The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 425

Kyle

The music continues—brass and percussion and piano still painting the air with color and rhythm.

But the world feels quieter.

Someone turned down the volume on everything except the space between us.

Just her and me. Separated by maybe twelve feet of hardwood floor. Separated by five years and countless mistakes and a mountain of hurt so high I can't see over it.

She's breathing hard. Her chest rises and falls beneath that blue cotton. Her cheeks are flushed.

I want to move closer.

The urge is physical. Visceral. Like gravity. I want to cross this space. I want to touch her.

Her shoulder. That's where my eyes go. Where they always went. The curve of her bare shoulder where the strap of her dress sits, where a thin line of pale skin shows above the cotton. I want to run my thumb along that ridge. Want to feel if her skin is as soft as I remember. Want to feel her warmth, her solidity, the proof that she's real and here and alive.

I want to ease the tension I can see coiling through her body. Want to smooth away the defensive set of her shoulders. Want to see that unguarded smile come back.

But I don't move.

Her tongue darts out.

It's quick. Unconscious. The tip of her tongue touching her bottom lip, then sweeping across to catch the corner of her mouth.

She always does this. When she's nervous. When she's thinking. When she's trying to figure out what to say or do or feel.

It's such a small gesture. Probably takes less than a second. Most people wouldn't even notice it.

But I notice. I've always noticed.

Her lips are the color of rose petals. Pink but not quite. Coral maybe. They're slightly fuller or maybe that's just the way they're parted right now, still catching breath from the spinning. There's a small indent in the center of her upper lip where the bow dips. Her bottom lip is fuller, slightly chapped on one side.

I've kissed those lips hundreds of times.

Against the cool metal of the elevator wall at 2 AM. In the car—quick, desperate kisses at red lights. In our bed, slow and deep and exploratory, learning the map of her mouth like it was the most important geography I'd ever study.

I know how they taste. Like mint from her toothpaste in the morning. Like coffee and sugar in the afternoon. Like wine and something indefinably her late at night.

I know how soft they are. How they give under pressure. How they respond when I change the angle. How her breath hitches when I bite down gently on the bottom one.

I know the small sound she makes in the back of her throat when I deepen a kiss. I know how her fingers tighten in my hair when I get it right.

His face transforms. It's like watching the sun come out from behind clouds.

He's running before I can process it. His little legs pump hard, knees coming up high, arms swinging. He's all momentum and enthusiasm and five-year-old faith that when he launches himself at someone, they'll catch him.

His Spider-Man sneakers (velcro, not laces—why does that detail feel important?) pound against the hardwood. His dinosaur t-shirt is twisted so the T-Rex is almost on his back instead of his front.

I drop to one knee.

He crashes into me with the full force of a small human who hasn't learned that bodies are fragile. His arms wrap around my neck. His momentum nearly knocks me backward. I catch him, arms closing around his small, solid body, and the weight of him, the reality of him, nearly undoes me.

He smells like apple juice and graham crackers and that particular child-sweat smell that's somehow sweet instead of sour. His hair tickles my cheek. His breath is warm against my neck.

"Daddy, you came back! You came back!"

His voice is muffled against my shoulder, words tumbling over each other in excitement.

His arms tighten around my neck.

"Hey, buddy," I manage to say.