Out of reach

I was halfway through folding towels when I heard the doorbell. Just one quick chime—polite, almost hesitant. I paused, brow furrowing. I wasn’t expecting anyone.

My mind was wandering as I walked barefoot across the hardwood and pulled open the door.

There was Vince.

He stood there like he hadn’t made up his mind about staying, his body angled slightly away, like he might walk off before I even said hello. But his eyes gave him away—they always did. That look—earnest, a little nervous—met mine like he wasn’t sure how this would go.

In his hands was a plain brown paper bag, creased and folded neatly at the top, like he’d taken real care of it.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than usual.

“Hi,” I answered, surprised but not in a bad way - I'd just left his place a number of hours ago. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I, uh… I brought you something.”

I blinked, then stepped aside and opened the door wider. “You want to come in?”

He hesitated—just for a beat—and then stepped inside. As he did, he kicked off his dirty boots using his feet without a word, leaving them near the door like it was second nature. He smelled faintly of sawdust, soap—and sandalwood. I always loved how he managed to smell so great.

I took the bag from him gently, already feeling the weight of it—solid, familiar. The kind of weight that could only be a hardcover book. My chest tightened.

I sat on the arm of the couch and unfolded the paper carefully. My breath caught the second I saw the cover.

It was the book. The one I had talked about with a wistful, self-mocking tone—too expensive, too rare, always just out of reach. A signed first edition, one I’d once spotted at a collector’s table with a six-digit price tag and laughed it off as something meant for someone else. Someone with a different kind of life.

But now it was here. In my lap. Real.

“Vince…” I whispered, already flipping to the inside cover.

The signature was there—fluid and dark, etched with intention. My fingers hovered over the ink, reverent. This wasn’t just a book. It was a reminder that someone had been listening. Really listening.

“You said it was always out of reach due to the cost,” he said, voice low. “Thought maybe it didn’t have to be.”

I looked up at him.

He wasn’t smiling - he didn’t look proud of himself. He just looked honest; quiet. Like this meant something to him, too.

“You remembered,” I said, blinking back the sudden warmth pressing at the back of my throat.

“Of course I did.”

I stood slowly, the book still in my hands. I stepped toward him, close enough to smell faint traces of sawdust, soap, and sandalwood, and without overthinking it, I leaned in and kissed him.

Not with desperation, not with heat. Just gratitude, clear and full. My lips brushed his with intention—a silent thank-you wrapped in breath.

But when I pulled back, something lingered. He didn’t move, didn’t step away. His hands were still at his sides, but his eyes had shifted—darker now, searching mine like he wasn’t sure what had just changed, only that something had.

And I felt it too. The thrum under my skin. The slow drag of awareness threading between us.

“I didn’t do it to win points,” he said quietly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know,” I replied. “But I still wanted to thank you.”

That was the moment something tipped. He took one step closer, then another, until my back grazed the edge of the couch and the space between us evaporated. His hand lifted, hesitant at first, then more certain as he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, letting his knuckles trail lightly down my jaw.

His fingers paused just under my chin. I tilted my face toward his without needing to be asked.

The next kiss was different—deeper, hungrier, the kind that held everything we hadn’t said. His hands slid to my waist, firm and warm, and I felt the slow exhale he released against my mouth.

I let the book fall gently to the couch beside us as I gripped the front of his shirt, grounding myself. His body was warm and solid. Familiar in the way a song you haven’t heard in years can still feel like home.

When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathing harder, our foreheads nearly touching.

“I should probably go,” he murmured, but he didn’t step back.

“You should,” I said, though neither of us moved.

Another pause stretched between us, thick with everything unresolved. His thumb brushed the hem of my shirt, just over my hip. Slow. Questioning.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I don’t want you to go yet.”

That was all he needed.

His lips found mine again, and this time I didn’t hold back. I kissed him like I remembered him. Like I missed him. Like I was letting myself admit that some part of me still wanted him.

He lifted me slightly, just enough to sit me fully on the couch, and he leaned in between my knees, hands resting on my thighs. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t reckless. It was deliberate. His mouth moved with purpose, his fingers trailing just under the hem of my shorts, grazing skin like a slow burn.

When he leaned in again, he kissed me hard—hot and open-mouthed, his hands sliding up and under my shirt until his thumbs brushed the underside of my breasts. I gasped, hips shifting. He slid my shirt up and off, and when his lips closed around my nipple, I whimpered.

It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. Possessive. Hot suction, flicks of tongue, grazes of teeth that made me arch, pant, writhe under him. He sucked harder, rougher, until my nipple ached and I gasped his name. His fingers dug into my hips as he devoured me like he’d been starved.

We stripped the rest of the way when we got to my room.

Upstairs, the late afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the unmade bed. We were all hands, all mouth. No hesitation now. Just need. We kissed like we couldn’t stop, biting at lips, tugging at skin, pressing chest to chest until we were both gasping.

He spun me onto the bed, crawled over me, and settled between my thighs. My legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him flush. He thrust against me once, twice and we both moaned at the friction.

“God, I missed this,” he rasped.

“Then take it,” I whispered.

Clothes gone, breath ragged, he slid inside me with one long, deep stroke that made us both cry out.

It was wild, searing. He gripped my hips, drove into me like he needed to erase every day we’d spent apart. His mouth found my neck, my breast, sucked hard at my nipple again while he pounded into me until the bed shook.

I was gasping, clawing at his back, lifting my hips to meet every thrust.

“Harder,” I begged.

He delivered. Merciless, glorious, relentless. I shattered with a cry, clenching around him. He groaned, didn’t pause, just flipped me over, dragging me up to my knees, pulling my hips back before driving in again.

He fucked me like he meant it. Like he loved me. One hand fisted in my hair, the other on my hip, holding me there while he filled me deep and dirty—no condom, no barrier. I was still on antibiotics.

He had me in every position he knew drove me wild—drove me pregnant. Bent over the bed. Legs over his shoulders. Straddling him, riding hard. On my side with one leg hitched up. Hands pressed to the wall. Bruised knees on the floor. He twisted and tugged at my nipples, rough and unrelenting, sending pulses of heat straight to my core.

“Fuck,” he grunted. “You feel so damn good. So wet—taking all of me.”

I moaned into the pillow, pushed back against him, matching every thrust with my own.

We didn’t stop until we were wrecked. Sweat-slick, breathless, and he filled my pussy with a deep groan, hips jerking as he spilled everything inside me.

Afterward, we stayed tangled in the sheets, the silence thick but not uncomfortable. His hand found my hip again, thumb tracing slow circles that grounded me. The only sound was our breathing. The world outside that room didn’t exist.

Eventually, I felt him shift beside me, turning slightly so he could look at me. I met his gaze, already sensing the question forming before he said it.

“So,” Vince began, voice low but steady, “what are we now?”

My breath caught.

He searched my face, like he was trying to read between the lines, trying to hear the answer in the silence. “I just need to know... are we back together? Or was this just...?”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

But I knew what he meant. And I knew I owed him something real.

“We are,” I said. “We are back together.”

His eyes searched mine, not sure if he’d heard right.

“Not just because of the book,” I continued. “Because of what you showed me in the last seven days. You treated me the way I deserve to be treated. You didn’t just say the right things—you showed me. Again and again.”

The breath he let out was shaky, but full of relief. And I knew then—he wasn’t out of reach. Not anymore.

I hadn’t taken the morning after pill yet but yet I got up to do so. He, at this point, knows and accepts that I don’t want kids.