A/N: !Disclaimer! Do I even need to explain? Lol. You all know why when 'disclaimer''s noted, so without further ado, enjoy the update!


16.

Pt. 2

Almost two hours had passed since she came home when Peter and the kids walked through the door from their day out. They unloaded a bundle of her favorite flowers and dessert onto the countertop. She asked the reason for their little surprise and their beaming faces chorused, "Just because!"

Her heart felt it would burst.

As she pulled Zach and Grace into her arms for a joint hug, she caught Peter's eyes across the tops of their heads. He stood back, arms folded, bearing a grin while shooting her a quick wink. A love for him hit her harder than she last remembered.

She clung to it, and changed into an off-white, sleeveless scoop-neck button down linen dress, then started dinner.

In under a half-hour, dinner's simmering on the stove. She gives the burners one last check before pouring herself a glass of lemonade and waltzes toward the patio doors to observe her family in the backyard.

From the looks of it, they're playing a game of catch. Something Peter's done with Zach since he was four. And making the most of the last, late summer warm evenings.

She watches as he shares a laugh with Zach, then removes his cap and snaps it backward on Zach's head. Picking up a baseball glove from the ground, he goes over to Grace and wraps an arm around her shoulders, guiding her a few feet away, diagonally from Zach.

He stands behind Grace and aids in positioning the mitt on her right hand, no doubt coaching her on how to catch the ball.

A few minutes of instruction follows with a soft pitch from Zach, and they erupt in a laugh when the ball lands a few feet short of Grace.

Alicia can almost envision the matching smile creasing the skin around Peter's black frame shaded eyes. He loves spending time with the kids. No matter how tired or stressed work leaves him at the end of the day, he carves out time for them.

He's always been a good dad.

Always.

She remembers the first moment of telling him they were going to be parents.

Fear of what type of mother she would be matched her fear of what type of father he would be. His pure euphoria as she sat in fright at the time, comforted and induced a strain of worry, which lasted right until she began a laborious twenty minutes of pushing.

After Zach was cleansed, swathed, and set in her arms, wailing and thrashing till he found her breast, the way Peter looked at her, like the moment he'd been preparing most of his life for had finally arrived, dismissed all of her worry and fear.

"How is it you can feel so much for someone you barely know?" he had whispered. An innocent mixture of sheer joy, love, and pride stared back at her.

Emotion gripped her then; she wasn't able to respond. She didn't have the answer. But with him, was confident she could find and understand the meaning. Knew that as she also figured it out,—being a mom—he somehow already knew how to be a dad. (At Zach's first cry, he morphed into the best kind of dad, and man, she would come to witness and know.)

Which, is so Peter. He naturally welcomes the trials of life, amazing her in each instance how he responds.

"He's perfect," he had added, still in awe as he carefully rubbed the back of Zach's smooth head with the tip of his finger. "And you're amazing."

Zach throws a slow ball, and Grace catches and yelps, startling her back to the present.

The trio erupts in celebration.

And something in her rolls over.

Similar to that upending feeling she periodically felt while falling in love with Peter.

It rushes over her anew.

Not in a novel way, exactly, but more of a reminder.

She focuses on him and drinks a slow sip, recalling Kate's words. Decade plus memories she and Peter have created and share, float through her conscious, intensifying this warm feeling.

He's still the one.

He will always be the one she chose—continues to choose.

She forgot that the past few months. Probably before then, too.

Peter pauses adjusting Grace's stance and looks towards the house. He likely sees her through the glass.

She doesn't move or alter her position.

Dark lenses of his shades hide what his eyes tell, but a crooked smile on his mouth confirms he sees her. She tosses one back, her cheeks flushing hot.

A pot boiling over forces her to break contact and she pushes off the wall, beelining to the stove.

. . .

Folding towels in the laundry room grants her more time to herself. Actually, she purposely sought this time which equates to guaranteed, undisturbed quiet. After a cleaned kitchen and Zach and Grace upstairs getting ready for bed, she decided to finish up a few things around the house.

Dinner was perfect, she concludes on her reflection of their overdue, first 'normal' evening.

What added a certain touch of perfection on top is: wine. A smooth, full-bodied red.

Her third glass tonight.

Another thing she's forgotten is how much she loves wine. And how in these quiet moments, she can properly savor and enjoy it without the kids calling her for whatever crisis they can't handle on their own.

