Chapter 57

Julian

We ' re finally home, although it doesn ' t feel like one yet.

It will.

Poppy ' s making progress. She ' s had a lot of ups; she smiled at a joke Harper made the other day. And then Poppy ' s had some bumps in the road. Harper hugged her goodbye, and Poppy snapped, shoving Harper off of her, and started yelling, ‘ Get off me, Andrew!'

Dr. Peterson thought it best we move Poppy back into her normal surroundings, her safe space. Truth be told, Henry and I were terrified of moving her. It ' s like coming home with a new baby. You ' re not one hundred percent sure what to do or how they will act, but at the same time, you just want to get them home.

We all flew back to Texas on my jet. Henry is going to crash at Poppy ' s apartment. He wanted to be close; across the hall is as close as he can get. Poppy made it clear she wanted to stay with me and that she didn ' t want her old apartment back.

I ' m not sure how I would have reacted if she wanted the opposite. I ' d never force her, but I also wouldn ' t sleep at night without seeing her.

I had Harper put in some blocking devices on my TVs so that no news channel could be on. I don ' t want Poppy seeing or hearing the news. They still gossip about the downfall of the Sinclairs. Andrew wanted his legacy to live on. The media will ensure that.

Thanks to the Obsidian Order, the truth about Andrew ' s death was covered up. The world thinks Andrew ' s body was found outside of his childhood home in the backyard under a huge oak tree; a bullet to the head was the only truth we set free. The worlddoesknow that he was responsible for killing his father. A suicide note was found that admitted to the crimes Andrew and his dad committed. They might live on through gossip, but they will never be praised.

Dr. Peterson is staying in town for a few weeks. It ' s costing me a fortune, but I ' d gladly pay tenfold to see Poppy smile again.

Time. It heals all wounds and turns them into scars. Some visible, some faded. Time is like gravity, pulling you down, making memories sink to the depths of the ocean, covered in dark stillness. Poppy will swim to the surface again; there, she'll confront waves but also relax in the gentle ebb and flow of our life together.

I love that woman. I fell in love with her the first day I saw her moving in across the hall. You know when you stumble across something special. You want to savor it, hide it away. Andrew knew how special Poppy was. He tried to cage her, belittle her so she wouldn ' t venture too far from his side.

I treat people who are special to me differently. I protect them and keep them close, but I aim to breathe life into their lungs, not squeeze it out.

I glance at Poppy; she just got out of the bath and is wrapped up in my towel, her hair dripping wet. God, she ' s beautiful—not just physically, but mentally.

She rarely showers now, in fear it will set her back. I have some good ideas on how to create new memories when water splashes on her: me, Poppy, and the shower. I ' m just waiting for the green light—for her to make the first move and tell me she ' s ready to be physical again.

I ' ll wait forever if I have to.

***

" I got you something, Pumpkin," I say softly as I push open the door to my bedroom. She ' s nestled among the cushions, tucked into bed with a book propped open in her lap. At the sound of my voice, her gaze lifts, her eyes—those deep, hazel wells that have seen too much darkness—meeting mine. There ' s a flicker, a subtle brightening that hasn't been there for weeks. It ' s as if each day, bit by bit, we ' re chiseling away at the cold marble of her grief and finding the warm, vibrant woman she used to be underneath.

I sit next to her, the mattress dipping under my weight, shifting her slightly closer to me. I place the box on her lap.

" What ' s this?" she asks, her voice tinged with curiosity.

" Open it," I reply, my stomach tightening with nerves. I hope this doesn ' t backfire. I ran it by Dr. Peterson, who advised me to be prepared for any reaction.

Poppy's small hands delicately peel back the wrapping paper, the sound soft and crisp in the quiet room. Then, she gently lifts the lid of the cardboard box. With careful fingers, she grasps the item inside and coaxes it free with a tender wiggle. I watch intently, each whisper of the tissue paper as it parts ways with the gift, causing my stomach to twist into tighter and tighter knots.

Please, big man, upstairs, don't let this backfire on me.

Finally, it ' s free from all the protective wrapping. " What is this?" Poppy's voice tightens as she reaches out, gently stroking the red poinsettia flowers painted around the edge of the platter.

" You…" I start, swallowing hard, " You mentioned the day we went to your parent's house that your mom had a Christmas platter. It had poinsettias on it. I know it was destroyed in the fire. But, I, um, I wanted to give you something new along with the memory of something old. I know it ' s not the platter your mom used during Christmas, but I thought maybe one day we could use it when we make Christmas dinner together."

Did I say that too fast? My heart races like it ' s trying to beat out of my chest.

She ' s silent.

Is that good, or is she planning on smashing it over my head?

Her fingers trace the entire edge of the platter. " This is very thoughtful," she whispers.

What does that translation mean? Is that ‘ I'm going to kill you ' or ‘ cry in your arms ' ?

She exhales heavily. " Thank you."

Okay, that ' s good.

She clears her throat and blinks rapidly, her voice lightening. " However, who will do the cooking?" she states, her voice trying to sound firm, but I hear the emotions clogging it.

Yes! I want to fist-bump the air. She ' s making a joke.

" Because, as you know, my culinary skills are limited. So, are you planning to cook Christmas dinner for our kids?"

I freeze, and so does she, letting the words hang in the air.

Kids.

A promise of a bright future.

" I ' ll do everything," I reply quickly.

She closes her eyes. " I want what we talked about, Jules, if you still do."

Gently, I take the platter and set it on the side table. " I want it all, Pumpkin."

" You still want to marry me?"

I pull her into my lap.

Shit! Did I just trigger her?

I wait for a reaction, but she just slowly opens her eyes. There's a flicker of tightness in them for a heartbeat, and then they relax as she realizes it's me, nothim.

" I ' d marry you right now or in five years, whenever you ' re ready. Just tell me when," I affirm.

She smiles, a single tear escaping her eye, landing on her upper lip.

" I ' m going to kiss you," I whisper as I lean in closer and press my lips against hers. This time... well, my heart bursts with happiness because she kisses me back.

Not slowly. Not with fear.

It ' s with passion and hunger.

Starvation.

" Please, Julian, I just want to feel you. Only you." She begs me.

We tangle as we undress, my mind racing to stay coherent, though my body screams otherwise. I want to make sure she won ' t regret this. So, I let her lead, ensuring this is truly what she wants.

Meanwhile, my cock is so hard it's verging on the need to seek medical attention. I need her.

" Please," she begs, pulling me closer by the hips. " Don ' t ask if I ' m okay. I want you right now. Don ' t deny me that."

" I won ' t," I reply, my heart singing with those words.

Gently, I sink into her tight, warm walls clenching around me. Her eyes widen—a look of clarity and awakening. It's like she's seeing the world anew. The fog has cleared! Some of her darkness has been vanquished. This is a major turning point, and I know after today, although we still have battles to fight, the war is ours to claim.

Now I ' m truly home. I'm making love to the woman I adore in our safe and secure house without any shadows surrounding us.