Twenty-Four

 

Friction Therapy

 

Her plan was simple: drop her laptop, track down Jon, steal five minutes.

Ten, tops.

Okay, fifteen—if he was shirtless.

She turned the corner toward backstage, nearly home free—

“Hey, Ari. Got a sec?”

Jeanie materialized like she always did, papers in hand and that hopeful smile plastered across her face. The one that meant she knew her timing was impeccable. Too fast to ignore, too indispensable to brush off.

Ari let out a slow exhale. “Is this a ‘can wait’ or a ‘Jon will kill me if this doesn’t get done’ situation?”

Jeanie’s smile tightened. “Definitely the latter.”

“All right. Walk and talk. Four minutes, tops.”

Jeanie rattled through her list—dinner plans for Jon’s birthday in Philadelphia, schedule tweaks for their March week off, all the little details Ari had no choice but to sign off on. By the time she scrawled her initials on the last page, Jeanie had already disappeared. Ari, halfway to her destination, pushed forward with renewed determination when—

“Ari! Just the person I needed.”

Matt’s voice snagged her mid-stride. She stopped, tilting her head like she was indulging a child. “Yes, Matt?”

“Guest list for MSG. No surprises, but you’ve got the final say.”

She snatched the clipboard, scanning with practiced speed. “Looks good. Add a couple more plus-ones for Cara—no clue what night or who she’s coming with.”

Matt’s smirk was pure amusement. “In a hurry or something?”

“Yeah. Something like that. We done?”

“Mm-hmm.” He reclaimed the clipboard, grinning like he’d caught her in the act. “Have fun.”

She didn’t waste breath replying. Just prayed she could actually make it to Jon this time.

But then—

“Ari, wait.”

A softer voice. No less insistent.

Nicole, tablet in hand, her expression all business. Medical mode.

“Time to check your vitals.”

“Right now?” Ari gave her a tired smile, half a plea.

Nic arched a brow. “You have somewhere you need to be?”

“I’m trying to get there,” Ari admitted with a grin. “But if we gotta do this now, let’s go. Catering, okay? Then I can grab an apple or something.”

Nic’s smirk cracked through her seriousness. “You grabbing the apple for your benefit or mine?”

“Definitely yours.”

They veered toward the catering spread. Ari snagged a red apple and a bottle of water, dropping into a folding chair as Nic wrapped the cuff around her arm.

“Still able to eat without nausea?” Nic asked.

“Most days. Today was a good one.”

The monitor beeped. Nic glanced over her tablet. “And sleep?”

“Still decent—aside from peeing every five seconds.”

“Water intake?”

“Plenty. Hence the peeing.”

Ari’s leg bounced, her gaze flicking toward the hallway like it might vanish without her.

“You’re free the second this stops,” Nic promised.

The monitor beeped its release. Ari yanked off the cuff, scrawled her initials across the screen, and was already halfway standing.

“Thanks. See you at showtime,” she tossed over her shoulder, moving again before Nic could pin her down.

Enough delays. Enough clipboards and checklists.

She cut down the hallway with quiet purpose, weaving through flight cases and crew who wisely cleared a path. When Ari moved like that, nobody dared slow her.

By the time she hit the dressing room door, her pulse was thrumming—for reasons that had nothing to do with the sprint.

She didn’t knock. Didn’t pause.

The door swung open, and she slipped inside like she belonged—because she did. The walkie hit the nearest chair with a clatter, her Chucks following with a muted thump.

Before Jon could even ask how her morning had gone, she was already in his lap, straddling his thighs, heat radiating off her like a second skin.

Her fingers fumbled with the hem of her crew shirt—the one that smelled faintly of sweat and French fries, the one she’d been running ragged in all day. She peeled it off, hair tumbling free, exposing skin that still burned with the memory of last night.

Jon’s hands were on her instantly, gripping her waist like he’d been counting every second.

The kiss came fast, frantic, familiar. Wild, like teenagers starved of each other for years, not just hours.

Breathless. Hungry. Fierce.

And as her body melted into his, every ache, every delay, every clipboard, vanished in the fire of his mouth on hers.

The kiss deepened. Messy, urgent, all tongue, teeth, and need. His hands gripped tighter, fingers digging into her hips through the thin fabric of her leggings, dragging her down against him like he couldn’t get her close enough.

 

She gasped against his mouth as friction sparked. Just enough to make her grind back, slow and deliberate.

 

“FUCK,” Jon muttered, breath hot against her jaw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

 

“You’ll die happy,” she whispered, already rolling her hips again.

