Allison's POV: the weekend pt 2

SATURDAY - THE DAY

The vineyard is postcard-perfect—rolling hills covered in neat rows of vines, the autumn sun warm on your shoulders, the air sweet with ripening grapes. Don holds your hand as the tour guide explains fermentation processes and terroir, and you lean into him, playing the role of besotted wife.

Except it's not entirely playing anymore.

He's attentive without being smothering. Points out things he thinks you'll like—a particularly beautiful view, a funny sign, a dog sleeping in a patch of sunlight. Listens when you talk, asks questions, treats your opinions like they matter.

He treats you like an adult.

Not a teenage girl fumbling through her first real relationship. Not a burden or a problem to be solved. An equal. A partner.

And God, it feels good.

"What are you thinking about?" Don asks as you stand together at the edge of the vineyard, looking out over the valley.

"This." You gesture at the view, the day, him. "How nice it is. How normal."

"Normal's good." He pulls you against his side, drops a kiss on your temple. "I've missed normal. Missed us being normal together."

You're saved from answering by the tour guide calling the group back. But as you walk through the vines, Don's arm around your waist, you realize something unsettling.

You're happy.

For the first time since waking up in Jennifer's body, you're genuinely, uncomplicated happy.

________________________________________

Lunch is at a small bistro in town—rustic charm, checkered tablecloths, the kind of place locals go. Don orders for both of you, something casual and intimate about the gesture, like he knows your tastes.

He doesn't, of course. He knows Jennifer's tastes.

But you eat the pasta he orders and it's delicious, and when he steals a bite off your plate with a playful grin, you steal something off his in retaliation, and it feels like the kind of easy domesticity you used to dream about.

Just not with Don.

The thought of Tim surfaces—unbidden, unwelcome. You imagine him sitting across from you instead, trying to navigate the menu, probably ordering something safe. Nervous. Sweet.

Unable to touch you.

You push the thought away and focus on Don, who's telling a story about the first time he brought Jennifer here, years ago, before the kids. How they got lost trying to find the place and ended up having a picnic on the side of the road instead.

"Do you remember?" he asks, eyes warm with nostalgia.

"Of course," you lie smoothly, and his smile makes the deception worth it.

After lunch, he takes you shopping. Insists on buying you a dress you admire in a boutique window—soft blue, elegant, cut in a way that makes Jennifer's body look stunning. You protest that it's too expensive, but he just pulls out his credit card and tells the clerk to wrap it up.

"For tonight," he says when you're back on the street, shopping bag in hand. "I made reservations at the hotel restaurant. I want to see you in that dress."

"Tonight?"

"Our last night." His expression turns serious. "I want it to be special."

Something in his tone makes your pulse quicken. "What are you planning?"

"You'll see." He leans in, kisses you soft and sweet. "Trust me?"

And despite everything—despite knowing he thinks you're someone you're not, despite the guilt gnawing at your edges, despite Tim waiting at home—you do.

"I trust you."

________________________________________

SATURDAY NIGHT

The dress fits perfectly.

You stand in front of the bathroom mirror, turning slowly, and have to admit Don has good taste. The blue brings out your eyes—Jennifer's eyes—and the cut is sophisticated without being matronly. You look like a woman, not a girl playing dress-up.

You look like Jennifer.

The thought doesn't sting as much as it should.

You're applying lipstick when Don knocks on the bathroom door. "You ready? Our reservation's in ten minutes."

"Almost." You blot your lips, check your reflection one more time. The woman staring back is polished, beautiful, composed. A stranger. "Okay. Ready."

You open the door, and Don's expression makes everything worth it.

"Jesus, Jen. You're—" He shakes his head, at a loss. "Stunning. Absolutely stunning."

Heat rises in your cheeks. "The dress helps."

"The dress is nice. You're what makes it stunning." He offers his arm, formal and old-fashioned. "Shall we?"

________________________________________

The restaurant is all soft lighting and white tablecloths, intimate tables tucked into alcoves that offer privacy. The maître d' leads you to a corner table with a view of the valley, now painted in twilight colors, and Don pulls out your chair before sitting across from you.

Wine is poured. Appetizers ordered. The evening unfolds with practiced elegance, and you find yourself relaxing into it. Into him. Into this life that's starting to feel less like performance and more like possibility.

"I've been thinking," Don says over the main course—something with duck that's absurdly good. "About logistics."

"Logistics?"

"For us. Moving forward." He sets his fork down, leans forward. "I know we need to take this slow. But I also don't want to waste time. So I was thinking—what if I moved back in? Not right away. But soon. Maybe next month. We could ease into it. Date nights, family dinners, see how it feels."

Your heart is pounding. "Move back in."

"To the house. With you and the kids." His hand finds yours across the table. "I know it's fast. But Jen, we've already done the work. We know each other. We have a family together. This isn't starting from scratch—it's picking up where we left off. Just without the mistakes that broke us the first time."

He's right. It makes sense. Practical, reasonable, the logical next step.

And it would solve everything. You wouldn't be alone in Jennifer's body. You'd have Don, a partner, someone to help you navigate this impossible situation. The kids would have their father back. Everyone wins.

Except Tim.

But Tim made his choice. He let you go.

"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Let's do it."

Don's face lights up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." The word feels monumental, like stepping off a cliff. "Move back in. Let's see if we can make this work."

"We will." He stands, comes around the table, and pulls you to your feet. His hands cup your face, and his kiss is deep and claiming and full of promises. "I'm going to make you so happy, Jen. I swear it."

