Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Conrad’s in Paris with Belly, except he’d never visited her there, which is how she knows this is a dream.

She can’t bring herself to care, not when they’re kissing by the Seine and he’s backlit by the full moon, waves lapping lazily.

It’s been six years since they kissed, but this is as familiar to her as if it happened yesterday. He’s visiting for her birthday or a conference (both? The details are fuzzy, dream logic is weird), and they slow danced the way they never did at prom, and then he waited for her to lean in first.

Kissing him is just as good as she remembers. A little bit better, even, because they’re both older and Susannah’s death isn’t looming over them like a shadow and Jeremiah’s traveling with his girlfriend, so there aren’t any obstacles.

They know what they're doing. They know what they want.

“Come home with me,” she gasps, confident in what she wants, her dream self way more bold than her real life self.

She couldn’t even kiss him tonight on the beach, and now in this dream she’s asking him to come home with her? This really is a fantasy.

Conrad looks at her with so much heat and yearning behind his eyes that it takes her breath away. He hasn't looked at her in that way in years, either.

And then he kisses her again.

He kisses like this is all he’s wanted to do for years, and she’s about to tip her head back so his mouth can explore her neck, about to moan quite loudly considering they’re in public, when the dream shifts.

They’re in the back of a cab, the city an afterthought as he kisses her more thoroughly than he ever has in real life, his tongue slipping over hers and sweeping over the tops of her teeth and the roof of her mouth.

She was wearing his jacket by the Seine but it’s gone now, and she doesn't know—or care—where it is. She’s in her favorite black dress, and even though this didn’t happen in her dream, she has the distinct feeling that he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off that dress since the moment she stepped out of the bathroom wearing it.

“This fucking dress,” he murmurs, as if reading her mind.

His hand curls around the back of her head as the two of them move fluidly so the back of her head is against the window and he’s pressing into her, hard against her.

She grins and bites his lower lip. He moans softly and the sound sparks through her like a match struck against a matchbox. “What about it?”

“You look incredible.” His voice is rough, his breathing ragged, and when she opens her eyes, he’s absolutely wrecked with want, the light from a passing streetlamp reflecting the pure need in his eyes. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you all night, how badly I want to peel the dress off of you and make love to you.”

She moans when he rolls his hips against hers, desperate, and tilts her head back. He laughs, chases her mouth with his as the dream switches again.

They’re making their way up the one million flights of stairs in her Paris apartment when she presses her back against one of the metal railings and tugs him against her, kisses him.

Now that she’s kissed him again, she never wants to stop. Heat stirs low in her stomach, and all she wants is his hands and mouth on her, his dirty thoughts whispered against her skin as he kisses down her body.

It’s surreal, having him flush against her like this after years of thinking it would never happen, craving his touch sweeping over her breasts, her hips, spreading her thighs apart, his cock sinking into her cunt.

Here, in this moment, it feels real. Feels like something she could still actually have, and not like something she’s still worrying she lost.

“I want you all over me,” she murmurs as they kiss and kiss. It’s more languid, slower, sweeter, than it was in the back of the cab. “Pressed against me, inside me . . .”

The railing is digging into Belly’s back, but it’s the furthest thing on her mind when Conrad is looking at her through half-open wanton eyes, completely gone for her.

“I want that, too,” he says, his lips brushing hers as he does, his nose pressing against hers, and then he kisses her again. Maybe he doesn’t want to stop kissing her now that he’s started, either. “God, Belly. I want you.”

She wraps her hand around his wrist, her fingers pressing into the cool glass of his watch’s face, and guides his hand between her legs and under her dress. His hand brushes her cunt over her underwear and her head tilts back.

He pulls back a bit, his eyes blazing as he studies her, his middle finger tracing along the edge of her underwear where it meets the crease of her thigh.

“Please, Conrad,” she whispers, desperate, almost a groan, but then she isn’t saying anything at all because he’s pushing aside her underwear and parting her folds with his middle and ring fingers before curling them inside her. She’s so wet that when his fingers start to move, it echoes off the walls.

“Is this all for me?” Conrad asks with one eyebrow raised, his voice a little knowing. This dream version of him is cocky in a way that he so rarely is in real life (and has never been with her during sex), and delight zips down her spine. Is he like this now, when he has sex? Encouraging yet a little bit mean?

She opens her eyes as a whine falls from her lips, eager for his mouth on hers, tangles her hand in the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him back down to kiss her, lost in his fingers sliding in and out of her. “Yes. I’ve been waiting for this, for you.”

“Say that again,” he encourages gently, yet his eyes darken and there’s an edge to his voice that makes everything else fall away.

“I’ve been—Oh, fuck, Conrad.” Her hands can’t stop wandering, because he’s here and he’s hard against her, and she still can’t believe that this is happening, that he’s pressing her into the railing with two fingers in her cunt. They haven’t even made it to her apartment and his fingers are already inside her.

He hums, pleased by how breathless she is, how dilated her pupils are, how badly she so clearly wants him, and, with the hand not currently between her legs, hitches one of her legs around his waist. “C’mon, Belly. Tell me this is all for me.”

Her mouth opens from the pleasure rising within her, but before she can answer, the dream shifts again, fast forwards to a few seconds or minutes later.

The door to her apartment bangs open. Both of her legs are around his waist and he has one arm around her waist and the other underneath her legs. Conrad lets go of her waist briefly to shut the door, but then he’s pressing her against the wall and kissing her hard, like he’s dreamed about this, too.

“This is all for you,” she gasps, her hands wrapped around his neck. Her purse slides off her arm and onto the floor; distantly, she hears the flutter of his jacket hitting the floor, a button on it clanging against the floorboards. So that’s where it went. “Needed to make sure you know that.”

He readjusts his grip on her with a groan, and then carries her to her room, murmuring incredibly hot, incredibly filthy things while he does so, “You’re so fucking wet for me, I can still feel it,” against her jawline and “When I touch myself, this is what I think of: you, wrapped around me like this, my fingers still slick from you” in her ear.

They undress quickly, and then he crawls on top of her, smirking, her lipstick smudged all around his mouth.

It’s slow, the way they fuck. Nothing matters except the two of them. Belly is on top, sinks onto his bare cock each time with a groan, her pleasure building, her head thrown back.

“That’s it. Oh, Belly, yes,” Conrad says, his voice closer than she’s expecting. Her eyes open and he’s sitting up, is now pressed against her, his hands curved around her ass. His lips are parted, and her hand rests against his jaw, her thumb presses into the corner of his mouth. His moan vibrates around her thumb, and a shiver runs down her spine. “You’re taking me so well.”