 

There wasn’t time to strip down. Didn’t matter—her shirt was gone, his was bunched in her fists. His jeans strained under the pressure she was putting on him, dragged over the thick line of him again and again until his head dropped back, jaw tight, breath ragged.

 

She chased the pressure, the ache in her belly a slow burn that demanded more. The rest of her morning—all of it—faded into static.  All she could hear now was the ragged sound of his breath. His hands on her ass, his mouth at her neck, the way he swore into her skin like a prayer.

 

“Crash,” he groaned. “You keep doing that, I’m not gonna make it.”

 

“Not asking you to.” She said, breathless, smug, wrecked.

 

The friction between them hit that perfect, wicked rhythm—fast, dirty, controlled only by the thinnest thread.  Her body rocked into his with intent, and his grip tightened like he could hold back time.

 

One more grind.

One more clutch of his fingers.

 

And then—everything broke.

 

She collapsed against him, forehead resting on his shoulder, both panting. His hand stayed steady at the small of her back, grounding her as her body trembled through the aftershocks.

 

Silence stretched, thick and satisfied, sweat cooling her skin.

 

Finally, Jon let out a rough, low laugh. 

 

“Being used like your personal kitty scratching post is starting to get in the way of what I’m actually good at.”

 

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” she bit her lip to keep from laughing.

 

He leaned back, smug as hell. “Sucking tits and licking clits.”

 

She nipped his earlobe and pulled back, breath still ragged. “Relax. Just needed the friction therapy to survive the next seven hours.”

 

He groaned, his head falling back. “I think I liked your lollipop phase better.” 

 

Without a word, she slid off his lap like it was a routine stretch break. Shirt, shoes, walkie, all back in place in under tend seconds.

 

“Lollipop. Scratching post. Same difference.” She tossed a wink over her shoulder as she opened the door.

 

Jon snorted. “The hell they are.”

  

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

The second she slipped out of the dressing room, the shift was immediate. Whatever heat they’d shared a heartbeat ago vanished, tucked beneath clipped commands and quick strides. The softness in her eyes hardened into focus. She was back in work mode.

By the time the house lights dimmed and the crowd roared, she’d already done a full sweep of her crew. A rigging delay on the left side had forced a reroute, a minor comms issue got patched in the nick of time, and one stubborn effects cue finally landed on beat after three tense attempts. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to keep her moving nonstop—and just barely making it to the stage stairs on time.

Until the very last second.

As the band lined up in the shadows behind the curtain, she reached him just as Rew pressed a guitar into his hands.

“Thought I was getting stood up.”

Jon’s voice was teasing, but his eyes searched hers for a beat longer than necessary.

She leaned in, brushing a kiss against his jaw instead of his lips—the best she could manage without throwing the rhythm of the night. “Trust me, if I was standing you up, you’d feel it.”

“Smartass.”

She blew him a kiss and was gone, swallowed by the dark wings of the stage.

For the first half of the show, Ari kept her head down. Spot checks, radio chatter, leaning on Tony for backup when she needed it. She thrived in the chaos, but tonight she stayed just a little sharper, ears tuned to every cue. It wasn’t until Jon and Richie started their shift toward the B-stage—or the circle, as the crew called it—that she allowed herself to slip closer.

The crowd hushed as the lights softened. Acoustic mode. Jon and Richie took the first two songs alone before the rest of the band joined them. Crew darted in shadows, ghostlike, bringing mic stands and cables into place.

Jon paced the small circle of light, strumming in a steady rhythm, his voice carrying over the swell of twenty thousand people. Ari crouched at the edge, tugging a line tight. She looked up just as he turned.

That grin. Crooked, sly. His eyes found hers like a compass locking north, playful and wordless: What?

Her lips twitched. She rolled her eyes, fighting it—losing. For a moment, in the middle of all that noise, it felt like they were the only two people in the arena. Their secret threaded in the space between a grin and an eye roll.

Then came the familiar chords of Something for the Pain. Jon’s voice dipped low, threading through the crowd:

Give me something for the pain,
Give me something I can use.

She shook her head, amused. He was laughing under the melody, the sound buried so only she would catch it.

The rest of the show blurred into adrenaline. The band tore through the setlist, the crowd roaring back every word. Ari moved like she always did—quick, precise, invisible in plain sight. But that flash of connection with Jon lingered, humming like an encore in her chest. Her favorite track of the night, no question.

