The Way Back to Us – Part 4: Sunrise Reckoning
The fence between them kept more than just their yards divided—it held years of silence, regret, and unspoken longing. But when Evan steps across the boundary at sunrise, everything shifts. What starts with shared coffee and tentative touches deepens into a night that strips away the past and lays them bare. For the first time since prom night, they finally stop holding back.
The Way Back to Us – Part 4: Sunrise Reckoning
The morning feels different before I even step outside. The air has turned, softer and cooler, the unmistakable breath of early fall curling through the pines. I pull my sweater tight and open the porch door.
Evan’s already there, two mugs in his hands. Not on his side of the fence, not waiting for me to bridge the distance—he’s moving toward me.
For a second, I forget how to breathe. The latch clicks open, that familiar creak splitting the quiet, and this time he doesn’t hesitate. His boots hit the steps, steady and sure, and then he’s there, holding one of the mugs out to me.
“I thought maybe we’d save ourselves the fence today.” His voice is calm, almost casual, but there’s something in it, something heavier than the words.
I take the mug, fingers brushing his as the warmth seeps into my palms. “Thanks.” My voice comes out quieter than I intend, but he doesn’t comment. He just sits down across from me, the space between us smaller than it’s ever been.
The porch boards creak when I settle into the chair opposite him. For a while, it’s easy talk, how the tomatoes are coming along, whether the weather will hold for the weekend. Ordinary things. But the silences stretch longer, thicker, until it’s impossible not to notice.
He sets his mug down on the rail, close enough that mine wobbles against it. Our hands brush, fingers catching for a second too long. Neither of us moves away.
I look up, and he’s already watching me. The weight of his gaze lands heavy in my chest, not sharp, not punishing, just full of everything we’ve avoided naming.
“Vanessa,” he says softly, like the name itself is an apology. Or a question.
I don’t answer. I just reach, closing the distance he’s too careful to cross. My hand slides over his, and when his thumb shifts against my skin, it feels like a door opening.
The first kiss doesn’t come in a rush. It comes in a slow lean, his breath warm against mine, both of us waiting for the other to pull back. Neither of us does. His lips meet mine tentatively at first, almost reverent, like he’s afraid the moment will shatter if he pushes too hard.
It deepens slowly, then all at once. Years of silence, years of hurt, pouring out in the press of his mouth, the way his hand cups my jaw like he’s memorizing me all over again.
I gasp against him, the sound breaking, and that’s all it takes for restraint to slip. His tongue slides against mine, hungry now, and I answer with everything I’ve kept locked inside for decades.
The coffee is forgotten, cooling on the porch rail as he pulls me closer. The chair scrapes against the wood, and then we’re standing, hands roaming, the kiss rougher now, less careful.
We stumble inside, into the living room still littered with boxes and dust. None of it matters. His hands are on my waist, tugging me flush against him, and I’m lost in the feel of him, solid, warm, achingly familiar.
“God, Vanessa,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice rough with something I recognize too well, longing stretched thin.
I thread my fingers into his hair, tugging him closer. “Don’t stop.”
We don’t. Clothes fall away in pieces, urgency breaking through years of restraint. His hands map me like he’s reclaiming something lost, determined in their hunger.
On the couch, the cushions give beneath us, but his body is a steady weight, grounding me. His mouth moves down my throat, teeth scraping lightly at my collarbone, and I arch into him, heat rolling through me.
Every touch is layered, grief, forgiveness, and want, all tangled together. There’s nothing careless about it. But nothing rushed either. Just two people who thought they’d lost this chance forever, clinging to it like oxygen.
He shifts above me, his weight pressing me into the cushions, one hand braced by my head, the other guiding himself lower. The blunt head of his cock nudges against my entrance, hot and insistent, and I jolt at the contact.
“God,” I whisper, clutching at his shoulders. “I’ve thought about this, about you, for so long.”
His eyes darken, his chest heaving as he strokes the tip through my slickness, circling but not pressing in. “You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and strained. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”
“I do,” I breathe, my hips arching, chasing him. “I want all of you. I always have.”
He groans, the sound ragged, forehead dropping to mine. “Then I won’t hold back.”
When he finally pushes into me, it steals the air from my lungs. The stretch is sharp at first, then gives way to a fullness that makes my head tip back against the cushions. A broken sound slips from me, half gasp, half moan, as my body takes him in.
He groans low, the sound vibrating through his chest where it presses against mine, and the depth of it makes me shiver. My walls clench around him, greedy for every inch, and the ache twists instantly into something that feels unbearably good. His hips still, like he’s holding himself back, but my hand finds his and squeezes tight, urging him closer.
“Vanessa,” he whispers, my name rough on his tongue, like a prayer he’s been saving for years. The sound unravels me. I breathe his name back, softer, needier, my thighs tightening around his waist.
Then he starts to move. Slow at first, dragging out of me until I feel the loss, then sliding back in, deeper, harder, until my nails are biting into his shoulders. Every thrust is deliberate, steady, building, and the slick heat between us makes it impossible to think about anything else.
I clutch him closer, my body clenching with every push, every retreat, the friction sparking through me like fire. His mouth finds mine again, swallowing the sounds he drags from me, and when he finally drives harder, hips snapping against mine, I break for him, moaning into his kiss, body trembling as he fills me over and over.
The world narrows to this rhythm, to him, to us, like it was always supposed to be this way.
When it’s over, we don’t rush to move. We stay tangled, breath slowing, the morning light spilling across the floor like it belongs to us.
His hand finds mine again, fingers lacing through in quiet certainty. “I never stopped thinking about you,” he says, the words barely above a whisper.
I press my forehead to his, eyes stinging but not with sadness. “Me either.”
We sit there in the afterglow, no fences, no walls, no weight left between us.
For the first time, I don’t just feel like I’m rebuilding the house. I feel like I’m rebuilding myself. And maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to do it alone.
The sun shifts higher, catching on his silvered hair, on the dust motes dancing in the air, on the coffee gone cold. And still, I can’t stop smiling.
Maybe love doesn’t always knock loudly. Sometimes, it crosses a fence at sunrise and changes everything.
Copyright © by LS Phoenix
No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Published by LS Phoenix
New Hampshire, USA
https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix
First Edition: September 2025
Cover Design by LS Phoenix
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