Chapter 43 In the Quiet Between Their Breaths
1403 Words
The storm outside had calmed, but inside the house, inside their marriage, something else had just begun—something quieter, deeper, and far more dangerous than raised voices or bruised pride. It was the stillness that follows two people who have finally told each other the truths they spent months avoiding. A stillness that wasn’t cold, or tense, or bitter—but warm in a way that felt almost fragile.
Marnie lay awake long after Michael slipped into a slow, steady sleep beside her. His arm—heavy, warm, impossibly comforting—rested across her waist. His fingers didn’t grip her, didn’t hold possessively; they simply rested, as if he was reminding himself she was still there.
She brushed the back of her knuckles lightly against his forearm. Even asleep, he exhaled in that quiet, low way he did whenever he relaxed fully.
Her heart softened, folding inward.
She loved him.
God, she loved this difficult, brilliant, frustrating man.
But the words inside her—those fears, those shadows—weren’t gone. They just sat lower now, simmering instead of screaming. And she knew tomorrow, or next week, or another bad day, they might surface again.
Still… tonight was different.
Tonight, they had crossed something.
A line.
A wound.
Or maybe… a beginning.
She shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and listened to the rhythm of rainwater dripping from the eaves outside.
The storm had pulled open a wound—but also a door.
Michael stirred, his hand flexing around her hip as if seeking her through sleep.
“Don’t overthink,” he murmured, voice gravelled and drowsy.
She froze.
He wasn’t fully awake.
But he wasn’t asleep either.
“You’re awake?” she whispered.
“Half,” he muttered. His forehead brushed her shoulder. “You’re thinking too loud.”
A tiny laugh escaped her. “I didn’t know thoughts had volume.”
“Yours do,” he replied, his voice lower now, sliding into that soft place between sleep and desire. “Especially when they’re about us.”
She swallowed. “Can you feel that?”
He made a quiet, almost amused sound. “I can feel everything when it comes to you.”
There it was again—
that thread of sensuality woven into his exhaustion,
that warm intimacy a heartbeat away from becoming something sinful,
that way he spoke to her as she belonged to him even when he was barely conscious.
It was unfair.
It was beautiful.
It was him.
She rolled gently onto her back so she could see his face in the faint spill of moonlight through the curtains. His lashes were dark against his cheek. His hair was messy from sleep. His breathing was slow, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that made her own body respond instinctively.
He wasn’t truly awake.
But he was close enough that his truth slipped through every word.
“What am I thinking about?” she whispered.
He hummed, that deep, barely-there sound he made only for her. “You’re wondering if I meant what I said tonight.”
She inhaled. He wasn’t wrong.
“And?” she asked softly.
His fingers slid, slow and warm, tracing the curve of her waist through her nightshirt—not s****l, not intentional… just the unconscious magnetism of a man who adored his wife even in sleep.
“And I did,” he murmured. “Every word.”
Her throat tightened.
“Michael,” she whispered, her voice barely holding.
His eyes opened—heavy-lidded, hazy, but focused enough to catch hers. That look held the remnants of the night’s raw honesty but softened now into something intimate and unguarded.
“Marnie,” he breathed, as if her name was a vow.
He lifted his head slightly, enough to kiss the slope of her shoulder. It wasn’t a hungry kiss. It wasn’t heated or rushed.
It was gentle, unhurried, full of apology and want in equal measure.
It was the kind of kiss that broke people open.
Her breath caught.
“Come here,” he whispered, not demanding—inviting.
She slid closer, and he gathered her into his arms with a tenderness that felt like a confession. His hands didn’t explore; they held. His lips pressed softly to her temple, then her jawline, then that space below her ear that made her exhale shakily.
“Michael…” she whispered, not sure what she was asking.
“Just this,” he murmured. “Let me hold you.”
And she did.
His breath mingled with hers, warm against her cheek. His fingers brushed through her hair with a slow, sensual rhythm that felt less like a touch and more like a promise.
They lay like that—chests pressed, legs tangled, lips grazing but not consuming—long enough that the silence grew thick with something deeper than desire.
It was… intimacy.
Vulnerable.
Quiet.
Precious.
A different kind of marriage heat.
“Marnie,” he said finally, barely audible. “I don’t want to be careful with you.”
She froze—not in fear, but in anticipation.
He lifted his head and met her eyes in the moonlight, his expression raw. “You’re my wife. I want us to be real. Messy. Honest. Human. And yes… imperfect.”
She swallowed hard. “We already are.”
“Not always.” His thumb traced her lower lip, slow and reverent. “Sometimes you feel far away even when you’re in my arms.”
Her breath trembled. “Sometimes I’m scared.”
“I know,” he whispered. “But I’m not leaving. And I want you to stop expecting me to.”
Her eyes stung. “I’m trying.”
“I know you are,” he said, his forehead pressing gently to hers. “And I love you for it.”
Something inside her melted—slow, warm, sensual.
She touched his cheek. “Then stay with me tonight. Just… stay.”
His eyes darkened with emotion—and something else. “You don’t have to ask.”
He kissed her—soft at first, then deeper, with a sensual tenderness that made her toes curl beneath the blankets. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just a slow exploration, the kind that built its own heat quietly, like coals catching fire under the surface.
His lips moved against hers in a rhythm that was intimate enough to make her pulse race but gentle enough to feel safe.
Loved.
Wanted.
He pulled back just enough to whisper against her mouth, “Tell me if you want more.”
Her breath hitched. “I… yes.”
But she meant it differently.
Less physical.
More emotional.
More intimate marriage.
He seemed to understand.
His hand slid along her side—not lower, not urgent—just mapping the outline of her. Every curve. Every familiar place. Every inch he loved because it was hers.
He kissed the hollow of her throat, slow and lingering.
“Marnie…” he breathed against her skin, “I want you to trust that you’re mine and I’m yours.”
“I do,” she whispered, fingers curling around his shoulder.
“Not just in the easy moments,” he murmured, tracing her collarbone with his lips. “But in the hard ones. In the silence. In the tension. In the choices that scare you.”
She cupped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Then stay by me through it all.”
His voice dropped, intimate and solemn. “I swear it.”
Their lips met again—more urgent this time, more heated, but still controlled. Married heat. Mature heat. The kind you only earn after months of fighting, choosing, surrendering, trusting.
His hands framed her face.
Hers tangled in his hair.
Their breaths mingled in that quiet, breathless rhythm that felt like a world unto itself.
And the storm outside, fully gone now, left only the hush of the night around them.
He kissed her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Her heart burst open. “I love you too.”
They stayed there—wrapped in each other, hearts pressed, breaths shared—until sleep finally tugged them down together.
Not broken.
Not perfect.
Something far more beautiful—
Two flawed people choosing each other again, in the quiet between their breaths.
- Writer