When the final chords faded and the crowd’s cheers bled into the air, Ari exhaled. For the first time in months, a show wrapped without incident. No emergency IV bags. No Fruit Loops stashed as bribery or backup. Just music, chaos, and release. The high softened into exhaustion, the kind that made her crave the quiet. She knew the short ride home would be calm, steady—so different from the electric storm of tonight. And tomorrow morning, they’d be with the kids. That was the real encore.

The plane carried the hush of spent bodies. Crew slumped in seats, voices low, half-finished drinks sweating in cupholders. The adrenaline had burned off, leaving only fatigue and the soft hum of engines. Days off before the next show meant everyone was desperate to get home.

Ari, though, was already halfway there. Hoodie pulled over her head, feet tucked under her, headphones in. Her small bump rested lightly against her thighs, a constant reminder that her body was no longer entirely her own. She sank into her usual seat, pretending she wasn’t counting every second until takeoff.

Jon slid in beside her with the quiet gravity of someone who always got what he wanted. He didn’t say a word—just plucked a headphone from her ear and slipped something small into her hand.

She glanced down. A tiny plastic bag. Two cherry lollipops inside.

Her brows lifted. “Seriously?”

That smirk. Infuriating and irresistible. “Figured your emergency craving kit was running low.”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Her voice was flat, unimpressed, but the corner of her mouth threatened to betray her.

“Nope. I know I am.”

She shook her head. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Sure, it does. You just don’t wanna admit I’m your favorite flavor.”

The engines roared to life, and Ari tensed, fingers curling white around the armrest. Jon noticed—he always noticed. Without comment, he leaned closer, shoulder to shoulder, his presence a steady anchor. Then, softly, he started to sing:

My boy lollipop… you make my heart go giddy-up.

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re the worst.”

“Why? It fits the mood.”

The wicked twist of his mouth deepened. You could hear the smirk in his voice.

I make your mouth go sticky sweet…

“Shut up, Jon,” she muttered, shaking her head. But even as she said it, the edges of her mouth curled upward. Because some things—thank God—never changed.

 

Twenty-Three

 

Crew Calls and Union Rules

 

Sunlight spilled across the rumpled sheets, warm and unforgiving. Jon blinked against it, eyes gritty, body registering soreness in layers: shoulders first, then his back, then thighs. Muscles well-used—and for damn good reason.

Last night came back in fragments. Steam curling off the shower. Ari’s mouth on him. The way she laughed when he tried to form a coherent sentence and failed. How the water had turned cold long before she dragged him back to bed like she wasn’t close to finished.

She hadn’t been. Neither had he.

His hand drifted automatically to the other side of the bed. Cool sheets. Empty space. He wasn’t surprised.

Of course she was gone.

A note waited on the pillow, ripped hotel stationery, handwriting sharp and familiar. Crash through and through.

Thanks for the orgasms. My crew needs me. Went ahead to the arena.
And, yes, I took Cliff with me.

See you later.
xoxox

Jon let out a low groan, part laugh, part disbelief. She was already up? After that night?

He’d lost count somewhere between the third orgasm and the double order of cheese fries she swore she needed to “refuel.” They hadn’t shut their eyes until after three, and now she was upright, dressed, probably bossing Cliff and the rest of the crew around like nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, he could barely roll over.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, he squinted at the digital clock.

11:45.

Matt would be pounding on the door any minute.

“Oof.” He groaned as he pushed upright, wincing when fresh aches made themselves known. Muscles he didn’t even know could hurt… did.

A shower. A hot one. That’d fix it. He hoped.

Snatching the towel off the floor, he shuffled toward the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror caught him on the way, and he paused just long enough to catalog the damage.

Hair: sex-tousled.
Mouth: still a little swollen.
Chest: dotted with faint love bites, a breadcrumb trail of her persistence.

He huffed a laugh. “Jesus.”

The water blasted hot right away, steam curling upward like it had last night, when the shower was less about cleaning up and more about… well. His hand braced against the tile as the spray pounded into his shoulders, glorious and punishing at once. Eyes closed, jaw slack, he let the film reel play. Ari biting back a laugh when he tried to speak. Her smile when he lifted her into his arms.

Yeah. He wasn’t done with her. Not by a long shot.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, shaking his head as he reached for the shampoo, a grin tugging despite the ache in his bones.

He washed quickly and killed the water, steam chasing him out onto the mat. Towel slung low on his hips, he wiped the mirror clear with a swipe and rubbed at his face. No time to shave. The stubble would have to ride.

