Chapter One Hundred Four: The First Step
693 Words
-----Rourke’s POV-----
The backyard looked different tonight.
It wasn’t the string lights—though they glowed soft and golden, crisscrossing overhead like a constellation handpicked for Axton and Helen.
It wasn’t the candles flickering on each table or the faint scent of lilac and grilled steak that hung in the air.
It was the laughter.
Real. Loud. Unfiltered.
Family.
Rourke stood near the back fence, sipping whiskey from a sweating glass and watching the people who mattered most to him move through the warmth of the night.
Helen glowed in her new white sundress, barefoot and pregnant and smiling so big it made his chest ache. Axton didn’t leave her side—not for a second. He hovered like a shadow and a heartbeat, radiating peace and possession.
He deserved it.
That much Rourke knew like gospel.
Axton had been through hell. And now he stood wrapped in everything he’d fought for.
Rourke tipped his glass in silent respect.
He didn’t know what love like that felt like. But maybe… maybe he was starting to.
Because across the yard, Morgan laughed.
And his damn heart stuttered.
She was wearing navy tonight. Something soft and fitted. Her hair was pulled back in one of those effortless updos that somehow made her neck look longer, more elegant.
She didn’t notice him staring.
But he was.
He always was.
Morgan. The girl who used to steal his boots and dare him to kiss her when they were fifteen—before she punched him for even thinking about it.
Morgan. The woman who now fought beside him, lived beside him, existed like a permanent ache he never wanted cured.
The music kicked up. Something upbeat and fast.
Couples swarmed the makeshift dance floor—wooden panels laid over the grass, surrounded by lanterns. Even Price was pulled into the mess, Sarah grabbing his hands and laughing as he reluctantly twirled her.
Rourke’s eyes landed on Morgan.
Still sitting.
Still watching.
He tossed back the last of his drink, set the glass down on the edge of the fence, and walked.
Straight across the yard.
“Hey,” he said, hands in his pockets.
Morgan looked up. Her smile was easy. “Hey.”
“You’re not gonna dance?”
She raised a brow. “Doesn’t really seem like my thing tonight.”
He offered a hand.
“Dance with me.”
Morgan stared at it for a second. Then stood.
She didn’t say yes.
Didn’t have to.
He led her to the edge of the floor. They found a spot as the music blasted something ridiculous—upbeat and full of bass.
They danced.
Badly.
On purpose.
Morgan laughed when he dipped her too far and caught her at the last second.
He grinned when she spun herself the wrong direction and collided into his chest.
It was easy.
Natural.
Then the music changed.
Slowed.
The first notes of something soft spilled through the speakers.
And Rourke didn’t let go.
Neither did she.
His hands slid to her waist. Hers rested on his shoulders.
They swayed.
And the world fell away.
For once, Morgan wasn’t armored.
And Rourke wasn’t cracking jokes.
They just… were.
“I didn’t expect this,” she whispered.
“Neither did I.”
They moved like they’d done this forever.
Like their bodies remembered something their mouths hadn’t dared say.
She smelled like lavender and champagne. Her cheek brushed his shoulder.
He closed his eyes for a beat.
This felt right.
Too right.
And maybe that was terrifying.
But as the final chords of the song stretched out into silence, Morgan stepped back.
“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes bright.
She turned.
And he reached.
His hand caught hers.
She looked back, surprised.
He stepped forward.
And kissed her.
Slow. Sure. Hands cupping her face like she was something rare and untouchable.
Her fingers gripped his jacket.
And she kissed him back.
When they broke apart, her smile was different.
Soft. Knowing.
“I’ve been waiting for you to do that since we were seventeen,” she whispered.
Rourke exhaled a laugh.
“I've waited that long to do that.”
- Writer
