Jocelyn’s POV
The conference room smells like fresh coffee and possibility.
I'm standing at the head of the table, presenting our Medical Family Support Initiative to a room full of people who hold our funding in their hands. Twelve faces watching me—some skeptical, some interested, all waiting to see if I'll stumble.
I don't stumble anymore.
"The average family facing pediatric cancer loses forty-three percent of their household income within the first six months of diagnosis,"
I say, clicking to the next slide.
"Not because they stop working, but because someone has to be at the hospital. Someone has to hold their kid's hand during chemo. Someone has to make impossible choices between mortgage payments and experimental treatments."
I lock eyes with Dr. Patricia Rodriguez, head of grants at Mount Sinai. She's the one we need to convince.
"I know because I was that someone." My voice doesn't shake. It used to, talking about Mia's cancer. Not anymore. "I worked three jobs and still couldn't keep up. The Wolfe-Hartwell Foundation wants to make sure other families don't have to choose between survival and bankruptcy."
Maya pulls up the budget breakdown—she's been with the foundation since month three, back when it was just me, Zayden, and a dream we weren't sure would survive its first year. Now she's our director of operations and the closest thing I have to a best friend in this new life.
Zayden sits at the far end of the table, watching me with an expression that makes my stomach flutter even after three years of marriage. Pride, heat, something that promises we're going to celebrate this later.
The meeting runs ninety minutes. By the end, Dr. Rodriguez is nodding, making notes, asking about implementation timelines instead of questioning our methodology.
We've got her.
"I'll recommend approval to the board," she says, gathering her things. "This is exactly the kind of program we need. Smart, targeted, addressing real gaps in care."
After they file out, it's just me, Maya, and Zayden.
Maya grins. "You crushed it."
"We crushed it," I correct. "Your budget projections sealed the deal."
"My budget projections were pretty sexy," she agrees. "Now get out of here. I can handle the follow-up emails."
I glance at Zayden. He's already standing, loosening his tie with one hand—that casual gesture that shouldn't be as attractive as it is.
"My office?" he suggests. "We should review the Detroit numbers before end of day."
"Absolutely." I keep my voice professional. "Very important. Those Detroit numbers."
Maya snorts. "You two are not subtle."
"We're extremely subtle," Zayden says, already heading for the door.
"You're extremely married and I'm extremely done watching you eye-fuck each other across conference tables."
I flip her off as I follow Zayden down the hallway.
His office is at the end—smaller than his old Wolfe Tower corner suite, but the view's better. Brooklyn spread out below us instead of Manhattan's steel and glass. Windows that open. Air that doesn't taste recycled.
The door closes. Locks.
"Detroit numbers?" I ask, leaning against his desk.
"Fuck the Detroit numbers." He's on me in two strides, hands framing my face, mouth finding mine with the kind of hunger that makes my knees weak.
I kiss him back just as desperately, fingers tangling in his hair. He tastes like coffee and ambition and coming home.
"You were incredible in there," he murmurs against my lips. "Watching you present, seeing you command that room…"
"Turned you on?"
"So fucking much." His hands slide down to my hips, pulling me flush against him. The evidence of exactly how much presses against my stomach. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to sit there professionally while you talked about survival rates and fiscal responsibility?"
"Poor baby." I bite his lower lip. "Suffering through his wife being competent."
"Suffering through his wife being brilliant and passionate and completely in her element." His mouth moves to my neck, finding that spot below my ear that makes me gasp. "I wanted to throw everyone out and take you right there on the conference table."
"That would've made the grant approval awkward."
"Worth it." His teeth graze my collarbone. "I love watching you lead, love seeing you build this empire of compassion like it's the most natural thing in the world."
My heart clenches. This—this is why the sex is still electric after three years. Because it's never just physical. It's watching each other become the people we were always supposed to be.
"Take me home," I breathe. "Show me exactly what you wanted to do on that conference table."
We barely make it through the door of our apartment.
Mia's at a playdate—Mrs. Chen texted an hour ago asking if she could keep her until dinner. We have the place to ourselves, and Zayden uses every second.
His hands are everywhere, peeling off my blazer, working the buttons of my blouse with practiced efficiency. I'm tugging at his shirt, his belt, desperate to feel skin.
"Shower," he growls against my mouth. "I need you in the shower."
"Demanding."
"You love it when I'm demanding."
I do. God help me, I really do.
We stumble toward the bathroom, leaving a trail of expensive professional clothing across our bedroom floor. By the time we're under the spray, we're both naked and breathless and reaching for each other like we haven't done this a thousand times before.
The water cascades over us—hot enough to steam, hard enough to sting. Zayden backs me against the tile, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
"I love you," he says, positioning himself at my entrance. His eyes hold mine—green and intense and full of everything we've survived to get here. "I love this life we built. I love who you are. I love—"
I kiss him to stop the words because if he keeps talking like that I'm going to cry, and I want to feel this. Just feel.
He enters me in one smooth thrust, and I gasp against his mouth. The angle is perfect, hitting something deep that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Fuck," I breathe. "Zay—"
"I've got you." His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as he moves. "Always got you, beautiful."
The rhythm builds—slow at first, savoring, then faster as desperation takes over. Water streams between us, making everything slick and urgent. His mouth finds my breast, tongue circling my nipple while his hips drive into me with precision that comes from knowing exactly what I need.
I can feel the orgasm building, tension coiling low in my belly. My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails leaving crescents in his skin.
"That's it," he murmurs, adjusting the angle slightly. "Let me feel you come."
His thumb finds my clit, circling with just the right pressure. That's all it takes—I shatter around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through me in waves that steal my breath.
He follows seconds later, burying his face in my neck as he comes with a groan that vibrates through my entire body.
We stay like that for a long moment—connected, breathing hard, water cooling on our skin. My legs are shaking from the position, but I don't want to let go. Don't want to break this perfect moment of being exactly where we belong.
"I meant it," Zayden says finally, pressing his forehead to mine. "What I said before. I love this life. I love you. Every impossible, beautiful piece of you."
Now the tears come—happy ones, grateful ones. "I love you too. Even when you distract me from Detroit numbers."
He laughs, carefully setting me down. My legs wobble slightly, and he steadies me with hands on my waist.
"For the record," he says, reaching for the soap, "the Detroit numbers are actually excellent. Forty-two percent increase in families served, fifteen percent under budget."
"You're such a nerd."
"You married this nerd."
"Best decision I ever made." I steal the soap from his hands. "Now turn around. If we're doing this shower properly, I'm washing your back."
He complies, and I run soapy hands over his shoulders, his spine, the muscles that carry so much but never complain. We finish washing each other with a tenderness that feels almost sacred.
This is marriage. Not just the passion—though God knows we've got that—but these quiet moments after. The gentle touches. The comfortable silence. The certainty that this person will be here tomorrow and every tomorrow after.
Later, wrapped in towels and clean, we curl up on the couch to wait for Mia's return.
"The initiative's going to change lives," Zayden says, pulling me against his chest.
"Already is." I lace my fingers through his. "That's what we do now. Change lives. Build things that matter."
"No regrets?"
"About leaving the corporate empire?" I look up at him. "Not even close. This is better. We are better."
"Yeah." He kisses my temple. "We really are."