In every sense of the word.
And she’s mine.
God help me, she’s always been mine.
The words claw at my throat, begging to be spoken. I want to cup her face, brush my thumbs across the flushed heat of her cheeks, and kiss her until the world falls out from under us, until she forgets how to think, until she remembers nothing except the way my hands feel on her skin.
But she deserves more than stolen moments in the shadows.
More than nights where I appear and disappear like a ghost.
More than a man who let fear tear them apart.
I want to give her all of it.
A future she doesn’t have to hide from.
A love that doesn’t have to curl in on itself to survive.
But I can’t, not yet. And that truth guts me.
Lily Davis deserves the world, and the fact that I’ve never once been in the position to offer it to her—never been free, never been enough, never been able to choose her without the whole damn city catching fire—feels like something that should be punishable by death.
Because every step she takes beside me tonight, every brush of her hand against mine, every small, unguarded look she gives me, it all feels like a promise I can’t keep.
And I’d tear the world apart just to rewrite that fate.
But for now, we just walk. Side by side, hand in hand. Guiding her through the quiet streets, careful but possessive, fingers tight around hers, neither of us acknowledging howI know where her flat is despite having no good reason for knowing.
The city stretches around us, quiet, almost reverent, like it’s watching this careful unravelling, the recklessness we’ve always carried between us, finally given room. No marriage contract. No Jen. No sea of secrets. Tonight, it feels like something else entirely, like the first real chance at something new. Something bigger than either of us ever dared to hope for.
Her dress brushes my wrist with every step, delicate silk that feels both fragile and impossibly strong. She walks lightly, careful not to trip over the uneven stones, and I can’t stop myself from glancing at her.
“You’re quiet,” her voice drifts between us, soft and almost fragile, like she’s afraid any sound might shatter the bubble we’ve built around ourselves.
“Just paying attention,” I reply, though the truth is simpler. I’m memorising her—every detail, every nuance. The way the moonlight grazes her cheek, the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath, the way her eyes dart and hesitate. I’m storing it all, imprinting it, so that if she ever comes to her senses and slams the door in my face, I’ll still have her. Every fragment. Every forbidden moment.
“Still obsessed, huh?” she teases, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Always,” I vow, letting the word hang between us, sharp, soft, and full of intent.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she tugs my hand, leading me down the quiet street and up through the building to her flat. When we reach her door, I hesitate, not from doubt, but from knowing that once I cross this threshold, nothing between us stays the same.
She fumbles for her keys with her free hand, and I can feel the tension building, ready to snap the second she lets me in. I want to pull her into my arms again, kiss her, hold her until she forgets everything else but the taste of my name on her lips.
“Matt…” Her voice is small, hesitant, as she looks at me over her shoulder.
“Yes?” I step close, letting her feel my heat without touching, just close enough to make her shiver.
Her hand tightens slightly in mine as she twists to face me. “Tonight… this is crazy.”
I press my forehead to hers. “You drive me crazy,” I whisper. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She laughs softly, but it’s tinged with nerves. I can feel her pulse against my chest. I inhale, memorising it. My thumb brushes the back of her hand, slow and possessive.
Finally, she opens the door, tugging me gently inside. I go willingly. I’d follow her into hell itself if she asked. Her flat—every scattered sketch, every stray shoe kicked off by the door, the collection of coffee cups in the sink—feels impossibly lived-in, impossibly hers. Safe, and yet foreign.
The door clicks shut behind us, and for a heartbeat, the world outside ceases to exist. The distant hum of Lyon, the soft slap of the river against the quay, all fade to nothing. There’s only the heat between us—thick, charged, undeniable.
