"I'm doing fine," I agree, through my teeth.
He looks at me sideways. Something in his face that has nothing to do with the instruction. "Actually doing fine," he says. "Not reassurance."
"I know," I say. "I can tell the difference."
We finish the section. He guides me back to the eave and I go down the ladder and stand on the ground and put my hands on my knees and breathe. He comes down behind me, steps off the last rung, and stands close. Not touching. Just close, the warmth of him cutting through the cold.
"Nice work," he says. "You were scared, and you went up anyway." His voice is even. "That's a specific thing worth saying."
I straighten up. My hands are still shaking a little. I look at him. He’s rain-soaked, with water running down his jaw, and he's looking at me with recognition. Like he knows exactly whatjust happened inside me on that roof and finds it the opposite of a weakness.
The lobby is quiet. Sconces low. Maple has given everyone rooms and most of the town is asleep. I have a borrowed room on the second floor and when we reach the hallway, I stop outside the door. I'm soaking wet and still running on adrenaline. Atlas is right behind me and neither of us says anything.
He reaches around me and opens the door.
Inside, he turns me by the shoulder and peels my soaking jacket off. Sets it aside. His flannel is plastered to him, dark with rain, his chest rising and falling, and he's close and I'm wet and cold everywhere except where his hands are on my arms.
I look at him.
He reads whatever's on my face, I see my wet hair and wide eyes reflected in his own, and his mouth comes down to mine.
I grab his flannel, and he walks me back until my shoulders hit the wall and his hands slide under the wet hem of my shirt and up, his palms hot against my skin, and I make a sound into his mouth that surprises me with how little I care.
He gets my shirt over my head before the door is fully closed.
"Okay?" Against my jaw. Not stopping.
"Yes," I say. "Don't stop."
He doesn't stop.
His mouth goes to my throat and then lower and his hands are everywhere, learning — not rushed, not tentative, just thorough, the same way he does everything, like getting it right matters more than getting it fast. I get his flannel open and push it off his shoulders and he shrugs it away without looking and thenhis mouth is back on my collarbone and I stop thinking about anything above the neck.
He walks me to the bed. Sits me on the edge of it and drops to one knee and takes my wet boots off, one then the other, and sets them aside. Looks up at me.
I pull him toward me by his belt and lie back and he comes down over me. There's a moment where we're just looking at each other, both breathing hard, rain still in his hair, and the measuring we've been doing since day one is done. Just him. Fully here.
Another long moment passes, then his mouth is on my throat again and I stop being able to track the sequence of things.
He's good at this, He touches and licks me until I'm making sounds I didn't plan and my hands are in his hair and I've lost all professional composure and I don't want it back.
"There," I tell him. "Exactly there."
"You can be louder," he says, mouth against my shoulder.
"I'm aware."
"Just saying."
"I heard you," I say, and I stop managing the volume entirely.
He groans against my skin, low and aimed, and I feel it everywhere.
When he pushes his cock inside me, I exhale hard and grip his shoulders, my toes curling.
His hands are on my hips and he sets a pace that makes thinking difficult and I let it. I stop managing everything. I just let myself be here in the moment and it is extraordinarily good.
"Harder," I tell him.