Back in the bedroom, he tugged on his jeans with a grunt, found his crumpled T-shirt at the foot of the bed, and shook it out before pulling it over his head.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Matt.

Three knocks. You’ve been warned.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Smartass.”

Right on cue, three heavy raps hit the door.

“Let’s go, old man,” Matt’s voice carried through, smug. “Your wife’s got four hours on you.”

Jon grabbed his bag, swung the door open, and grunted a single word.

“Asshole.”

Matt smirked, eyes flicking over him like a scoreboard. “I see someone forgot his happy pills this morning.”

Jon just shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward. His brother wasn’t wrong.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

Ariana sat cross-legged in the middle of the arena floor, her back pressed against one of the production road cases, the cool metal grounding her in the cavernous space. Without the seats in place, the arena felt impossibly vast, an empty shell waiting to be filled. Every sound echoed — footsteps, shouted orders, the clang of rigging against steel — bouncing off the walls until it all blurred into the familiar hum of a show being built. Her show.

Her laptop glowed in front of her, cursor blinking, but her eyes weren’t on the screen. She couldn’t help watching her crew instead. Kennedy stood in his usual command stance, barking orders at a handful of stagehands with sharp gestures toward the far side of the stage. Stan was crouched nearby, tape measure pulled taut as if he were settling a score with gravity itself. Lefty sat hunched behind the lighting desk, already cycling through cues, bathing the empty stage in shifting washes of color, hunting perfection in every flicker.

It made her chest ache, this sight. The steady rhythm of it. The trust. The machine she had built, piece by piece, running because they believed in her.

She glanced at the corner of her laptop. 1:00 P.M. Had she really been here for five hours?

Jon had still been tangled in the sheets when she’d slipped out — his face softened in sleep, the faintest crease still etched in his brow. She hadn’t wanted to leave. God, she hadn’t. If her bladder hadn’t dragged her upright for the tenth time, she might still be curled into his warmth, letting herself forget what the day demanded. But sleep wasn’t coming, not with the restlessness in her chest. She’d sent Cliff a quick text, told him she’d be ready in ten, and walked out the door before she could second-guess herself.

Her fingers returned to the keyboard now, moving automatically, typing out production notes for the month’s remaining shows. Two nights at Madison Square Garden — a dream venue even after all these years — and then D.C.’s Verizon Center. Big, union-heavy stops. High stakes. She needed every detail ironed out.

The crackle of her radio broke through her thoughts.

“Boss, catering says lunch is up in fifteen. You want the usual, or you feelin’ human today?” Kennedy’s voice, dry as always.

Ariana smiled despite herself and pressed the button clipped to her shirt. “Anything with grease dripping down my fingers and fries. And remind everyone, crew meeting’s at two sharp. I don’t care if they’re still chewing.”

“Copy that. Threat received. I’ll rattle the cages.”

The line clicked off, and she chuckled softly. This — this rhythm of small rituals and quick exchanges — was as much home as any house with a white picket fence could be.

Closing her laptop, she rose, stretching out her legs with a groan that betrayed just how long she’d been sitting. The arena spread out before her, a canvas half-painted, and she felt that flicker of pride again: the quiet certainty that, for all the chaos, they were right where they needed to be.

Then came the familiar nudge.

She stilled, hand drifting instinctively to her belly.

Really? Again?

A sigh slipped out. Another trip to the bathroom. Pregnancy didn’t care how many shows you had to run.

Tucking the laptop under one arm and clipping her radio back to her belt, she started toward the hallway that led to the backstage restrooms. The faint scent of lunch — grilled meat, something fried — was already drifting on the air.

By the time she returned, the crew had gathered as if pulled by an invisible string. Chairs loosely arranged in a half-circle, two dozen familiar faces scattered across them — some perched, some leaning, others still clutching coffee cups or cookies. But all present. All waiting.

She stepped into the center, pulse steady, voice sure.

“Alright, settle in. This won’t take long. MSG is in two days, D.C. right after. That means we’re heading into union-heavy territory, and I don’t want to hear a single complaint about dock assignments or who gets to plug in what.”

The ripple of laughter warmed her, but she didn’t let it linger. These were veterans, people she’d stolen, poached, or begged into her orbit, and they knew she could keep them sharp.

“I’ll push revised call times to your phones tonight. D.C. moved us up by an hour, and MSG is tighter than usual on dock flow. I’m working directly with them. Kennedy will be running point on ALL staging once we’re on the ground. No exceptions.”