“Oh my god.” With a groan, she nudges him back onto the bed, one of her palms curved around his shoulder while the other’s pressed into the pillow underneath his head. “How do you even know I like that?”

“That you have a praise kink?” He raises an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth tilting up in a knowing grin. He grins fully when she nods, dazed, her lips parted. “It was a guess. But now I know for sure.”

It sends a thrill down her spine, how there will always be things for them to learn about each other.

She laughs, once, shakes her head as she grins down at him. Is it obvious, now, to him, that she’s still in love with him? That she’s never stopped loving him? In this dream, does he know about the letters?

“I can hear you thinking,” he says, still grinning. “What is it?”

What would he say, if she said the words to him right now? I don’t want to have to say goodbye to you, or, much more simply: I love you. It doesn’t feel like the right moment, though, so instead, she asks, “What do you like? During sex.”

“This,” he says, moving his hands up her back so he can wrap his legs around her waist and push even deeper inside of her. Two of his fingers rub against her clit in achingly slow circles, and her cunt clenches around his cock. “You, on top of me. Clenching around me, bare and warm and perfect. I never thought I’d get to have this with you again. God, Belly, I—This is even better than I dreamed it would be.”

She beams at him. Their thrusts are slow, nothing at all like the frantic kissing in the cab and when they first got here, but she loves it. Slow, fast, rough, sweet, she wants all of it with him. “You dreamed about this?”

“All the time,” he confirms.

And then Belly wakes up.

Early morning light streaks in through her curtains, gray and overcast. She has no idea what time it is, but she’s breathing hard, heat is pooling low in her stomach, and her heart is pounding.

Right now, she doesn’t care what time it is, because holy shit.

She’s dreamed about Conrad before, of course, but until now, she’s only had one sex dream about him.

It was last year, a few weeks after she called him. It was nothing more than fragments: his hand moving from the outside to the inside of her thigh, his eyes sparkling as he leaned above her, a flash of his tongue as he licked his lips, his quiet moans in her ear as he fucked her slowly.

Needless to say, it was nothing like this.

He wouldn’t be that desperate to fuck her that he’d roll his hips against hers in the back of a cab, his cock hard through his pants, would he? Or, once they’re back in her building, slide two fingers into her leaking cunt, pressing her against the staircase’s railing?

There’s no way he’d fuck her in public.

Right?

Even though his fingers haven’t been inside her in years and she doesn’t have recent evidence to back this up, the second her hand drifts between her legs, she knows it won’t be the same as it would if it were him. So, she imagines her hand is his as she slides it under her sleep pants and underwear. His fingers are longer, and she’s impossibly wet just from imagining this. Just from wondering if he’d ever fuck her in public, in the back of a cab or in a stairwell or even in her bed with the window thrown open.

Just from imagining that her fingers are his as they slide up her folds so she can rub at her clit slowly, exactly like he was doing in her dream.

His voice rings out in her mind, the encouraging, knowing tone he’s never used during sex. You’re taking me so well.

Her cunt clenches around nothing as her eyes squeeze shut. She’s so wet, is desperate to come, desperate to replay that dream over and over. Her fingers are slick as she slides them inside her cunt, but it’s not enough.

Groaning, she takes her hand out from between her legs as she opens her eyes, sits up, and swings her legs over the side of the bed, then heads to her still-packed suitcases.

She rummages around in them until she finds what she’s looking for: a lilac makeup bag with her sex toys inside.

Grabbing a hot pink vibrator (her favorite), she gets back into bed, lying against the pillows, her legs spread as she gathers her slickness on the vibrator and then pushes it inside without turning it on. It stretches her open, and when she closes her eyes, Conrad’s above her, his hand trailing down her side to hitch her leg around his waist. His groan, which had been present in her dream, echoes in her mind as she clenches around the vibrator.

“Oh, fuck,” she murmurs, turning it on, and even though it starts on the lowest setting, that’s enough for her hips to buck off the bed, her toes to curl against the mattress, a groan trying to escape her lips.

She slaps her free hand over her mouth, stifles her moan even as her hips buck up again and again until she’s frantically fucking her favorite vibrator, wildly chasing the orgasm she didn’t have in the dream.

Her hand falls from her mouth as she comes, and as stars burst behind her eyes, as her orgasm crashes over her again and again, the dream replays in her mind: Conrad carrying her to her room, whispering when I touch myself, this is what I think of: you, wrapped around me like this, my fingers still slick from you in her ear, his cock bare when she rides him.

It’s a Top Ten of All-Time orgasm. If she had an Orgasm Hall of Fame, this one would be there, a description etched into a gold placard: came around a vibrator as I imagined Conrad Fisher fucking me. After I had a spectacularly hot sex dream about him, of course.

She lies there for a while, catching her breath. Eventually, the vibrator falls to the floor, and it’s only then that Belly makes herself get up, pick up the vibrator off the floor, and head to the bathroom to pee, clean up, shower, and change.

Once she’s done in the shower (where she doesn’t masturbate again but she definitely does think about Conrad’s hands: wrapped around hers, trailing down her stomach, his fingers pumping in and out of her cunt), she heads downstairs, her hair still damp.

It’s after 10 now, so it’s likely Conrad’s been awake for a while. His car’s still parked out front, and while his bedroom door was closed, maybe he’s jet-lagged and still asleep. She walks into the kitchen, glances out at the pool and the beach beyond that.

Maybe he’s out there surfing or sitting on the sand, her brain muses. Maybe he wants you to find him.

At that exact moment, the back door opens and closes, and Conrad appears in a wetsuit, which he’s unzipped and bunched around his waist. He’s dripping water onto the floor as he walks into the kitchen from the mudroom, shirtless. His hair is wet, too, and rivulets snake from his temples down his cheek, down the slope of his neck.

It’s mesmerizing. Belly’s breath hitches, and she stands there, rooted to the spot at the end of the kitchen island across from where he’s standing, resisting the urge to lick the saltwater off of his skin.

She just touched herself while thinking about him, while imagining it wasn’t her fingers but his, while imagining that her favorite pink vibrator was his cock, and now . . .

I still . . .