She's settled into a rhythm of swapping a towel for her half-full glass after two folds. Mid-sip, she doesn't hear when Peter walks in.

"Need any help?"

She spins, eyeballing him over the brim. She quickly swallows and smiles. "I'm okay. Thanks."

He surprises her by leaning against the dryer, crossing his ankles and arms.

She glances at him as she returns to folding on the adjacent counter. Can feel his eyes on her. Decides he's probably trying to gauge how to start a conversation. Which shouldn't be difficult because as of almost four weeks ago, they were speaking more than they had all summer.

No longer was it a question whether they were doing good.

They are.

After their phone-call during her "hard moment", he began calling mid-day, every day. "I wanted to see how you're doing," he said during that first call.

Their calls grew from a few seconds to stretches of minutes.

She had underestimated their power in communication. For those calls pushed forward a comfort and indescribable ease with him she laid dormant.

"Surprised you're home tonight," she says, breaking their silence. She pushes a stack of towels aside. "I thought your latest case would have pulled you away."

"You saw the news today?"

"Mm-hmm."

He rambles about the details. Some she knew, and some she didn't. Before May, she complained about his late hours during an argument. From May to now, it registers in the back of her mind he's often working late. Coming home long after she and the kids are in bed.

She never allows the thought to fester and question if it is more than work.

And now, it fleets across her mind, but doesn't stick.

"Dinner was good tonight, right?" he notes, pulling her back.

She folds the last towel and picks up her near empty glass and turns, propping against the counter to face him.

"It was." She finishes the goblet in one sip and sets it behind her. "I needed that."

He scratches his forearm, eyes drifting down before meeting hers. "I did, too."

Their gaze lingers; wordless words pass. Peter's always had a way of making her feel like she is everything from a single look. Her stomach enlists in a dance of flutters. Being with him again, like this. Where there is not an urgent need to fill silence, where they are content to ... be. She savors their moments of being. It is grounding. Safe. Like coming home.

"I met with Kate today," she whispers, shifting her vision to the floor. "She shared some things about her and Mitch that made me think about us." She looks back at him. "Are we really okay?"

"Sure." She lifts her brows at his air of confidence. "What? You don't think we are?"

"I think, we are better than we were."

"We are more than better. We're great."

"Even after ...?"

"Even after." He wanly smiles.

It's boyish and charming, and that feeling rolls over in her again, halting her slight urge to discuss their uncharted area.

She roams her gaze down his torso, past his waist, pausing, then climbs back up.

He's wearing a white t-shirt and dark grey lounge pants. A slight hint of stubble lines his jaws. His hair is strewn from its usual coif, and fuller on top, signaling he's due for a cut soon. But she likes it this way. The longer she ogles, reflecting on how he's grown more attractive with age, does the warmth spread into tingles.

A slow stir ignites in her abdomen, surging lower.

She crosses her legs.

In a list of 'what to expect during recovery' a bulleted item was sex. Her doctor had an odd inclination to expand on each point and skimmed on the details of that item.

He simply advised her prior interest in sex may not return. Possibly delayed up to a year, or longer.

She thought she wasn't listening, but now remembers that part of the discussion vividly.

And believes, her doctor was wrong. Her body has a clear, shorter duration in mind.

As she stalls her focus on his lips, then drifts down to his toned arms, muscles ... a haggard breath swells in her chest.

"Hey," he whispers. She meets his eyes; wonders if he can sense her train of thought. If he caught her checking him out, his unreadable gaze gives no clue. "All finished here?"

She eyeballs the stack behind her, then him.

"Yes. Until tomorrow."

He grins and goes to pick up the towels when she sets a hand on his forearm. Both are surprised at her initiative. She does not stop; gives herself to the moment, choosing not to think. He's surprised even more when she draws his arm around her waist.

"What are you doing?" Plain confusion masks his face.

"Waking up," she says, then raises herself on her toes, cups the back of his head and guides his mouth to hers.

He hesitates—barely responds. She presses herself against him, coaxing him to meet her with a swipe of her tongue.

He caves; sprawling his palm firm against her lower back, and she feels reborn.

Their kiss is slow.

Toe-curling.

Reacquainting.

She slants her head, widens her mouth, and splays her fingers in his hair, suppressing a moan.