“I’ll try to be charming,” Kennedy muttered from the side. “But don’t push it.”

“Missing gear tags, clearance issues — I need to know tonight,” Ariana continued, scanning their faces. “Don’t assume someone else caught it.”

The arena door creaked open then, and heads turned. The band filtered in, Jon at the rear, sunglasses shielding eyes that screamed he’d only been awake half an hour.

“No soundcheck tonight,” he said, lifting a hand before ducking out of sight.

“Someone had a rough night,” Kennedy smirked.

“You heard him,” Ari countered smoothly, shifting her stance. “Triple checks on everything.”

A chuckle rolled through the crew, but the moment dissolved back into focus.

“Before I end this, any questions, comments, threats?”

“Still not enough lemon bars,” Stan drawled, hand raised lazily.

She shook her head. “Take it up with catering. Let’s get back to work.”

Radios snapped back on, chairs scraped, and just like that, her crew dissolved into motion again, the tide pulling them back to their stations. She lingered for a heartbeat, watching the pieces of her empire fall into place, before catching Kennedy’s nod and slipping into the hallway.

Twenty-Two

 

Takeoff... those Clothes

 

The aftermath of Jesse’s party clung to Ari’s senses, a haze of perfume, spilled beer, and leftover laughter that seemed to chase them from the bar to the SUVs, and now here—onto the tarmac at Montreal’s smaller airstrip. She felt it pressing close, a reminder that even when the music stopped, this life never really quieted.

At the base of the jet’s staircase, Matt, Cliff, and Gunnar clustered together, ticking off names like clockwork. Ari barely noticed the mechanics of it; her eyes had gone straight to the stairs, to the plane looming above them. Even the warm smile on Vicky’s face, ushering everyone aboard with a practiced ease, couldn’t untangle the knot already tightening in her chest.

Inside, the cabin looked nothing like the sleek luxury she’d once imagined private flights to be. It was a moving village—children scattering instinctively to their places, voices weaving into the fabric of the space. Romeo curled into a seat across the aisle, Meatball already asleep with his chin on the boy’s knees. Jake sat nearby with Lily tucked into her car seat, her wide-eyed wonder catching the overhead lights.

Carol and John were chatting with Stephanie in the back, Desiree kicked off her shoes with a sigh, Gunnar and Nicole leaned close together a row behind Tico and Lema, who were already deep in conversation. It was all so familiar, so normal for them—and for Ari, so foreign.

Her hand was already clamped tight to the armrest, knuckles white against the soft leather. Every rumble of the engines vibrated in her ribs. She hated this part—hated the way it reminded her of how little control she had once the wheels left the ground.

Jon leaned close, wine still warm on his breath. “You ready?” he whispered, as though his voice alone could steady her.

She forced her fingers to loosen, reaching for him. His hands were steady, certain, the only anchor she trusted.

Then he started to sing. Quiet, playful, his voice wrapping around her like a private cocoon:

“When the moon hits your eye
Like a big-a pizza pie
That’s amore

When the world seems to shine
Like I’ve had too much wine
That’s amore…”

She laughed, the sound surprising her, escaping through the tightness in her chest. His voice was half-lounge singer, half-inebriated Dean Martin—but it was him, and it was hers, and for a moment that mattered more than the altitude waiting ahead. With Jon’s words drifting over her, she could almost believe they weren’t about to leave the earth at all.

When the plane leveled, she realized her pulse had steadied, the roar softened into a hum she could breathe through. The lights dimmed, voices dropped to a murmur, and Ari let herself lean into Jon’s shoulder, her cheek against the familiar slope of him. Across the aisle, Jake’s voice rose gently as he read to Lily, her tiny face glowing in the half-light. The sight settled something deep inside her.

Sleep came quietly, carried on the rhythm of Jon’s breathing.

When she stirred again, Vicky was announcing their descent into Teterboro. The shift in the cabin was immediate—blankets folded, earbuds pulled free, the well-practiced shuffle of a family forever in motion. Ari watched it with a strange fondness. It wasn’t glamorous, not really. It was lived-in, worn like a favorite jacket: the kind of rhythm only years together could create.

The door opened, and cool evening air rushed in, sharp with the tang of jet fuel. The group spilled onto the tarmac, goodbyes murmured over idling engines and the low thrum of logistics.

Carol swept her family together with ease, corralling grandkids, husband, and friends in the same breath. Her voice held both command and comfort as she handed out hugs and quiet reminders to behave. Ari’s throat tightened at the sight—at how love could be so orderly, so constant.

