His fingers gather my skirt and slip beneath the hem, slowly inching higher. The first brush of his hand against my center makes me gasp, my nails digging into his shoulder. He swallows hard, then kisses me again, deeper, almost desperate, as his touch grows bolder.
The pressure, the friction, the shocking intimacy—it’s more than I ever imagined. Each kiss is more consuming, each stroke of his fingers an unraveling. I cling to him, to the solidness of his chest, to the way he looks at me like I’m the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Heat coils inside me, winding tighter and tighter until it’s unbearable. I break from his mouth with a gasp, burying my face against his shoulder as wave after wave overtakes me. My body shudders in his arms, trembling, undone, unable to catch my breath.
I didn’t know pleasure would feel like this.
His hands anchor me, strong and steady, while his lips brush my temple, my hairline, anywhere he can reach as though he needs to remind me I’m still here, still real. And when I finally lift my head, his eyes are wet. With wonder. With awe. With something deeper than words could hold.
We don’t speak. We stay pressed together, chests heaving, hearts pounding in time, the air between us filled with the sound of what we’ve done and the unspoken truth of what it means.
For the first time in my life, I feel alive.
And it’s because of him.
Firefly
Marcel 1986
By the timeGrace’s little car crunches up the gravel drive, the sun has tipped past its highest point, throwing long shadows across the yard. Eli’s voice carries from the kitchen, muttering curses at a skillet that clearly isn’t cooperating.
She steps inside, cheeks pink from the heat, Isaac right behind her like a steady shadow. He takes her bag without asking, setting it in the corner before pulling out a chair for her at the table. She thanks him with a smile, soft and a little shy, and something warm stirs in my chest at the way he looks at her—like he’s been waiting all day to see her.
Dinner is set in a scatter of plates. Eli’s rolls are more like bricks; the stew is thin enough to see the bottom of the bowl, but Grace doesn’t complain. She folds her napkin carefully, smoothing it over her lap like this rough kitchen is a fine dining hall, and gives thanks to Eli before we bow our heads to pray over the food. Isaac does the same, loyalty written plain in every small movement.
I take the seat across from Clara, though no one but Eli can see it. Our knees don’t touch, but the space between us hums all the same. She doesn’t look at me, not directly, but I catch the way her lashes lower when she feels my presence.
Grace stirs her stew more than she eats it. Finally, she lifts her eyes, first to Eli, then to Isaac, then—hesitantly—to the air between them, where I sit.
“So…this is the part where I ask if you all actually expect me to believe in ghosts.” Her voice wavers.
Eli leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “No one’s asking you to believe what you can’t see. But you came here with a diary, with a letter and questions. And those things point to Clara and Marcel.” He tips his chin toward me, then to Clara, whose breath catches even if Grace can’t hear it. “They’re here with us again, Grace. Right now.”
Isaac sets his spoon down, leaning forward. “I’ve felt it too. I can’t see them like Eli can, but…you can tell when they’re here. You can feel it when the air shifts. When it feels like you’re not alone.”
Grace bites her lip, her fingers twisting the edge of her napkin. “And if I did believe it…you’re saying you can be some sort of—what? Medium? Between me and my grandmother?”
Eli’s expression softens, all of his gruff edges worn down by patience. “If Clara has something to tell you, I can give her words. If Marcel does, I can try the same. That’s up to them.”
Grace looks down at her plate. Her voice drops to a whisper, barely more than a thread. “Then I want to hear her story. All of it. Even the parts she couldn’t write down.”
Across the table, Clara’s hand trembles where it rests against the wood, her eyes luminous with unshed tears. And me—my chest aches with the weight of all the years, all the words I know we held inside.
And now, finally, we’ve been asked to speak.
And I don’t know if I can survive saying it aloud.
The air in the kitchen is heavy with expectation, fragile and electric. Grace’s fingers twist her napkin tighter, her eyes glinting with determination.
“I need to know,” she says, looking first to Eli, then to what she sees as empty chairs. “What happened between you?”
Eli’s gaze shifts to me, then to Clara. He waits. Silent, steady. Ready to be our voice.
Clara’s hands fold in her lap, trembling. Her eyes shine when she glances at Grace, as if the sight of her granddaughter is both a blessing and an ache. “Tell her…” she whispers, her voice catching like a violin bow over frayed strings. “Tell her I wasn’t in love with the man I married. I should be sorry for it, but I’m not. I was a good wife and mother, but I was in love with someone else.”
Eli repeats the words, and Grace startles as though the truth itself has weight. “In love? With Marcel?”
Clara nods, her voice breaking as tears slip free. “I was promised to your grandfather, but my heart—” she presses her fist to her chest, trembling, “—my heart belonged to Marcel from the very night I met him. Your grandfather was a good man, I never wanted for anything, but he never had my heart.”