"I know," you whisper, and you mean it.

When you sit back down, there's a small velvet box next to your plate.

You stare at it. "Don—"

"It's not what you think. Not yet." He picks up the box, opens it. Inside is a delicate bracelet—silver, with a small diamond charm. "I saw this today while you were trying on the dress. It reminded me of you. Of us. I know I can't give you a ring yet. But I wanted you to have something. A promise that I'm serious about this."

He takes your wrist, fastens the bracelet with gentle fingers. It catches the light, sparkling.

"It's beautiful."

"So are you." He kisses your wrist, just above the bracelet. "Thank you for giving me another chance. For letting me prove I can be the man you deserve."

You look at the bracelet, at Don's earnest face, at the life he's offering laid out like a feast.

And you take it.

"Take me back to the room," you say quietly.

His eyes darken. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

________________________________________

SATURDAY NIGHT - THE ROOM

He's gentler this time. More deliberate.

He undresses you slowly, reverent, kissing every inch of skin he reveals. The dress pools at your feet and he steps back just to look at you, standing there in nothing but heels and the bracelet.

"Perfect," he breathes. "So fucking perfect."

Then he's guiding you to the bed, laying you out like something precious, and when he settles between your thighs, it's with a focus that makes you tremble.

His mouth is everywhere—your breasts, your stomach, your thighs. He takes his time, learning you all over again, and when he finally puts his mouth on you, tongue sliding through slick folds, you arch off the bed with a cry.

"That's it," he murmurs against you. "Let me hear you."

He works you with devastating skill—tongue circling your clit, fingers sliding inside, finding that spot that makes you see stars. You're writhing, hands fisted in his hair, making sounds you've never made before.

"Don—fuck—I'm going to—"

"Come for me, baby. Come on my tongue."

You shatter. The orgasm tears through you, intense and prolonged, and he doesn't let up, licking you through it until you're shaking and oversensitive and pulling at his hair.

He kisses his way back up your body, mouth finding yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue.

"Please," you gasp. "I need you inside me."

"Whatever you need." He positions himself, slides home in one smooth thrust, and you both groan at the connection.

This time, he makes love to you.

There's no other word for it. It's not fucking—it's intimate, tender, his eyes locked on yours as he moves. He tells you you're beautiful, tells you he loves you, tells you he's never letting you go.

And when you come again, it's with his name on your lips—Don, not Tim—and the realization settles in your chest like a stone.

You've crossed a line you can't uncross.

________________________________________

Afterward, he holds you close, your head on his chest, his hand stroking your hair.

"I meant what I said," he murmurs into the darkness. "I love you. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving it."

"I love you too," you whisper back.

And the terrifying part?

You're not sure if you're lying.

________________________________________

SUNDAY MORNING

You wake early, tangled in sheets and Don's limbs. The room is quiet, dawn light just starting to filter through the curtains. Don is still asleep, face relaxed, looking younger than his years.

You slip out of bed carefully, grab his shirt from the floor, and pull it on. It smells like him—cologne and wine and sex—and you pad to the window to look out at the valley.

In a few hours, you'll be heading home. Back to the house, to Tim, to the reality of what you've done.

You've chosen Don. Committed to trying. Agreed to let him move back in, to building a life as Jennifer Connors, wife and mother.

And the strangest part is how okay you feel about it.

Not guilty. Not conflicted. Just—settled. Like a decision made, a path chosen, and now all that's left is to walk it.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You pad over, pick it up.

A text from Tabitha: Hope you're having fun. Tim's being weird. See you tomorrow.

You stare at the message. Tim's being weird. Not Tim's a mess. Not Tim misses you.

Just weird.

He's not fighting for you. Isn't texting, calling, demanding you come home. He's letting you go, just like he let you leave.

And you're letting him.

"Hey." Don's voice, rough with sleep. "Come back to bed."

You set the phone down, turn to find him watching you with sleepy affection.

"Just checking messages."

"Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine." And you mean it.

You cross back to the bed, let him pull you down into his arms, and when he kisses you good morning, you kiss him back with clear intent.

This is your life now.

This is your choice.

And when you finally dress and pack and load the car for the drive home, you slip the bracelet on your wrist and don't take it off.

________________________________________

SUNDAY - THE DRIVE HOME

Don talks about logistics the whole drive. When he'll start moving his things back in. How to tell the kids officially. Whether you should renew vows or have a small ceremony or just quietly remarry at the courthouse.

He's planning a future, and you're part of it.

"What about Tim?" you ask at one point, voice carefully neutral.

Don glances over, surprised. "What about him?"

"How do you think he'll react? To you moving back in."

"He'll adjust." Don's tone is confident. "He's eighteen, practically an adult. And honestly, I think he'll be relieved. The house feels more stable with both parents there. He'll see that."

You're not so sure, but you don't argue.

When Don's hand finds your knee, you cover it with yours, and the bracelet catches the light streaming through the windshield.

By the time you pull up to the house, late Sunday afternoon, you've made peace with your decision.

Tim is standing at the window when you arrive. You see him there—just a silhouette, watching. Don doesn't notice, too busy grabbing your bag from the trunk.

But you see him.

And when you meet his eyes through the glass, you don't look away.

You don't apologize.

You just hold his gaze, steady and certain, and let him see exactly what you've become.

Then Don's hand is at the small of your back, guiding you toward the door, and you let him.

You're Jennifer now.

And it's time Tim accepted that.