Desiree slipped Lily from her arms, soft smile steady as she reassured Ari again that she didn’t mind keeping the baby overnight. “Go,” she insisted gently. “Take the time. You need it.” Ari knew she was right, even if letting go—even for a night—left her arms aching.

With the last bags stowed, Matt kissed his wife one more time, asking for the promise he always asked for: call the moment you’re home safe. Familiar words, familiar gesture, the tap to the roof as he sent them off. Ari’s chest ached again, but this time with something warmer—recognition, maybe, of the small rituals that made all the goodbyes survivable.

They weren’t dramatic, because they didn’t need to be. Love here was steady, practical, a rhythm she was only just learning to trust.

As the SUVs rolled away and the engines faded into the night, Ari stood with the others near the stairs. The plane behind them hummed, patient and waiting. Ahead lay Raleigh. But for now, in this brief pause between departures, Ari let herself breathe, anchored by the quiet, by Jon’s hand still twined with hers.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

 

The hotel lobby buzzed with quiet conversation as they were greeted by Jeanie, who held their key cards and schedules for the following day. Some of crew and band members were already gathered for a late dinner in the restaurant. Plans for drinks and food had been made back in Teterboro.

 

Ari and Jon had already opted out. 

 

Matt escorted them to their suite, keycard in hand.  At the door, he paused.

 

“Checkout is one,” he said. “Vans leave at twelve forty-five.”

 

Jon nodded. “Don’t knock before twelve thirty.”

 

“Will do. Have a good night.’

“Thanks,” Jon smirked. “Behave, we’ve got a show tomorrow.”

 

“Same to you.” Matt waved his brother off and disappeared down the hall.

 

Inside, the suite was dim and still, a sharp contrast to the day’s noise and motion.  Ari didn’t say a word. She toed off her boots and made a beeline for the bathroom. Moments later, the sound of running water echoed and steam had already begun the drift from the open door. 

 

Jon stayed where he was for a moment, pulling his phone from his pocket as the door clicked softly behind him. A couple of text were already waiting.

 

[10:36 pm] Jesse: Thanks for a fun few days. 

 

[10:40 pm] Ma: We made it home. See ya tomorrow night.  

 

He smiled, thumbed out a quick reply, and set the phone down on the nightstand.

 

Then with a grin, he peeled off his clothes and crossed the room towards the bathroom. The steam escaping through the cracked door hinted at the warmth— and the welcome—waiting on the other side.  He paused, then pushed the door open and stepped into a world of swirling vapor and familiar scent. 

 

“Need help.” He murmured. 

 

She tilted her head slightly, a slow smile spreading across her face.

 

That was all the invitation he needed. 

 

He stepped into the shower, the warm spray falling like a curtain in the steam-filled space built for two. Water streamed down her body, dark chocolate curls plastered to her back—a soft contrast to the olive tone of her neck. 

 

Reaching out, he traced the line of her spine, marveling at the way it dipped inward at her lower back, just above the tattoo she’d gotten last year—Avere Fede. Have Faith. 

 

From behind, he drew closer, the heat of his chest meeting her wet skin. His hands slid around her waist, fingers resting on the gentle swell of the tiny life growing insider her as soft kisses found the back of her neck—no rush, no urgency, just quiet reverence. 

 

“You feel good,” he whispered against her ear.  

 

“So do you,” she rasped arching slightly, the movement pressing her more fully against him.

 

“That’s how much I want you.”

 

Her breath caught.

 

“I want you more.”

 

She turned in his arms, her hands splayed over his chest. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, lingering kiss. Their tongues met, dancing a slow, sensual ballet. The water beat against their skin, a rhythmic counterpoint to the escalating rhythm of their breaths.  She broke the kiss, gasping for air. 

 

“Be right back,” she rasped. 

 

Her fingernails scraped lightly across his chest as she slowly knelt in front of him, water cascading down her spine. Slowly, she traced the deep grooves of his hips, where muscle dipped lower, every breath a whisper, every inch a promise.

 

Jon’s breath hitched, his jaw tightening, chest rising with a sharp inhale. Her breath was fire and friction, every nerve of his body waking up to the feel of her. Steam curled around them, thick and heady, turning the air into something almost tangible. 

 

The rest of the world faded, the edges blurring until there was nothing but her mouth, her hands— the way she made him forget where he was.

