I managed a direct flight by just minutes. My plan was to leave tomorrow after spending Christmas with Nana, but when I showed her the drawing, the letter, and the divorce papers she was booking my flight and shoving me out the door to my “destiny” before I could slip in a single word of protest. I told her if Trick came, the chances of him getting here in the same day would be slim at best.

The sunset bid the day farewell, leaving me in a blanket of dark on our veranda, nestled in the old blue chaise lounge where we slept our first night here. I don’t know that he’ll come, but I’m not letting my heart in on that bit of doubt. He let me go and it could be too late. I can’t stumble over the what ifs. I needed time and I never expected him to wait for me, but I couldn’t hold him out of fear of losing him, that’s not true love. Two months without a word from me—tears sting my eyes as I wonder if he felt abandoned, like the day his parents just … vanished.

I brush my finger over my tattoo. He may never know that my heart has the same mark as his, and if it’s too late for us in this life, I will wait for him in my next. He’s right … our love is timeless.

“Wife.”

Oh God! Thank you.

I close my eyes, sucking in my lips—tears. With one word he breathes life back into me and I feel the crumbled pieces coming together again.

I turn and slowly stand. Looking at my whole world in the doorway, I blink, releasing more tears.

With each step my heart swells more and more. His thumbs brush my wet cheeks. I close my eyes with a chill, taking in a shaky breath.

“Are you? Are you still my wife?” he whispers.

Looking up, I bite together my quivering lips and nod.

“I’m so sorry …” His fingers thread in my hair, pulling my mouth to his.

I sob into our kiss, but he doesn’t stop. This is the most beautiful pain. My hands clench his shirt, my lips bruising from his desperate touch. Lifting me to his body, he takes me upstairs, sucking and nipping at my neck. My heart clenches as he moans like he’s starving, like his soul is bleeding into mine.

“Oh God … I missed you.” I fist his hair as he possesses me.

We fall to the bed in a tangle of frantic movements. He tears his lips from my skin just long enough to shrug off his shirt and mine. The clasp to my bra is broken with impatient hands.

“Ung!” I cry as his mouth covers my breast, the stinging bite of his teeth on my nipple.

Our hands spar, fumbling for leverage as we tug each other’s pants off, lips refusing to let go. I shove down his briefs with my foot. He takes the quicker route and rips my panties off. Everything about this feels like the first time we made love. This is not just a physical need, it’s an emotional reclaiming.

Interlacing our fingers above my head he sinks into me.

“Trick …” I breath out his name, and for the first time in two months I feel alive.

He stills. I’m not sure if it’s a moan of pleasure or pain that escapes from his chest with his face buried in the crook of my neck. Sex is usually the means to a release, not tonight. The urgency between us has been to get to this precise moment—this perfect all-consuming connection. I close my eyes and just hold him—this is love—we’re making love.

Lifting his face to mine he looks at me. In his eyes are all those emotions that mean so much more than words ever could. Right now I feel like my whole body is connected to his. I may not want to lose my individuality, but right now I just want to be one with my husband.

“You came back to me,” he whispers.

My lips tug into a sad smile as I see the unshed tears in his eyes. “I never really left.”