Now, she grips the cool countertop, overwhelmed by the scenario playing out in her mind: she crosses the room so quickly that the floor doesn’t even creak beneath her feet, her eyes not moving from his the whole time. When she reaches him, her arms automatically wrap around his waist as she pulls him in close, and she dips her head to his collarbone, runs her tongue along the—

“Morning, Belly,” Conrad says easily, interrupting her thoughts, entirely unaware of what she’s thinking about right now. He flashes her a quick half-smile and walks around the other side of the island from where she’s standing, then reaches across the counter to the bowl in the center. His long fingers close around a shining red apple as water drips from his hair onto the counter.

Belly swallows hard, her eyes snapping from his bare chest to his eyes, which are burning with want. Okay, so maybe he isn’t entirely unaware of what she’s thinking. Is he thinking the same thing? “Morning. How was surfing?”

Before he can answer, her phone starts to buzz in her hand.

Her lips part. Is it written across her face, how badly she wants him? Her earlier masturbation session was nice, good even, but it wasn’t the same as it would be with him.

He nods toward her phone, which is still buzzing. “You should get that.”

“Right, I . . . ” She blinks slowly, utterly enthralled by him. For a moment, she forgets about everything but him, and they stand there, staring at each other.

It’s only once her phone stops buzzing that she glances down at it.

Mom: One missed call.

Mom: Voicemail.

“Oh, shit.” That spurs her into action. Without even listening to the voicemail, she calls Laurel back.

It rings once, and then: “Hey, Bean. I’m so sorry, but my flight got delayed. I won’t be there until tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Belly blinks. Her brain is still reeling from Conrad, standing in front of her shirtless and dripping saltwater onto the tile. He’s eating the apple now, still watching her curiously. She hasn’t looked away from him, but it occurs to her that she should probably do that, so she tears her eyes away from his and looks down at the counter. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be there before the party, don’t worry. I know everyone isn’t getting there until tomorrow morning, and I just hate the thought of you being there alone until—”

“I’m not alone,” she interrupts. “Conrad’s here with me. We were on the same flight from Paris to Boston.”

Her eyes drift over Conrad, still shirtless, still wet. Still, still, still, says each pound of her heart in her chest. His apple’s frozen halfway to his mouth, and he’s clearly surprised she mentioned him.

“How wonderful,” Laurel says. “Oh, Bean, I’m glad he’s here. Have fun and tell Conrad I said hi, okay? I need to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I will, Mom. See you tomorrow.” The call ends, and she lowers her phone from her ear slowly, still maintaining eye contact with Conrad. “My mom’s flight got delayed, she won’t be here until tomorrow.”

He takes a bite of his apple and chews thoughtfully before responding. “That sucks. Looks like it’ll just be us today, then. Steven and Taylor don’t get here until tomorrow, either, right?”

“Yeah,” she says, a little breathless at the idea of spending even more uninterrupted time alone with Conrad Fisher. Even though yesterday, on the plane, it was just the two of them, but they weren’t alone. The room, suddenly, is stifling, and Belly hears herself say, “I should go grocery shopping. We’ll need to eat more than just fruit.”

“I’ll drive,” he says, finishing his apple. He pads over to the trash can, throws away the apple, then turns to her. He’s close enough that if she wanted to, she could reach out and touch him. She doesn’t, but she does notice that he smells like saltwater and sunscreen, which will likely fuel her fantasies even more. “Is it okay if I shower first, or do you want to go now?”

She takes an orange out of the fruit basket, tosses it between her hands so that she doesn’t reach for him. “You can shower first.”

He nods, then reaches up a hand and tucks her hair behind her ear as he whispers, “Thank you.”

“No problem.” She intends to smile at him, but she’s so thrown by his proximity that all she does is stare.

With that, he leaves the kitchen. Belly stands there for several long moments, long enough that she can faintly hear his music turn on followed by the shower, and then she shakes her head.

“Get a grip,” she murmurs to herself, then sits at the island and peels the orange. As she eats, she replays that moment before Laurel called over and over, the tension that lingered before and after the phone call.

So much for getting a grip.

Ten minutes later, she’s pouring a glass of water when Conrad appears, hair still wet, fully dressed now in a navy t-shirt and jeans.

I still . . .

“Ready to go?” he asks, car keys jingling as he twists them around his fingers.

Belly chugs the glass of water she’s just poured, and then sets the empty glass in the dishwasher. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The ride to the grocery store is quiet but comfortable. The radio plays on low, and it’s déja vù: she’s thrown back in time two years to the summer before her wedding, spending the day with Conrad, shopping. They head out of town, since Cousins is full of high-end grocery stores that don’t offer fruit snacks or bagels that aren’t gluten free.

This grocery store trip is killing her.

She can’t stop focusing on his hands. They’re: wrapped around a shiny red apple as he inspects it; fiddling with the edge of a one-pound chocolate bar wrapper as he looks over Belly’s shoulder at the recipe on her phone (her mom sent it over, it’s for a chocolate cake she wants Belly to make for her birthday); hovering over the small of Belly’s back as he walks alongside her while she pushes the cart.

It’s easy, familiar, a glimpse into what their Sunday mornings could be.

Conrad is so close, yet so far. He pushes the shopping cart, one of the rickety wheels catching every once in a while, as he grabs items off high shelves and talks about Stanford, about med school and his best friend Agnes, about California, about how blue and endless the sky is in Palo Alto, the same way that it is in Cousins.

“Did it feel that way in Paris?” he asks as he pulls the Range Rover out of the parking lot, and Belly is jolted out of her thoughts about his hands (specifically, his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel).

“Sometimes,” she admits after a moment, meeting his eyes for the first time in several minutes. It’s overcast and chilly; the rain hasn’t come yet, but it’s going to, likely tonight. “When it was sunny, or once night had fallen and the stars scattered across the sky.”

It’s so vivid, even now, even though she doesn’t live there anymore. Belly closes her eyes and there’s the night sky, illuminated by stars sprinkled across it like jewels.

“That sounds lovely,” Conrad says, his voice soft. When her eyes open, his expression is wistful. He hums once, thoughtful, flicks on the turn signal to merge into the other lane. “I’d love to go someday.”

“We should go together,” she suggests, the words out of her mouth before she can stop them or think about them for longer than one second. It hits her, then, what she’s just said, and her eyes widen. Her tongue is heavy.

She can’t bring herself to take it back or to pass it off as a joke, because she meant it.

The rest of the ride passes in weighted silence. She doesn’t look at Conrad. She can’t. They’re not even dating, why had she suggested they go to Paris together?