 

He sank one hand into her soaked curls, anchoring himself to the only thing that felt real. The other arm braced against the slick wall behind her, searching for balance as his head tipped back with a low, helpless groan. 

 

Time unraveled, stretching into something soft and infinite, measured only in the shallow breaths between them and the soft slap of water against skin. She paused, just for a second, looking up at him with a smile that was equal parts challenge and devotion.

 

It undid him.

 

When she finally rose, his hands found her again, guiding her back into his arms pulling her close like he couldn’t bear even a second of distance. Their bodies met in a slow slick press.

 

Mouths crashing together—hungry, grateful, reverent. Teeth clashed. Fingers gripped. Her laugh broke against his lips, wild and breathless.

 

No words needed.

 

Just heat. 

Just need. 

Just them.

 

Twenty-One

 

Grown-ups Gone Wild

 

The table was still echoing with laughter, the kind that come from inside jokes, secondhand embarrassment, and years of shared history. Nicole was trying and failing to change the subject while Matt leaned halfway across the table, milking every detail of their infamous London karaoke night.

That’s when Romeo came barreling across the dance floor like he was late for dinner, his little legs pumping, his brown hair slick from sweat as he pushed forward.

His tiny face was set in pure determination, like a soldier on a mission—dashing past Lily, who was tottering across the floor in her own little world, reaching for the air with little hands. The squeak of his sneakers echoed louder as he weaved between his brother and a few friends, their chatter muffled in the haze of his focus. The Guitar Hero music pulsed in the background, but Romeo didn’t even notice it.

When he reached the table, his eyes locked onto Ari, and without missing a beat, he grabbed her hand.

“Ari! Ari!” he panted. “You have to come with me. Right now.” His voice was serious, tugging at her hand with the kind of urgency that made it clear he wasn’t asking.

Ari blinked. “Woah, slow down, buddy. Did Lily poop again?”

He shook his head vigorously. “No. I just need you to come over there.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, swirling a fresh glass of wine. “Oh, this should be fun.”

Ari turned slowly to face him, one perfectly sculpted brow arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smirked. “Nothing. Just didn’t think you were going to grace the microphone again.”

Romeo tugged harder. “She’s not singing. She’s dancing!”

Stephanie leaned forward, one brow cocked with suspicion. “Dancing? What dance?”

Romeo turned to her like she’d just asked the dumbest question in history. “Duh, Steph. The Hoedown Throwdown.”

Matt nearly spit out his drink. “Wait—the Miley Cyrus one?”

David looked at Matt like he’d said something sacrilegious. “No, dickhead. The Hannah Montana one.”

Everyone turned to stare at him like he’d just confessed a secret that should’ve definitely gone to the grave.

David shrugged. “I have kids, too. You think I survived years of Disney Channel without absorbing at least one dance number?”

Stephanie pointed at him, mock scandalized. “Wait, you’re telling me you know the Hoedown Throwdown?”

David cracked his neck like he was warming up for a comeback tour. “Hit with the elbows, lock it, and then polka-dot it,” he recited with smug precision. “It’s in the muscle memory.”

Jon was stunned. For all the years he’d know the guy, this was the last thing he’d expected to hear him say. And now here he was, casually confessing to being a full blow Disney dad with a black belt in tween choreography.

Ari pushed back her chair, already rising to her feet. “Romeo, lead the way. Time to show your father what I can do.”

Jon choked on a laugh. “Wait—hold up. You know this dance?”

Ari turned, her eyes narrowing. “You doubt me?”

Jon held up both hands in surrender. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you implied it.” She tossed her curls over one shoulder.

Romeo whooped and grabbed her hand. “Come on!”

As they headed toward the stage, Jon called after her, clearly trying to figure out what was going on. “Crash, seriously? You know this?”

She looked back with a smug grin. “Sure do. Cara and I would dance with Max’s daughter all the time.”

From across the room, Max raised his beer. “Guilty. Knew every move by heart. Still do, probably.”

David nodded, not missing a beat. “Same here. Backyard performances, full costume, props, rotating backup dancers. It was a thing.”

Jon turned slowly in his chair, staring at them both like they’d grown second heads. “What the actual fuck?”

Stephanie leaned in, gleeful. “This is the dad tax. You either pay in money… or in Miley choreography.” She patted his arm, her smile growing wider. “You paid.”

Matt was practically wheezing. “I swear to God, if David and Max go up there and do it with her, I will die.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then—

“Boom clap, boom de clap de clap,” Max said, rising from his seat and draining his beer.

