Caleb’s POV
Permission is a strange kind of currency — the moment you earn it, you realize you never learned how to spend it.
The hallway is dark, the house finally quiet after a day that tasted like swallowed glass. Breakfast was a masterclass in avoidance — William clearing his throat when I touched Serena's hand, Catherine studying her eggs like they'd reveal the meaning of life. We're trying to.
Their words from the living room. Still settling. Still not enough and somehow everything.
I told my mother I'd testify. Said it while she dried the same plate for the third time.
"About Simon?" Her hands went still. "Everything?"
"Everything. The scar. The closet. The nights I slept through breaking glass because it was easier than being awake for it."
"You don't have to do that for me, Caleb."
"I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because I'm tired of carrying his secrets like they belong to me."
She cried against my chest — quiet, the way she always cries — then pulled back and said, "Then we do this together. As a family."
That was this morning. Now it's past eleven, and Serena's door is cracked open an inch — an invitation without words. I push it open.
She's sitting cross-legged on the bed in one of my old t-shirts, hair loose, no crisis behind her eyes. Just her.
"Hi," she says.
"You left your door open."
"Maybe I was hoping you'd notice."
"I always notice." I close the door behind me and lean against it. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
"It feels different now." She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Coming to you without a reason. Without the sneaking, the listening for footsteps. The secrecy was miserable, Caleb, but now that it's gone, there's this absence where it used to be, and I hate myself for missing it."
"You think the danger was the point?"
"Wasn't it? Even a little?"
"No." I cross the room and sit beside her. "The danger was noise. Loud enough to drown out what actually terrified us."
"Which was what?"
"Choosing each other on purpose. No one chasing us, no clock ticking." I tuck hair behind her ear, letting my fingers trail her jaw. "The forbidden part was easy. This part — wanting each other in broad daylight — this is the brave part."
"Then why does it feel like I lost something?"
"Because you haven't found what replaces it yet." I pull her up, walk her backward until her shoulders meet the door. Her breath catches when my hands settle on her hips. "Let me show you."
I reach behind her. Turn the lock. Then unlock it. The click is deliberate.
"The door's unlocked," she whispers.
"No hiding tonight. No muffling. No pretending this isn't exactly what it is."
I kiss her slowly — my hand cradling the back of her neck, her fingers curling into my shirt. When her lips part, I don't rush. I learn the shape of this new permission.
"This feels different too," she murmurs against my mouth. "Kissing you without listening for footsteps."
"Better or worse?"
"Terrifying."
"Good. Terrifying means it's real."
My hands find the hem of the t-shirt and peel it over her head. She's bare underneath.
"You're staring," she breathes.
"I'm always going to stare. Get used to it."
I press my mouth to the hollow of her throat, feeling her pulse hammer against my lips. Lift her — legs wrapping around my waist — and carry her to the bed. Lay her down slowly, following her, bracing above her.
"What are you doing?" she asks when I don't move, just hover above her, tracing the line of her collarbone with my mouth.
"Taking my time."
"You never take your time."
"Tonight I do. Tonight I want to hear every sound you've been hiding from me for months."
My lips trace the slope of her breast, the dip of her stomach where her muscles tighten under my mouth.
I map every response — the exact pressure that makes her hips arch off the mattress, the spot below her ear that turns my name into a sound she can't swallow.
"Caleb." Her fingers twist into my hair. "Please."
"Not yet. I want you to remember every second of this."
"I remember every second of everything you've ever done to me."
"Then tonight I'm giving you new ones."
Every sound she makes is unguarded. No hand clamped over her mouth, no teeth sinking into her lip, no pillow burying the noise.
She lets it fill the room — raw, unfiltered — and the freedom is intoxicating.
"Don't hold back," I tell her. "Not a single sound."
"Everyone will hear."
"Good. Let them hear."
When I finally sink into her, the cry she gives fills the room without apology. My name has never sounded like that before — like a prayer and a confession tangled into one.
I move with devastating patience, forehead pressed to hers, eyes open, because watching her come undone is worth more than the pleasure building at the base of my spine.
"Stay with me," I whisper.
"I'm here." Her hands find my face. "I'm right here."
"Say that again."
"I'm not going anywhere, Caleb. Not ever."
The unlocked door hums behind us. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could hear. And the realization doesn't spark panic — it sparks pride. This is ours. Openly, recklessly ours.
She shatters first, my name at a volume that would've sent us scrambling three months ago. I follow seconds later, face buried against her neck, her pulse hammering under my mouth.
"That was —" she starts, breathless.
"Yeah."
"Different."
"Better," I correct her, and she laughs — quiet, spent, the most honest sound I've heard all day.
Afterward, tangled in sheets that carry both our scents, her fingertip traces the raised scar behind my ear.
"Does it still hurt when I touch it?"
"No. Hasn't in a long time."
"Good." She presses her lips to the scar. "This," she whispers against my skin. "This is what replacing the danger feels like."
I close my eyes and let the warmth settle into my bones.
The doorbell shatters it at eleven forty-two.
"Who comes over at this hour?" She sits up, sheet pooling at her waist.
"Nobody good." I'm already pulling on jeans. "Stay here."
"Caleb, don't go down there alone —"
"Stay."
I take the stairs two at a time. William stands in the open doorway, arm blocking the entrance.
"Go back upstairs, Caleb," he says without turning.
But I've already seen him. Simon — hands in his jacket pockets, wearing the rehearsed smile I recognize from every lie he ever told.
He's not alone. A woman stands behind him, mid-twenties, dark circles under her eyes, one hand on a stomach rounded and unmistakable beneath her sweater.
"Caleb, good." Simon's smile widens. "I wanted you to meet someone. This is Elena. My girlfriend." His hand slides to her belly. "We're expecting."