
She picked out a dress—simple black, nothing flashy. He ironed a button-down, the first time she'd seen him do it. They laughed when he burned his finger on the iron and she kissed it better.
At 6:45 they walked to the restaurant hand in hand.
Claire was already there—same table as last time, same warm smile when she saw them.
Hugs. Small talk. Wine.
No one mentioned exes.
Claire talked about her students, the upcoming spring musical, how she missed having a garden now that she was in a condo.
Lucas talked about the site—carefully edited versions of the near-miss, focusing on how the crew pulled together after.
Emma mostly listened, feeling the steady press of his thigh against hers under the table.
When dessert came—tiramisu for three—Claire reached across and squeezed Emma's hand.
"I'm glad you're happy, sweetheart. Really glad."
Emma's throat tightened. "Me too."
Claire looked at Lucas. "Take care of her."
He met her eyes. Steady.
"Always."
They walked Claire to her hotel after.
Hugged goodbye in the lobby.
Claire whispered in Emma's ear: "He's a keeper."
Emma smiled. "I know."
Back home they didn't speak much.
Just undressed each other slowly, climbed into bed, made love like it was the most important thing they'd do all week.
Gentle. Deep. Eye contact the whole time.
When they came—together, quiet, trembling—it felt like a promise renewed.
After, in the dark, Lucas pulled her close.
"I love you," he whispered.
She kissed the underside of his jaw.
"Love you back."
Outside, the rain had stopped.
Inside, the quiet felt full instead of empty.