The second the bedroom door shuts behind us, he’s on me.
His hands are everywhere at once—my face, my neck, my waist—as his mouth crashes into mine, the kiss hard and desperate and full of everything he didn’t say in front of them.
I gasp into his mouth, grabbing at his shirt as he backs me toward the bed.
There’s no finesse. No hesitation. Just heat and need and the overwhelming force of eight years collapsing into the present.
His fingers hook into my waistband. Mine drag his shirt over his head.
“Fuck, Ollie,” he breathes against my mouth, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
My heart pounds. My hands shake as I reach for him again. And when he kisses me like he means to undo me completely, I let him.
I don’t pull back. I don’t overthink it. I just lean in.
My palms slide over his shoulders, down his back, relearning him even though I already have. We’ve been here before—since reconnecting, since tearing the distance apart piece by piece—but something about this feels different. Quieter. Surer. Like we’ve crossed a line neither of us is pretending not to see.
He’s here.
Not temporary. Not fragile.
Here.
I press forward until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and he drops with a quiet huff, pulling me down with him. We land in a tangle of limbs and breath, and when I push up to look at him, he’s watching me with that same steady focus he’s had all night.
“You really did that,” he says softly.
“Did what?”
“In front of them.”
I know exactly what he means. The words. The way I didn’t hesitate. The way I didn’t give them an out.
“I’m done pretending,” I tell him. “I love you. I’m not taking that back for anyone.”
His jaw flexes, emotion coloring his expression. His hands come up, framing my face like he needs the contact.
“Ollie….”
“I meant it,” I say. “All of it.”
A quiet beat passes between us.
“You feel like home,” I add, because that’s the closest I can get to explaining the weight in my chest.
His thumb brushes along my cheek.
“I’ve missed this,” he says.
“Me too.” I swallow. “Even when we were… figuring things out again. Even when we were careful.”
His hands slide down to my hips, grounding. “You’re not running anymore.”
“No.” The answer comes easy. Certain. “I’m not.”
I shift over him, pressing closer. The contact isn’t desperate this time. It’s anchoring. His breath leaves him slowly as our foreheads touch.
“If I could marry you again,” I say quietly, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them, “I would.”
