Chapter 37

By the time we got home, I was exhausted from the walk, the fresh air having drained the last of my energy. Monique guided me to the couch, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

“Rest,” she ordered. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

I didn’t argue. My body still wasn’t at full strength, and the comfortable cushions were far too inviting. Within minutes, I drifted into a light nap, vaguely aware of Monique sitting nearby, the rhythmic clicking of her laptop keys filling the quiet space.

When I woke later, the house smelled of seared beef and fresh herbs. I stretched carefully, making my way to the kitchen, where I found Monique chopping vegetables for a salad.

She glanced up and smiled. “You’re just in time to help.”

I smirked, rolling up my sleeve. “I think I can manage.”

Together, we prepared a simple but delicious dinner—steak cooked to a perfect medium-rare, a crisp salad with vinaigrette, and warm bread with butter. We set the table and sat down to eat, the meal feeling both satisfying and intimate.

As we ate, our conversation turned to the upcoming fall, and the reality of Monique’s return to Boston loomed between us.

She swirled her wine glass, staring at the deep red liquid. “It’s going to be strange ... being apart after spending every day together like this.”

I reached across the table, taking her hand. “We’ll figure it out. It’s only for a few months.”

She nodded, though her eyes held a hint of sadness. “I know. It’s just ... I love this. Being with you. Waking up with you.”

I squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

We fell into a comfortable silence, simply enjoying the moment.

Later that night, as we climbed into bed, Monique nestled against me, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over my chest.

I tilted her chin up, brushing my lips against hers, the kiss slow and unrushed.

There was no urgency, no teasing—just soft, deliberate touches, a quiet exploration of each other.

She sighed into my mouth as I rolled her beneath me, her legs parting easily to welcome me. The way she looked at me—full of trust, love, and something deeper—sent a warmth through my chest that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with what she meant to me.

I moved slowly, filling her with deliberate tenderness, each movement a silent promise that distance wouldn’t change what we had.

She held me close, her breath warm against my neck, her fingers clutching at my shoulders as we found our rhythm.

When we finally reached the peak together, I whispered her name, my lips pressed against her skin.

She sighed, content and sated, curling into me as I pulled the blankets around us.

“I love you, John,” she murmured sleepily.

I kissed her hair. “I love you too, Monique.”

With that, we drifted into peaceful slumber, wrapped in warmth, love, and the quiet understanding that whatever came next, we would face it together.

A Restless Night and a Morning of Routine and Affection

I stirred in bed, my mind restless even with Monique’s warm body curled up beside me. The lingering ache from my injuries made sleep difficult, but that wasn’t the real reason I was awake tonight. Something else gnawed at the edges of my thoughts—Monique’s impending return to Boston. I didn’t have a solution yet, but one thing was clear: I didn’t want to be without her.

At some point, exhaustion won over, and I drifted into an uneasy sleep.