They park at the house and Belly immediately gets out of the car without saying anything, heads toward the trunk for the groceries.

“Belly.” She doesn’t even realize Conrad’s gotten out of the car until he says her name. Just once, a little brokenly. Her heart twists.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his hand move towards her, like he wants to reach for her, but before he touches her, he stops.

Heart in her throat, she glances at him, her eyes dipping down to his hand and then up to meet his gaze.

Oh.

His eyes are brimming with want, fiery and unrestrained, like he’s wanted her since they reunited on the plane yesterday—God, was that only yesterday?—but hasn’t allowed himself to say it, to even think it, until now.

All of the worry melts from her as quickly as it had appeared.

“I want that,” he says, soft and low, stepping into her orbit as his hand comes up to cradle her cheek. He blinks a few times in quick succession; is he imagining all of the things he wants with her? Is he wondering, now that he’s allowed himself to, what their life could look like? “I want to travel the world with you, I want—”

He breaks off suddenly, glances around, as if remembering they’re still outside, the trunk full of groceries.

“I hadn’t planned on saying this now,” he continues, truthfully, looking back at her, that want still burning in his eyes. His hand moves from her jaw to sweep her hair behind her ear. “I thought I’d wait until tonight, when everyone else is asleep, or when we were alone on the beach, but I can’t go another second without telling you this. I want to show you my favorite places in California, I want to see Boston through your eyes, I want to wake up next to you and fall asleep beside you. You’re the only person I want to spend the rest of my days with, Belly, and I know we just reunited yesterday, but I need you to know. I don’t want to—I can’t—hide it anymore.”

Like last night, the rain chooses that moment to start pouring down in sheets, pounding against pavement and soaking through their clothes.

Unlike last night, she stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips to his. It’s a slow kiss, one that feels like coming home, and Belly’s heart melts.

She is so in love with him it hurts.

He reacts immediately, opening his mouth wider so that she can deepen the kiss and sighing against her mouth, his hands tangling in her wet hair.

“I want all of that, too,” she whispers against his mouth. Tears slip down her cheeks, but it could be him or her or the rain or all three. Her hands twist in his shirt, the fabric thick and wet with rain, and reluctantly, she pulls away to look at him, both of them breathing heavily. “I wanted to tell you this morning when I saw you in the kitchen, last night on the beach, yesterday on the plane, last year on the phone. I wanted to tell you two years ago, in the kitchen that morning after my bachelorette party, and it’s surreal, telling you now. You’re all I’ve ever wanted—seeing the world with you, sharing my life with you, everything, all of it.”

Conrad stares at her for several long moments, his eyes burning with want. Disbelief that this is happening is painted in broad strokes across his face. And then he leans in and kisses her again, their mouths instantly meeting, warm despite the cold rain.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispers, walking backwards until his back hits the side of the car, not separating from her as he does. His hand moves from her hair to trail down the side of her face, and she tilts her head back, her mouth drifting open, her jaw dropping in pleasure. He kisses along her jaw, her neck, exploring but not desperate. Not yet, anyway. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long, Belly.”

Too soon, he pulls away, breathing hard, raindrops clinging to his eyelashes and sliding down his face.

“Believe it,” she says, looping her arms around his neck, eager to kiss him again. Now that she has, she doesn’t want to stop, but it’s raining and they need to get inside. “I know it feels like a fantasy, but it’s real. I promise.”

“I know,” he whispers, murmuring I know in between kissing her cheek, her nose, her forehead. It’s there, at her hairline, that his lips linger. “We need to head in.”

“Yeah,” she says, but for a moment, they don’t move, wrapped in each other, his lips pressed to her forehead. Until the rain continues and they realize that they really do need to head in.

“Once we’re done unloading the groceries,” she starts, breaking the silence during their second trip from the car into the house, biting her lip as she glances at his side profile: the curve of his jaw, the seam of his lips, the mole above his left lip, and her heart thuds a nervous rhythm. “Could I show you the letters?”

He stops at the kitchen island, the grocery bags rustling as he sets them on the counter. When he speaks next, his voice is breathless, almost a whisper. “Yes.”

“Okay. Good.” She swallows hard, stares at him from across the counter, then glances over his shoulder towards nothing of importance. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see them.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I put you through a lot,” she says, glancing back at him. She says it softly, the truth of it cracking her wide open. “I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me. You didn’t answer when I called.”

“I was in class. And I had spent so long trying to get over you, that I just . . . I didn’t know if it was real.”

“Oh.”

“I listened to your voicemail,” he says, and her eyes widen. So he did listen. “A lot. When you didn’t reach out again, I figured it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t.” The words are breathless.

“I know that now,” he says, rounding the counter so he can reach for her hand, thread their fingers together, press his lips to the back of her hand. His breath is warm and a shiver runs through her. He definitely notices, because he smirks and brushes his lips across her skin again. Fire dances behind his eyes as he looks at her, a wicked grin on his lips. “Trust me, Belly. I know.”

Oh.

Oh.

That’s hot.

“Conrad.” His name falls from her mouth in a choked whisper, and her eyes flutter shut. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly and steadily. “Oh, Conrad, I want you. I want you to—”

She stops herself from saying what she’d wanted to this morning, when they were standing in this kitchen, almost in this exact position.

He hums against her hand and the vibrations send a jolt of electricity right to her toes. The house is silent except for them, and his eyes cut to hers. She isn’t looking at him, but she can feel the weight of his gaze on her, bright and buzzing and beautiful. “Want me to what?”

Her eyes snap open. “Make love to me.”

“Belly.” His voice is a heat-laced murmur, his eyes darkening.

Now that she’s said it, she can’t stop talking. “I dreamed about you last night. You were visiting me in Paris, and we were having sex. It was incredible. Slow, hot, perfect. Everything I’d thought it would be. You discovered that I have a praise kink.”

His jaw tightens. “Isabel.”

Her cheeks burn. It’s only the second time in this trip that he’s said her full name, and this, very turned on and laced with want, is immediately her favorite way he says her name. “Sorry.”

She wants to hear him say her name like that every day for the rest of her life. She wants it pressed into her skin, whispered into her mouth, moaned against her cunt. She wants him.

“Don’t be. Fuck, Belly. Never apologize for that. For telling me what you’re thinking or feeling or dreaming about. I always, always want to know.” His thumb strokes her cheek. “Do you remember what I said to you in your dream?”

