“Fuck that.” He laughs. “I want something real with you, Reese.”
“Just us.”
“Just Reese and Dante.”
The sound of our names together feels like home.
“In the spirit of honesty, I’m a bit terrified,” I admit. “I’ve never done this before—been completely myself with someone. Been in a real, true, adult relationship.”
“Me neither, baby.” He moves and comes to kneel beside my chair. “I’ve spent years keeping everyone at arm’s length, playing at being some charming bastard because it was easier than letting anyone in. Then you came along and saw right through all my bullshit.”
“I like your bullshit,” I snort.
“I’m going to earn back every bit of your trust,” he promises. “I love you,” he says. His painted fingernails graze my thigh. “That’s what I want, Reese. I want you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper.
“We’ll probably make a fucking mess of it, but at least we’ll be honest about it.”
I nod and take his hands in my own. “I’m fucking tired of being flawless anyway.”
When he kisses me, it’s gentle. Tentative. I think about the strangeness of intimacy, how we’ve shared so many careful words, and now this. He holds my face between his hands like I’m made of morning light. I could cry from the sweetness of it.
His smell wraps around me. I map my palm up his firm pecs, feeling his heart write its own wild story beneath my fingers.
The kiss deepens, softens, deepens again.
This is what truth feels like in the body. This is what happens when someone sees all your hidden corners and decides to build a home there.
“Want to see what it looks like upstairs?” I ask against his mouth.
“I’d love to.”
Each footstep feels like we’re ascending into a different version of ourselves. His fingers find the exposed skin at my lower back where my jeans hang low. I wrap my hands around his neck and pull him close. Once we reach my bedroom, my hands move to his jacket, and it drops to the carpeted floor.
When I stumble toward the bed, his hands catch me. Without breaking away from each other, we undress. My sweater and jeans pool on the floor beside his jacket, his shirt abandoned by the bed.
I pull him down on the bed and break our kiss for a brief moment. My body feels pliant and happy to be with him again. Every inch of my skin simmering under his touch.
“You’re here, in my room.” I laugh, barely believing it. “I really like it.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says with a crooked grin.
His tattoos look softer in this light. I want to trace each one with my fingertips as if they were new to me. Maybe in some way they are new to me again. His hand brushes over my duvet—my favorite one, with the floral pattern—and his ring snags on a loose thread.
We both notice it at the same time and share an awkward laugh that somehow makes everything feel perfect.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, fumbling with the sheet. “I’m a bit nervous, I think? I’ve never…”
“Made love?”
“That.”
“Me neither,” I say, and the admission feels like another kind of intimacy. “But I like that we can be kinda nervous together.”
He touches my face gently, touching his lips to my forehead. “God, I missed you. Not just…this. But the way you want to be careful about things. The way you make me want to be careful with you.”
There’s no rush now, no need to count minutes or listen for footsteps. Just us, learning each other again, slowly and completely. I wrap my thighs around him, and my body responds to his in ways as the weight of him nestles between my legs.
