Love Rents A Room
Chapter 233: His, Forever

Chapter 233: His, Forever

Jeffrey’s warm breath caressed Joanne’s bare neck warming her.

"You should sit down," he murmured. "You were on your feet all day. In heels."

She didn’t reply. She only looked at him through the mirror, her eyes soft, her expression unreadable.

He began unfastening the row of delicate buttons trailing down her back. One by one. Slowly. As if every loop undone was a step closer to something sacred.

"You were so beautiful today, Mrs. Joanne Winchester... And you’ve become mine."

His lips followed—warm, open kisses down the nape of her neck and over her spine, slow and deliberate. Heat curled at the base of her stomach. She swayed slightly, and his hand came around her waist, steadying her.

"There’s no rush," he whispered against her skin. "You’re tired. You should sleep. Just let me help you get out of this, and I’ll run you a bath. We can rest. Talk. We have time now. The rest of our lives."

She turned to him, finally, her dress falling slightly off her shoulder. Her gaze didn’t waver.

"I don’t want rest," she said softly. "Not yet."

"Jo—"

"I want you," she said. Not with urgency. Not even with desire. But with devotion. "Tonight, I want to be your wife completely. Not just on paper. Not just for the world to see. But here. Like this."

His throat tightened. It wasn’t that she needed to prove anything. She was already carrying his child. She had already chosen him. But this—this was different.

"You don’t have to," he whispered, brushing her hair away from her face. "I’ll wait. I’d wait forever."

She touched his face gently. "I know," she said. "That’s why I want you tonight."

She let the dress slip off her arms, the fabric whispering to the floor. And then she stood in front of him in just the soft slip beneath, and her bare shoulders, and the courage in her eyes that never failed to undo him.

"You don’t have to be careful," she whispered. "I’m not glass."

"No," he murmured, drawing her close, his voice heavy with emotion. "You’re fire. And you’re mine."

And when he kissed her this time, it wasn’t gentle. It was full. Deep. The kind of kiss that made the world tilt. The kind of kiss that said: We waited. And now we don’t have to anymore.

Their hands memorized each other, again and again, not like strangers discovering—but like lovers remembering.

And when he laid her down, her hair splayed across the pillows, and the candlelight flickered across her skin, he looked at her like she was the promise he’d been chasing for years.

And she was.

-----

Their honeymoon was brief but precious—just ten days drifting through Europe like a shared dream. Him, her, their baby, and Jeffrey’s camera—THE camera.

In Venice, he bought her roses even though she said they’d wilt too soon. In Paris, she played an old violin in a tucked-away antique shop and drew a crowd that clapped like they’d witnessed magic. In the Swiss Alps, she fell asleep against his chest under a blanket by a fire, the glow of the mountains twinkling outside the window like stars made solid.

It wasn’t about extravagance. It wasn’t about ticking destinations off a list. It was about walking unfamiliar streets hand in hand. Sharing quiet glances over warm croissants. Laughing over nothing on rain-washed cobblestones.

It was about being husband and wife, with no one watching, no family expectations, no legacy weighing on their backs.

But time tugged them back to reality. The world was waiting.

And so, they returned—not to the grandeur of mansions or columns lined with floral arches, but to Rockchapel.

Joanne had insisted. Not everyone she loved had been at Wimbledon. Many couldn’t afford to travel, and some didn’t want to be part of the pageantry. But they deserved to celebrate too. They were part of her story, of her roots.

The reception was held on the sprawling green beneath her house, near the golden fields that rippled like laughter when the wind blew. There were wooden tables draped in white linen, wildflowers in mason jars, and string lights hanging between trees. A band played bluegrass and folk tunes under a white tent, and children ran barefoot with dusty feet and jam-sticky fingers.

And Joanne was radiant—this time in a simple white cotton dress, hair in soft waves, her hand always tucked into Jeffrey’s like it belonged there. Because it did.

What surprised many was not just the appearance of Christina Winchester in all her tailored elegance, smiling warmly at the locals, or Philip Winchester seated in a rocking chair sipping sweet tea, bargaining for moonshine with the locals, and beaming like a proud rooster. But Robert Winchester came too.

He arrived in a charcoal jacket that didn’t quite belong in the countryside, his collar undone, a weariness clinging to him like a second skin. He stood quietly at the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, saying little.

He stuck out like a sore thumb and yet he didn’t leave. He stood there and observed everything.

Some whispered. They always did. But Jeffrey saw it. So did Joanne.

It wasn’t jealousy that darkened Robert’s eyes—it was absence.

Brianna hadn’t come.

And while others gossiped about Winchesters and wealth and bloodlines, Joanne stepped down from the hay bale stage after giving a heartfelt speech in her hometown twang and walked right up to Robert.

"Didn’t expect to see you here," she said, her tone neither mocking nor surprised. Just kind.

He shrugged and offered a faint smile. "I owed you a dance. Or at least a toast."

Jeffrey joined them a minute later, wrapping an arm around his wife’s waist. "Thanks for coming," he said, honest and open. "It means something."

Robert’s gaze flicked between them, something unreadable lingering behind his tired smile.

"Love like this," he said, lifting his glass, "is rare. Don’t squander it."

And then he walked off, blending into the dusk, the twinkle lights catching in the glass he still held like a man who knew what it meant to lose something irreplaceable.

Later that night, as the fireflies danced and laughter echoed through the valley, Joanne rested her head on Jeffrey’s shoulder, the scent of burnt marshmallows in the air.