She laughs softly, incredibly turned-on, and she loops her arms around his neck, slides her hands into his hair. His hair is so soft, so silky, despite being wet from the rain. Anticipation blooms in her lower stomach. “Yes.”

He inhales sharply and lifts her onto the counter, groceries be damned. Immediately, her legs wrap around his waist, and his eyes darken. “Will you tell me?”

“You fingered me in the stairwell of my apartment and said that you could feel how wet I was. And that, when you touched yourself, you thought about me, wrapped around you, your fingers slick from me. When we fucked, you said that I was taking your cock so well.”

He groans, and the rest of the world fades when Conrad looks at her, wrecked, like all of this is playing out in his mind, too.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, low and knowing, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “How often I dreamed about you, about having you like this again.”

“You dreamed about me?” This revelation shouldn’t be surprising (he is hard against her stomach, after all), and yet, her breath catches.

“Of course I did. Belly, you haunted my dreams for years. Your skin beneath my hands, bare and warm. Your hands, roaming across my skin like you were mapping it, memorizing it. Your wet cunt, how easily I could slide my fingers, my tongue, my cock inside you. You took me easily, like it was nothing. You liked it when I told you how good you were, always tilted your head back and moaned.”

She leans up, angles his head down to hers, and presses her lips to his. Her other hand slips under his t-shirt to his bare skin, which is hot beneath her touch. As her hand roams up his back, he moans softly, his forehead pressing into hers.

“I would like that,” she whispers, her arm curling around his neck to hold him close as his mouth moves down to her jaw. Belly tilts her neck to the side so he can have better access, eager for his mouth on her skin.

Conrad notices immediately, judging by how he grins wickedly as he swipes her hair over her shoulder, then leans down to lick at her neck. “What?”

“For you to tell me how good I am. How—Conrad.” She breaks off with a moan, her hand sliding into his hair. Under his shirt, she presses her hand against his upper back and pulls him closer, digs her heels into his back, pleasure spreading through her so fiercely that she gasps.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, his mouth moving against her neck. “Tell me what you want. I want to relearn you, Belly.”

I want to relearn you.

It's like something out of a dream. One that she wants to have over and over.

But it isn't a dream.

This is her real life.

This is fucking happening to her.

It's surreal.

“I want to relearn you, too,” she murmurs, dazed, so in love with him that she can't think about anything else. She shifts so there's a little bit of space between them, then widens her legs. “I've dreamed about you eating me out.”

He groans and immediately drops to his knees, a singular curl falling over his forehead. The image is so fucking hot that Belly’s brain short-circuits. Then, he leans back in, his lips brushing against her inner thigh. His breath is warm even through her leggings, and his eyes sparkle mischievously. She's never wanted anyone more than him. “Is this what you dream about?”

She's about to answer when her hand reaches for something—anything—to hold onto, and she knocks a bag of groceries onto the ground. Thankfully, nothing breaks.

Conrad looks up at her from between her legs, and for a moment, they just stare at each other, and then they start laughing.

He shivers, breathing heavily, and then pulls away. “We should put the rest of the groceries away.”

They waste no time: he helps her off the counter and the air is taut with desire as they unpack the rest of the groceries and store them properly.

Belly turns his words over and over, cheeks and neck flushed from the filthiness of it, from how badly she wants him. His hand brushes hers as he puts things in the fridge. She moves around the kitchen effortlessly, muscle memory at this point, and when she puts the last item away on a high shelf, she turns, and there he is.

They’re on each other instantly.

Their mouths meet in a fiery, filthy kiss, his tongue immediately slipping into her mouth. She moans, but it catches in the back of her throat, and her fingers knot in his shirt so that she can pull him closer. He’s harder than he had been moments ago, and when she realizes that, she smirks against his mouth.

His hands slide down her back and over her ass to the backs of her thighs. “Jump.”

She does, wraps her legs around his waist, jumps into his arms. Neither of them breaks the kiss and it’s dizzying, it’s amazing, it’s everything she’s ever wanted. “Conrad.”

Her breathing is ragged. She can’t get enough of him.

“I know,” he murmurs, his tongue dragging along her jaw. He exhales and starts walking, carries her through the house and up the stairs to his room, kicks the door open with his foot, then pushes it closed once they’re in the room.

“I thought—” Belly groans, tilting her head back as he kisses her neck, the column of her throat, swipes his tongue over the dip in her collarbone. She’s lost in the feel of him against her, gasps when he nips at her neck. “—You wanted to read the letters.”

He sets her down on the bed and steps away. “I do, but I want you more.”

Fuck, she loves him so much.

She almost says it, too. I love you. The words are right there on her tongue, and saying them would be as easy as breathing.

Instead, she whines and reaches for him again. Her hands grip the hem of his shirt and he raises his arms so she can take it off. It lands on the floor, but she’s standing from the bed and undressing quickly.

“Wait. I just want to look at you for a moment,” he whispers, once her shirt has joined her leggings and the rest of his clothes on the floor. His hands find her waist, and he holds her at arms’ length, taking in her lilac lace bra and matching underwear, his eyes burning like this is all he’s thought about for the past six years. When he exhales, it’s slow, with a tiny shake of his head, like he’s thought about this for so long and never thought it would actually happen. “Jesus, Belly. You’re so beautiful.”

The air shifts then. Not because he said she’s beautiful (although, yes, her heart warms at hearing that), but because they’re really here, they’re really doing this.

She and Conrad are going to have sex.

Make love.

That’s what he said last night on the beach, what she’d referenced moments ago, and she’s certain that’s what they’re about to do, even though neither of them have said it.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling softly as she takes off her bra and underwear, adds them to the pile. As she crawls back on the bed, her eyes don't leave his, not even when she's leaning against the pillows. She flushes under the intensity of his gaze, loves it when he looks at her like that. “Come here.”

He follows before the words are even out of her mouth, crawls over her and braces his hands on either side of her head. His bare cock rests against the outside of her thigh, mouthwateringly hard and leaking pre-come.

And then he kisses down her body: his tongue sweeping over her collarbones and then over her nipples, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach, on her hipbone.

He shifts so he’s between her thighs, and looks up at her through his eyelashes, his eyes bright. One of his hands is spread across her thigh, gently pressing her into the mattress, while his other hand slides up her stomach and cups her breast. “Is this what you dreamed about? Can I taste you?”

