I growl into his neck and rut harder, water crashing over us like the roof’s caving in.
And then he says it—he screams it. “Harder!”
It detonates in my chest. Not the word, not the volume, but the tone—like he needs it to survive, like he’ll die without it, like this is the only thing still anchoring him to the goddamn world.
“Rafe—please—fuck—you feel like home—”
And I lose it. I fucking snap. All the restraint, the pacing, the reward, the punishment—it rips away like wet tissue paper.
“Home?” I snarl, grabbing his thighs and slamming him harder against the wall, his ass smacking tile, cock crushed between us. “You think I’m your home?”
He nods, wrecked and crying, head pressed into my shoulder. “Yes—yes—fuck—yes—”
“Then fucking take it.” I drive into him with full force—the kind of rhythm that makes grown men crawl.
He screams. No filter. No control. Each thrust lands deeper than the last, faster, rougher, until the only sounds are skin on skin, water slamming tile, and Julian sobbing into my neck like I’m his goddamn religion.
“You’re mine,” I snarl into his ear. “Say it.”
“I’m yours—I’m yours—I’m yours—”
“Fucking mean it.”
He wails, and I feel him clamp around me—perfect—as he explodes between us, soaking both our stomachs, cock jerking wildly while his whole body goes rigid in my arms. His scream is wet, raw, and utterly mine.
And I come with him—deep, so deep inside I see stars, so hard I have to bite his throat just to stay tethered to reality. The world narrows to nothing but steam, sweat, and him—wrapped around me, sobbing, still chanting my name like it’s the only word that ever mattered, the only thing keeping himhere.
When I stop moving, I realize I’m still holding him off the ground, his arms looped around my shoulders, head slumped forward against my chest like all the bones in his body gave out.
Julian’s breathing comes in short, choked gasps against my skin. At first I think he’s still riding the comedown, but then I feel it—the tremble, the hitch, the broken, breathless sob spilling out of him, followed by another, and another. He’s crying—not sharp or loud, just quiet little gasps pouring from him like his ribs have finally unlocked and everything he’s been holding together is falling through the cracks.
I slide down the wall slowly, carefully, dragging him with me—still joined, still buried deep inside him, still mine—until we’re both slumped on the tile floor in the spray, his body collapsed against mine like he’s been rebuilt wrong. His hands grip my soaked shirt like they don’t know how to let go; his mouth stays open and wet against my collarbone, trying to breathe around the sobs he can’t swallow.
I press a kiss into his drenched hair. Then another. Again. My voice cracks when I finally speak. “I’ve got you, little halo.” Another kiss, this time to his temple. “I’ve fucking got you.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
I feel it in the way his whole body curls tighter into mine—like he’s trying to climb under my skin, like he’s trying to live there forever. And maybe I’d let him. Fuck, maybe I’d carve a hole in my chest just to keep him somewhere safe.
He cries harder, and I let him. He’s earned that too.
I wrap both arms around him and hold him through it, letting the water pour over both of us, washing the sweat and the tears and the ghost of that fucking tape down the drain.
Minutes pass. I don’t know how many, but it doesn’t matter.
When his sobs finally slow—hiccupping—I kiss the side of his face and murmur against his skin. “No more ghosts.” Another kiss, right over the pulse in his throat. “Only me.”
We stay like that longer than we should. Long enough for the water to cool and the tile to turn slippery beneath us. Julian’s still in my lap, curled against my chest like something fragile I don’t fucking deserve, breath hitching now and then in the aftermath of tears he’ll pretend never happened. I don’t move. I hold him like a fucking altar and let the last of it drain out.
But then he twitches—once, then again—a slow, wet wiggle in my lap that pulls a quiet laugh out of me.
I smirk against his temple. “You good?”
He sniffs, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Shut up,” and wriggles again, deliberate this time, chasing the last echoes of sensation.
I shift my grip, sliding one palm to the small of his back, and slowly—carefully—pull out.
He whines, high and pathetic, the sound punching straight through my chest.
