It is slower than that.
Steadier.
A thing chosen with both hands.
I feel the shape of it everywhere—his other hand settling at my waist, careful and grounding; the heat of him close through fabric; the quiet catch in my own breath; the way the room seems to narrow not out of panic but focus, like all the noise of the last months has finally been asked to wait outside for a minute.
I kiss him back with equal intention.
No rush. No scramble.
Just yes.
The tablet on the table goes dark entirely. Somewhere in the city, a train passes in a silver rush. The lamp hums faintly in the corner. My pulse steadies instead of spikes, which feels almost miraculous.
He draws back only far enough to look at me, his forehead resting lightly against mine.
“Still here?” he murmurs.
“Mm.”
“That was not eloquent.”
“Shut up.”
That low almost-laugh again. “You are emotional.”
“You made a whole domestic infrastructure and forgot to mention it. I’m allowed.”
His hand slides from my face to the back of my neck, fingers threading lightly beneath the loosened strands of my braid.
The second kiss is deeper, but still unhurried. Built, not seized.
I think maybe that’s the difference between this and everything that came before: nothing in it feels stolen from disaster. It feels laid down brick by brick in the aftermath and finally admitted.
When we move from the table, it’s with the same quiet certainty.
No dramatic urgency. No frantic need to outrun tomorrow.
Just the slow surrender of distance.
The apartment knows our steps by now—the soft give of the rug near the sofa, the cool smooth floor beyond, the dimness deepening toward the bedroom where the city light reaches only in diluted strips. I’m aware of stupid things as we go: the edge of the blanket pooled wrong on the bed, the faint citrus-clean scent of the laundry, the whisper of fabric when he pulls me closer again.
Everything remains precise.
His hands. My answer to them. The way we keep looking at each other as if confirming, over and over, that choice is still the governing force here.
Afterward, the room is quieter than before.
Not empty. Settled.
The sheets are warm and a little tangled. Rain has started again somewhere beyond the windows, softer now, almost a hush against the glass. My body feels heavy in the pleasant, human way exhaustion sometimes finally allows. Rhyx is beside me, one arm under my shoulders, the other resting loosely over the blanket as if even now he is trying not to crowd more than invited.
I turn onto my side to look at him.
His gaze is already on me.
Dangerous, that. How easy it’s becoming to be seen like this and not want to run.