“Yes, yes,” she says, and fuck, he looks so fucking good like this that she can’t help but tangle one hand in his hair. Then his breath fans over her cunt as he lowers his mouth towards her heat, and anticipation shivers through her. His tongue licking slowly between her folds, his eyes never leaving hers the whole time, and a moan escapes her lips.

Her other hand flies up and clasps his, which is covering her breast, as her back arches off the bed. “Oh, God, Conrad.”

He hums, and she feels his smirk against the lips of her cunt rather than sees it. When he pulls back, his lips are glistening with her slick and his eyes are bright. That image will live in her head rent-free for the rest of her life, she's sure of it. “Look at you, spread open for me like this. I’ve dreamed about this, but no dream could ever live up to this reality. You're gorgeous, Belly.”

Conrad’s voice breaks on gorgeous, but she doesn't have time to react because he's licking between her folds again, then pushes his tongue into her with a long, low moan.

Her hand tightens in his hair and her eyes squeeze shut. “I’ve dreamed about this too. Exactly this. You, between my legs like you are right now, eating me out, and I—Oh, fuck.”

His tongue starts to move in slow, purposeful strokes, his eyes fluttering shut as he does, and she's gone. So lost in her pleasure that the world has narrowed to the heat from his hands and his mouth. Her orgasm rises quickly, a result of so much pent-up longing and also how fucking good he is with his tongue.

“Conrad, I’m going to come.” The words rush out of her, and the hand in his hair presses him closer, her thighs spread a little wider to give him more room. Dazed, she watches the muscles in his back ripple as he works, wet sounds coming from his mouth that are followed by soft, low moans that reverberate through her.

“Yeah? You can do it, Belly. Come down my throat,” he encourages, his eyes snapping open and immediately landing on her. He pulls back just enough to say, “You taste even better than I imagined. So sweet. I could stay here forever, bring you to the edge again and again. But you want to come now, don't you?”

“I want to come now, and then again once you're inside me.”

His hand leaves her thigh to rub at her clit in slow, practiced circles. “Good girl, telling me exactly what you want. I’ll give it to you, baby. Anything and everything you want, you can have, okay?”

She nods, and then his mouth is on her again.

Her orgasm hits her hard and fast. Stars burst behind her eyelids, and the world is filled with only her murmurs of Conrad’s name, which she's chanting over and over like a song, and his fingers slowly moving in and out of her cunt.

Fuck, it hasn't felt this good in a long time.

Not since the last time they were together like this.

At that thought, she moans loudly, her hand falling from his hair to the comforter so that her fingers can twist in the fabric. It's the most intense orgasm she's had in a long, long time.

Conrad fucks her through it, his hand splayed over her stomach with his thumb on her clit, humming encouragingly since his mouth and tongue are occupied.

As Belly comes down from her high, she’s breathing hard, her hands absentmindedly brushing his hair away from his face.

He presses a kiss to her inner thigh and then crawls back up to her, eyes on her as he does. And then he kisses her, soft and slow and deep.

“That was perfect,” she tells him, setting her hand against his cheek and sighing into his mouth. “I want you inside me now. Do you have a condom?”

Above her, Conrad stills, and then exhales. “Shit. No, I don't. didn't think—I hadn't planned on this. I’m sorry.”

She pulls away and smoothes his hair back, smiles gently at him. “Hey, it's okay. I didn't think about it either. I'll go get some.”

“I can come with you.”

She glances down at his hard cock, which is heavy against the outside of her thigh, then slowly drags her gaze up to his, biting her lip as she grins. “You should probably stay here.”

He laughs once, the sound strained, and his forehead tips against hers. “Yeah, you're right.”

They flip easily, and then she kisses him, lets her hand linger there for a moment.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, kisses him once more, because she can. “I promise.”

He grins. “I’ll be here. Take my car.”

Twenty minutes later, Belly’s holding a box of condoms, her heart pounding with anticipation as she knocks on Conrad’s bedroom door.

“It's me,” she says.

“Come in.”

She opens the door and stops in the doorway.

He's exactly where she left him. Shirtless, lying on his back, his hair an absolute mess, although now he's scrolling on his phone. His lips are no longer swollen, but he’s so pretty that it almost hurts, the sheets pulled up to his waist, the waistband of his boxer briefs peeking out.

“You're back,” he says, setting his phone face down on the nightstand as he turns to her, smiling softly. She undresses quickly, then sets the box on the nightstand before straddling his lap. His hands immediately find her hips, like he's made a home there, and, well, fuck, she supposes he has.

After all, he’s her home.

Her hands settle on his shoulders, then slide up to the soft hair at the nape of his neck. It's been so long, she can hardly believe she's touching him like this again. She never thought she’d get to. “I’m back.”

He leans back into her touch, his eyes sparkling with want, with . . . love.

Of course he loves you, her heart says. You love him, too.

Her heart is practically bursting with the need to tell him.

She leans in and kisses him slowly, softly, like they've been apart for 20 days instead of 20 minutes. The moment their lips meet, her eyes close, and she knows. This is home.

It's a slow, soft kiss, one that hopefully conveys just how at home she is with him. Sunlight brightens the room through the curtains, and the sheet is warm between them.

And then he flips them so that she's beneath him.

“Fuck,” she says, pulling back to study him. “I forgot how good you look above me.”

His nose slots against hers and he grins, somehow equal parts soft and wicked.

“I could say the same about you,” he says. His words are soft, serious, yet laced with heat that makes her cunt clench. “In fact, I probably will, next time.”

I love you.

The thought is sudden, but she isn't scared by it. Honestly, it thrills her, because she already knows, too, how much he loves her.

“Next time.” She nods and then a laugh bubbles up, light and airy and content. She loves him so, so much, but she isn't afraid of it anymore, and isn't that a wonderful thing? “Grab a condom.”

His eyes darken, and he leans up to kiss her again, more thoroughly than before. Filthier, less sweet, with his tongue slipping into her mouth. His thumb presses into the dip of her chin, his hand curving around her jaw, and he tilts her head back.

“There you go,” Conrad murmurs, moaning softly as he pulls away and reaches for the box on the nightstand. Belly whimpers at the loss of his mouth on hers, and leans down to mouth at the side of his neck, his shoulder. His fingers dig into her lower back, a little painful but pleasantly so. “Fuck, I can't wait to be inside of you.”

“I can't wait either,” she whispers, rolling off of him and landing beside him. Her eyes roam his body: his bare torso, the line of dark hair leading beneath his boxer briefs, the outline of his cock already straining against the fabric.