David followed suit with a grin. “Boom clap, boom de clap de clap,” he echoed, rolling his shoulders.

“Oh no,” Jon said flatly.

Desiree stood too, grinning like she’d been waiting for her cue. “Scoot over, kids. The grown-ups have arrived.”

Ari stepped forward with Romeo, eyes beaming wide. She raised one hand in the air and shouted, “One. Two. Three!”

The opening beat dropped—and just for a second, time seemed to stretch. The room held its breath, and then BOOM. The five of them exploded into motion with surprising ease. Arms swung, elbows popped, hips bounced in what could barely be called a line dance. Max threw in a little spin that got a cheer. Lema added finger guns. Desiree—unsurprisingly—executed every move with sharp, terrifying precision, no doubt from her years of competitive cheerleading.

And Ari? She hit every step with an over-the-top flair that made it both impressive and completely absurd.

Jon meant to laugh. He really did. But then he saw her, and everything else faded away.

She was singing every word, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. Her long dark curls bounced with every step, wild and unapologetic. Her favorite worn-out jeans hugged her hips, the red Doc Martens stomping in perfect rhythm, and that white button-down—his, technically—hung loose and half-tucked, slipped off one shoulder like it had choreography of its own.

He was completely mesmerized.

Not just because of how she looked, though that alone was enough to undo him. It was the way she moved, wild and untamed, just like her. And her laughter.  God, her laughter, louder than the music, lit up the room like something holy.

It wasn’t just the way she danced; it was the way she let go. Like nothing else mattered but this moment, this song, this room full of people she loved.

And maybe that’s what got him. Not the dance. Not the shirt. Not the smirk.

But the fact that she could find joy in the middle of any moment and make everyone else feel it, too. 

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, totally unaware that he was staring.

Matt caught the look and leaned in with a smirk. “You gonna survive this little hoedown, brother, or should I ice your drink and your dick?”

Jon didn’t even respond. Just lifted his glass in silent surrender.

On the dance floor, Ari executed a perfect shoulder shimmy, then glanced out across the floor—and caught him.

That slow, knowing smile spread across her face like she’d just won a bet. Again.

She pointed two fingers at her eyes, then at him, still dancing. “Caught you looking.”

Jon tilted his head and mouthed, “You started it.”

She winked.

From the edge of the dance floor, Stephanie held up her phone, already recording. “Oh, this is going straight to Uncle Obie.” With a grin, she whispered, “He’s gonna love this.”

By now the music had drawn the attention of everyone in the room.

Jake stood off to the side with Lily in his arms, swaying gently with her as she clapped along, giggling. Jesse and his friends, crammed around a table littered with empty plates and crumpled napkins, doubled over in laughter. Even John Sr. had wandered away from the poker table, sipping his drink in quiet amusement as he watched his daughters-in-law and grandson put on a show.

When the final beat dropped, they all froze in place—breathless, grinning, triumphant.

For a second, there was silence. Then the room erupted into cheers.

From somewhere in the back, Tico let out a sharp whistle. Even Cliff and Gunnar looked genuinely surprised as they clapped along.

Jon, still seated, shook his head in disbelief, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

Matt leaned over, slapping his arm. “Well. That tops London.”

“Thank God,” Nicole added. “Finally—something new to talk about in craft services.”

As the applause died down and the music faded into the background chatter, Ari made her way back to the table, her cheeks flushed and curls wild from the frenzy of the dance. She was still catching her breath, her laughter a soft echo in the air as she walked.

Without a word, she dropped herself into Jon’s lap, sliding her arms around his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. The move was effortless, comfortable, familiar. She smelled like sweat and candied apples, her hair brushing his cheek as she leaned in. His hand moved almost instinctively, sliding up her spine and coming to rest at the hem of the borrowed shirt, his fingers teasing the fabric with a small, unconscious motion.

For a moment, the noise of the room faded away. It was just the two of them in the quiet after the storm.

“You should know better than to challenge me,” she said, smug and breathless.

Jon raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth lifting in an amused grin. “Oh, I know. But clearly, I don’t learn.”

Before she could respond with a snarky comeback, Carol’s voice rang out over the crowd.

“Alright, everyone, who’s ready for cake?”

A cheer went up from the kids and a few hungry adults.

Ari slid off Jon’s lap with a sigh and a wink. “Saved by cake.”

Jon caught her hand before she disappeared. “This night’s not over.”

Ari leaned in close, her lips just brushing his ear. “Not even close.”