Dylan had been home for a week.
One full week of coffee in chipped mugs, of tangled legs under blankets that never stayed on the bed, of waking up to his rough morning voice murmuring "five more minutes" against the crook of her neck. The house still buzzed with chaos—Anna yelling at the kids to stop drawing on the walls, Melanie chasing down socks and school folders—but Ellie barely noticed.
She had him back.
For now.
Their days looked ordinary to anyone else. He started patching up a few busted steps on the back porch, offered to fix Anna's leaking faucet, even helped get the baby to nap one afternoon with a lullaby that made Ellie's heart split open. She went to school, came home smelling like fryer oil, collapsed on the couch beside him. They'd share takeout, half-heartedly watch TV, talk about nothing and everything.
But the nights…
The nights were something else entirely.
Dylan couldn't seem to touch her without taking. Gripping. Devouring. It was like something unspoken had snapped the moment he walked back into the house, and now he was trying to drink her in before the world could steal her away again.
And she let him.
Every night, after the house slipped into silence, they'd retreat to the bedroom. The door locked. The lights low. The air thick with unspoken things.
Some nights he was gentle. Reverent.
Most nights, he wasn't.
On Thursday, he came home early with drywall dust still clinging to his collar. She was in the bedroom folding laundry, music playing low, her bare legs tucked under her as she worked.
"You keep doing that," he said from the doorway, "I'm gonna forget we've got people in this house."
She smirked. "Doing what?"
"Sitting there all pretty. Barefoot. Domestic and dangerous."
He crossed the room, took the shirt from her hands, and tossed it aside.
"I missed watching you live," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her collarbone. "The way you stretch when you first wake up. The way you curse under your breath when your ponytail won't behave. All the little things. That's what I starved for."
She swallowed hard, her pulse spiking.
"Then come take what you missed," she whispered.
And he did.
Like a man making up for lost time.
It was that Saturday night when everything changed.
The moon hung low outside the window, barely a sliver of silver light slipping through the cracked curtains. The room smelled like skin and sleep and candle wax. A slow thunderstorm rolled across the horizon, far enough not to be dangerous, close enough to shake the glass.
She was pressed against the mattress, hair splayed across his pillow, his hands mapping her body like a song only he knew. The storm's echo matched the rhythm between them.
She clawed at his back, teeth grazing his shoulder. He growled into her skin, low and primal. Every time he kissed her, it felt like possession—not control, not cruelty—just claiming.
"I need you," he whispered against her neck. "Every part of you. Even the ones you hide."
"You already have me," she breathed.
He stilled. Then slowly, he reached toward the nightstand. Ellie blinked, breath caught in her throat.
From the drawer, he pulled a small black box.
She froze. "Dylan…"
He didn't open it. Not right away. He just looked at her—sweat still glistening on his chest, eyes wide open, vulnerable and raw.
"I was gonna wait," he said. "Till you were eighteen. Till we had our own place. Till things made more sense. But none of that ever seems to come. And I'm tired of waiting for perfect."
He opened the box.
Inside was a simple silver band with a tiny stone—not flashy, not expensive. But it caught the lightning from outside and danced in the dark.
"I'm not asking you to fix me. Or to fix this life," he said. "I'm just asking you to stay in it. With me. For real. Forever."
She stared at him, lips trembling, heart thundering louder than the storm outside.
"Yes," she whispered. "God—yes."
He exhaled a laugh, wild and shaky, and kissed her so fiercely she forgot the bed beneath her. He slid the ring onto her finger with hands that had built houses and cradled her face in the same breath.
It was imperfect. Impulsive. Reckless.
And it was everything she ever wanted.
The next morning felt lighter.
Even with the kids banging on the walls and Anna hollering about pancakes burning, Ellie felt like something sacred had stitched itself under her skin. Dylan made her coffee, black with a splash of milk, and kissed the top of her head like it was their honeymoon.
But by late afternoon, that fragile peace began to fracture.
His phone buzzed. He answered in the other room. She heard the edge in his voice before she saw his face.
When he came back in, the look said it all.
"Another job?" she asked.
He nodded. "Four weeks. Just north of Chicago. Big contract. They're short-staffed. My dad needs me."
She said nothing at first. Just stared at the ring on her finger, newly familiar and already so precious it hurt.
"I just got you back," she said softly.
He knelt in front of her, hands on her thighs.
"You'll still have me," he said. "This doesn't change that. Not now. Not ever."
Her throat ached, but she nodded. "I know. Doesn't mean I won't miss you so bad it ruins sleep."
"I'll call every night," he promised. "Even if I'm half-dead and covered in mortar."
"You better," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Because I said yes, Dylan. That's not just a word. That's my soul."
"And I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Except four hours south."
She laughed through the tears.
They made love that night slower than before, deeper—like sealing a promise with skin and breath. Like memorizing every scar, every curve, so they could carry each other through the silence.
And when she watched him drive off the next morning, boots in the passenger seat, coffee in hand, window down and wind in his hair—
She didn't cry.
Not this time.
Because he'd be back.
Because she said yes.
And because this time, everything meant more.