He digs his heels into the mattress and lifts his hips, hooks one finger in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and slides them off. His cock is bare, already hard, already leaking pre-come.

“Fuck,” Belly murmurs. She can't stop herself from staring.

His hands come into view, tearing open the foil packet and then discarding it in favor of rolling the condom on, his fingers long and steady.

She's breathless. Her eyes snap back to his face, and she swallows hard.

He’s looking at her with pure lust and love, want glimmering in his eyes.

“Come here,” she whispers, wrapping a hand around his wrist and tugging him toward her, as if that'll bring him closer.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip, biting it, and he follows her directions easily, his legs bracketing her hips. “You always liked it when I was on top, didn't you?”

“I’d like to ride you, too. Next time,” she says, grinning cheekily, delighted in how his eyes get impossibly dark. “But yes, Conrad. I do like it when you're on top. I like feeling you sink into me, stretching me open.”

“Fuck, Isabel.” He presses his forehead to hers with a groan, his hand drifting between them to grasp his cock. The blunt head of his cock taps against her clit, and her back arches off the bed. “You're so wet, and I can feel how warm you are. You’re so fucking ready for me, yeah?”

“Yes. Fuck, I am.” Her hands curve around his shoulders, and she looks down, her breath catching when he rubs his cock between her folds. It's slow, deliberate, and she's going to lose her mind. “Please, fuck me.”

He presses his lips to hers in a dizzying kiss that makes her forget everything for just a moment, until he pulls away and the world rushes back in. “I love hearing you beg.”

She leans in towards his ear, her lips brushing against the shell of it as she whispers, “That wasn't begging. I could though, if you want me to.”

“Next time,” he says, and then he's sliding his cock between her folds and sinking into her cunt.

The stretch of him is incredible. He goes slowly to give her time to adjust, and once he’s bottomed out inside of her, they both groan.

“Are you okay?” Conrad asks, his brow furrowed, his eyes searching hers.

“Yeah.” Her head tilts back against the pillow, and she looks up at him through her eyelashes. I love you. “I’ve honestly never been better. Are you okay?”

“Perfect,” he answers, leaning down to kiss her. “I’m perfect, Belly.”

When he moves, it's slow, languid, like they have all the time in the world. Or at the very least, because no one else arrives until tomorrow, the rest of the day and tonight. Neither of them looks away, and Belly sets her hand on his cheek as her hips move in time with his.

He turns his head and kisses her cheek, his eyes never leaving hers.

Each slide of his cock against her walls has her breathless, and at one point, she tangles her hand in his hair and whispers, “This is unbelievable in the absolute best way.”

“I know,” he murmurs, soft, like neither of them want to shatter this moment.

They’re making love. There's no other way to describe it. Sunlight sweeps across the room (even though it was raining not too long ago), gilding everything in bright, golden light, and the world is contained only to the bed, to their bodies moving in time with each other in a slow, sensual rhythm.

His hand brushes her hair away from her face, and then the other moves between them, his thumb rubbing slowly at her clit, in time with their thrusts.

Conrad looks like he's one millisecond away from saying I love you.

Belly knows because she feels the exact same way.

Neither of them says it. Not yet.

Her orgasm arrives slowly and steadily, like the sun rising over the ocean.

“I can tell you're about to come,” Conrad says, grinning at her like the sight of her beneath him, moments away from coming undone, is all he's ever wanted.

Her cunt clenches around him. She's so full of him, it's incredible. “How?”

His index finger rubs over a crease between her brows. “You always get this furrow in your brow, right here. I’ve dreamed about it for years.”

That's what does it. The reminder that they've both dreamed about this for years.

“Conrad—” She gasps his name as she comes, her fingers digging into his shoulders. The rest of whatever she was going to say catches in her throat, and she can't look away from him as waves wash over her again and again.

“I know, baby,” he says, and he presses his forehead against hers, his thrusts picking up but not by much. “I know. Fuck, that's it. Belly, I—”

He comes, then, spilling into the condom with a groan, his breath ragged against her skin. His head tilts back, and she makes a mental note for next time: to press her lips to his neck, breathe him in as he comes.

They lie there for a long time, wrapped in each other.

When she returns from the bathroom, he stands, smiles so softly at her that her heart squeezes.

“Your turn,” she says, smiling back. She stops as he brushes past her, and they kiss, his hand tangling in the fabric of her t-shirt, his cock brushing against the front of her leggings.

“You look so good,” he says, breathing heavily into her mouth, kissing her like he can't get enough. It's more frantic than before, and then he pulls away, still smiling. “I’ll be right back.”

He leaves the room to go to the bathroom down the hall, and she sits on the bed. When the floorboards creak again, her head jerks up, and her heart warms.

There he is, leaning against the doorway, wearing only a pair of dark wash jeans.

She has to tell him. Right now.

“I love you.” A smile breaks out across her face, and she stands, crosses the room in only a few strides. When she reaches him, her hand strokes his cheek, grounding herself. “I always have, even when I told myself I didn't. Even when I told you I didn't.”

The room is silent. The air is holding its breath.

Conrad’s eyes are dark, yet filled with disbelief. It's as though she's saying something he's been waiting to hear for years, because she is. And, because she knows him so well, she recognizes a glimmer of hope there, too.

She keeps going.

“That's what I started to say when I called you last year. It haunted me that all I could manage was I still . . .” She shakes her head, laughs a little, and tears slip down her cheeks. This isn't how she thought this would go at all, but it can't be more perfect. Now that it's happening, she wouldn't have it any other way. “I still love you. That's what I wanted to say, but I realized in the moment that it wasn't fair to you if I said it over voicemail.”

He reaches up a hand and swipes his thumb across her cheek, catching her tears, and then he does the same with the other hand.

“I love you, too,” he says, and his eyes are shining with tears. His smile is beautiful, one she's not sure she's ever seen before. It's a smile specifically for this moment. Specifically for her. “I never stopped, even though I tried. God, Belly, I tried so hard not to love you. Told myself I couldn’t, or brushed it off, and then you moved to Paris, and I thought, well, I missed my chance. I didn't even know if I’d—”

He breaks off then, kisses her so fiercely that it knocks the breath out of her. Only for a second, and then she's kissing him back, her hands sliding into his hair. It's a contradiction to their kisses from earlier in every way: this one is fierce, rough, and absolutely filthy in a way that sends heat all the way to her toes.