A warm buzz courses down her limbs, courtesy of the wine, stirring every dormant cell to life. No doubt the reason she's thrown caution to the wind.

But her buzz, she registers, is one-sided.

His hand jailed to her waist make it evident he's holding back.

"You want …?" he says, breathing heavily when they break apart.

She holds his cloudy gaze.

Uncertainty and something else she can't name pour into her own.

To answer his question, she closes the door, locks it, then goes back to him, melding her front to his again. She brushes her lips across his, then braces a hand behind her, and lifts herself to perch on the edge of the counter.

Reaching for his waist, she tugs him forward, hitching the dress hem up past her knees and steers his hips between her thighs.

"I do," she answers, securing her calves around the backs of his legs. "I want this," and seals her mouth back to his.

She plummets undone when he coasts his attention south. He undoes the top of her dress, tugging a band from a shoulder, greedily kissing and tonguing exposed skin, button after button.

Though months have passed since they've been intimate this way, something about his touch and kiss is off. She can't pinpoint at the moment, but through her misty thoughts, opt to lump it as deprivation.

He pulls away from her chest and leans back, his eyelids leaden as he skims the crest of her knees. "You're sure?"

Holding his hooded gaze, she guides one of his hands beneath her dress, a small gasp escaping her when it sails upward.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she coaxes him back in, arches a thigh and whispers, "I'm sure."

With her help, he slides a layer of silk from her hips and down her legs, tossing the article on the floor. Between urgent kisses, he hikes her dress hem up to her waist, and she pushes his pants and briefs down below his ass, and widens her legs as he joins them in a blink.

For a split second, she forgets to breathe.

Oh, he—this—feels good.

On exhale, she feels him everywhere—inside and out.

He settles in a sedating rhythm. Nerve shattering. He's pulsing and nestled in her just right.

Her eyes roll back.

She doesn't want to let him go. Does not want this moment to end.

Former, fleeting concern of whether she would respond to sex as before is answered the second he cups her bottom, lifting her flush against his pelvis.

Her body flares in a fleet of jolts.

She curls her fingers around the nape of his neck, nuzzling his cheek and panting in his ear. Her other palm anchors behind her for leverage, deepening their angle. He moans his approval and she smiles wide.

Still, as good as this is right now, he feels off (not from deprivation, she resigns). But she struggles to keep focus on nailing his off-ness origin. Her quest off-ness falters with each drive of his hips forward, with each rough breath against her neck, making her spineless and incoherent as she teeters toward orgasm.

Whether he senses it, she can't determine, but the idea expunges from her mind entirely when he moves them to the wall, gently readjusts into position, and upends his thrusts to bucks.

Only him, and loving him, now occupy her thoughts.

She finds his mouth again.

Kissing him is like a momentary drug. Smudging unfathomable lines.

She craves it.

Needs it.

Her vision blurs, thoughts hazy as she seizes his lower lip, and releases before diving in for another kiss.

She misses him.

Misses being with him this way.

Misses herself.

It's nice to feel like her again. To really wake up. And feel sexy, wanted, and wanting him like a bride on her wedding night.

Peter steadies a hand beneath her, and entraps her left hand with his other, pinning it above her head. He intertwines their fingers and melds against her so tight she swears they're one.

She subtly bobs and weaves along the wall, arm clutching his shoulders. A quick swivel of his hips to the right ignites a cry to tumble past her lips.

He stops.

"Did I hurt you?" he says, his breath in bursts as he scans her. "Am I going too, fast?"

"No, you didn't hurt me." She lazily smiles. "I'm fine."

He slyly grins and moves again.

Their eyes remain yoked as he guides them to the pending release; her mouth falls open, fighting to hold on.

"Babe …" He groans long and low. Releases her hand and clenches both her thighs, hoisting them high along his torso. "I've missed you ..."

He propels forward again. Harder.

It's her undoing.

She gasps, head arching against the wall. "I—"

Her slippered feet dig into his bottom as they both let go.

Strings of her hair cling to her neck, his breath hot and damp below her ear.

In days to come, she'll reminisce on this moment; on how a contented smile spread across her face while they caught their breaths pressed to the wall. But mostly, on how their reunion in the laundry room paved the way for more doors of communication to open, and cleared a months long thick fog from over them.