When I open the door, his presence fills the space in that quiet, unshakable way it always does. My breath catches with the subtle hitch of muscle memory. The way a body remembers what it means to want.
Dante.
My Dante.
He stands framed against the golden sky. His dark hair curls at his temples in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush it back. He’s wearing a fitted charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tattooed skin of his forearms. One hand is buried in his jeans pocket, and the fingers of the other are flexing around a small white box.
“Hey.” He says it like he’s been holding the word on his tongue for days. He hands me the box. “Happy New Year’s. I got these for you.”
I don’t have to look to know what’s inside. The scent reaches me first—butter, sugar, something golden-brown and warm. “Mama Jones’,” I whisper.
For a second, I’m back up north in the redwoods, sitting on the hood of his car.
“Thank you. These are definitely a treat.” I take the box and set it on the credenza in the entryway. “Please, come in.” I step aside. “Happy New Year’s to you too, by the way. Did you do anything last night?”
“I was with my family, failing at not counting down the hours until seeing you again.”
“Me too,” I admit.
He crosses the threshold like he belongs here. And maybe he does.
Then Dante Hastings is perched on my sofa, broad shoulders curved forward, hands clasped between his knees. He’s staring around at my space while I stare at the pitcher full of iced tea on the coffee table between us. Mama’s doilies rest beneath two glasses.
I pour us some tea, but neither of us goes to reach for it as I settle into my armchair across from him.
“How have you been?” I ask softly. “Amara told me that you were petitioning the committee.”
“I did. Not to lift my suspension,” he explains. “But I needed to be there for Em’s matches. Made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. I’m her official coach now.”
The title suits him. “That makes me so happy to hear.”
“Your Women in Media speech was spectacular, no surprise there.” He shifts, ringed fingers drawing slow, absentminded circles on his knee.
This is too stiff. Too artificial.
I want to be over there, in his lap, holding him so close that words become unnecessary. I want him to feel how much I stillcare, how desperately I want us to try again. How much I need us to try.
Be brave, Reese.Say the vulnerable things out loud.
“Thank you for giving me space. I’ve sort of been able to start to understand where I end and the headlines begin.” I pause. “You’ve helped me realize that I can be both versions of myself. Reese Sinclair and just Reese.” The one everyone sees and this quieter, messier person who loves him. Who wants to be both versions. “And that I want my life to be real. I want to be real.”
And I want just us, I almost say, but not yet.
“I’ve been thinking too,” he says. “Had a lot of time to reflect on how I’ve been showing up in the world. When all that shit first happened with Susan, I panicked. Thought I could protect you—protect myself—by keeping everything locked down.”
“I understand,” I say softly. “I really do. I understand why you did it.”
“I should’ve still given you the respect you deserved and been honest from the start. There were so many fucking opportunities, and yet I was still too afraid.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Afraid because I’ve never…” He trails off, the usual confidence in his voice faltering. “I’ve never had someone worth being honest with. Weak excuse, but there it is.”
We’ve both been guilty of projecting polished versions of ourselves, carefully controlling what others see. It’s time to move past that defensiveness and be more authentic with each other.
“We can be honest with each other.” I inch forward on the armchair.
“Complete transparency from now on. Magazines and media have been sniffing around for dirt on you, on us, but just know I’ve turned them all down.” He nods. “Every article and press request that comes, you’ll know everything first.”
There’s a path forward.
“We can’t go back to using each other either,” I say, thinking about how this all started—arrangements and agreements. “No more arrangements or deals.”