“I didn't know if I’d get to see you again,” Conrad murmurs, pulling her impossibly close as he kisses her like this is the only thing he's ever thought about doing since she left him standing on the beach the night of her bachelorette party. “Didn't know if I’d ever get to talk to you, or kiss you, or hold you. And now you're here, apologizing for everything, and telling me about your dreams, asking me to make love to you, telling me you love me. I really never thought any of this would happen. Fuck, Belly, I love you so much.”

“Am I moving too fast?” she asks before she can stop herself, pulling away to look at him and biting her lip. Even if she could stop herself, she's not sure if she would. “I didn't mean for all of this to happen so quickly, but . . . It's never taken us long to fall back in love, has it?”

“No, it hasn’t.” A grin blossoms over his face, bright and beautiful, like he knows exactly what she's referring to. Still, he asks, “Are you thinking of anything specific?”

“That Christmas we were both here by accident,” she says, biting her lip and averting her gaze to where her hand rests in his hair. What if she's wrong and he has no idea what she's talking about? Why is she so nervous? “When you were supposed to be in Chamonix, remember?”

“Belly.” His voice is so soft, full of so much love, and he brings his hand to her face, tucks her hair behind her ear. “Look at me.”

She exhales slowly, and then her eyes meet his.

“I’ll never forget that Christmas,” he says, his hand now resting against her cheek. “It’s my favorite one.”

“Mine too.” A beat of silence passes, and she falls into a memory: The morning after her bachelorette party, standing in the kitchen while Conrad called her out on her feelings. Now, she's ready to acknowledge it. “And that day at Michael’s, when we went shopping. For a second, I thought—”

She breaks off, cheeks flushing.

Conrad’s other hand squeezes her hip, grounding her. He walks them backwards slowly, and when her knees hit the mattress, she sits. He does, too, leans against the pillows, and she can't resist crawling into his lap and getting as close to him as possible. “What did you think?”

“Whenever I used to imagine my future, you were always by my side. As a kid, I’d doodle Isabel Fisher in the margins of my notebooks, daydream about marrying you, wearing a white dress with you waiting for me at the end of the aisle. It was a beach wedding, always. Just us and our moms as our witnesses.” She smiles, a little bit in disbelief that she's telling him all about her childhood daydreams, a little sad that she’ll never have that wedding, at least not in the way she pictured it.

“That summer," she continues, "someone gifted me stationery. Isabel Fisher was printed on the bottom, and I just . . . I freaked out. Reality was so unlike that daydream, but that day at Michael’s, just for one second, I thought that this is what it'd be like, if we were getting married. You and I. I felt it, then, how much we would've loved each other. It was quick, just for a moment, but I felt so bad about it. I felt like I was denying myself what I really wanted, because I was, but I couldn't do anything about it. At least, it seemed like I couldn't.”

There it is: her deepest, darkest secret. The thing she’s felt bad about the most since that summer, the thing that kept her awake at night during all those lonely nights that first year in Paris.

That during the summer of her wedding, being here with him, she realized just how deeply she loved Conrad, and how there was nothing she could do about it. Not when she was marrying Jeremiah, his brother. So, she avoided him as best she could.

“I think that was part of why I wrote to you, in Paris. It was my way of keeping you with me.” She presses her hand to her heart reflexively, realizing only in the moment that’s what he’d done that night of her bachelorette party. You’ll always be there. Here. “Here. My heart felt like the only place I could have you, and all of that came pouring out onto the page.”

“Oh, Belly.” Conrad exhales her name, and a tear slides down her cheek, drops onto the sheet between them, and then another, and another. He swipes her tears away with both hands, gently, reverently. “It's okay. We’re here now.”

“I know,” she says, sniffling. A watery laugh spills from her lips, and she shakes her head. “Fuck, sorry. I hadn't meant for all of this to come spilling out like this.”

“It's okay,” he repeats, smiling softly. “You don't need to apologize.”

“You must think I’m a terrible person, considering I thought all of that while I was engaged to your brother.”

“I don't think that,” Conrad whispers, his hands returning to their previous positions: one on her cheek and the other resting against her hip. “How could I, when I thought the same thing? During that Christmas, and that trip to Michael’s, and when I cut my leg surfing . . . Belly, I knew it then, too. How much I loved you. How I still do.”

She laughs again, the sound still thick from her tears. “When you cut your leg surfing, I almost kissed you. I talked about that in my letters, actually. Speaking of which . . . do you want to read them now?”

His answer is immediate. “Yes. Please.”

She kisses him once, lightly, then climbs off his lap and heads down the hall to her room. The bundle of letters is tucked in her carry-on, so she finds them with ease, then goes back to his room.

He’s right where she left him.

Holy shit.

This is actually happening.

She's handing him the letters.

He's going to read them.

Her hand is steady and her heart pounds when she holds them for him to take.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his fingers brushing hers as he takes them from her, though his eyes don't leave hers.

Then, he looks down to the stack of letters in his hand, undoes the twine holding them together slowly, methodically.

Belly shifts from one foot to the other, then sits down next to him.

He turns the first one over, his thumb tucking under the flap of the envelope. Her heart pounds, and her palms sweat.

And then he stops.

Glances up at her.

Her breath catches.

“Will you read them to me?” he asks softly, holding the letters back out to her.

“Oh.” She had never thought of this. How hadn't she thought of this? Tears spring to her eyes, and she smiles. “Of course.”

Belly takes the envelopes from him, tears open the first one, and begins to read. “Dear Conrad . . .”

As she reads, they both cry and laugh and say I love you in-between letters. He pulls her close and presses his lips against her hair, her temple, her cheek. After one particularly heartbreaking letter (the only heartbreaking letter, thankfully, where she detailed a dream where she said she loved him and he walked away, a reversal of the night of her bachelorette party), he turns her to face him, kisses her softly, and says, I’m right here. I love you. I will never not love you.

Once she's done, she hands him the letters, but he sets them on the nightstand and pulls her into his lap.

“Thank you for writing to me, and for reading them now,” Conrad whispers, tucking her hair behind her ear. His palm cradles her cheek, and she leans into his touch. “I love you.”

Tears slip down her cheeks, and he’s quick to stop them before they can fall all the way.

“I love you, too,” Belly says. “Thank you for listening.”

“Always. I always want to hear what you have to say.”

“Me too,” she says, and then repeats, just because she can, because she’ll never tire of saying it (or hearing it), “I love you.”

He leans in to kiss her, slowly, softly, deeply. “I love you, Belly. So, so much.”