Toss it onto the counter.
And walk backward toward the bedroom.
He follows.
Silent.
Predatory.
Not a hunter—but someone desperate not to spook the thing he wants most.
He touches me like I’m carved from stories.
Like every curve, every freckle, every stretch mark is a passage in a book he’s memorized and still can’t get enough of.
There’s no rush this time.
No frantic desperation like the first time, when we were two broken things looking for something warm.
This time, it’s slower.
Deeper.
His fingers trace down my spine like he’s counting ribs, and when his mouth meets mine, it’s soft—almost reverent.
“I don’t know how to be careful with you,” he murmurs, breath hot against my jaw.
“I don’t want careful,” I whisper back. “I wantreal.”
His hand slides beneath my shirt. My skin jumps under his touch.
I press my mouth to his collarbone and feel his pulse beat against my lips.
“I wish things were different,” I say, in the space between his breaths.
“They can be.”
I shake my head.
“I’m scared.”
He stops.
Leans his forehead against mine.
“Me too.”
The sheets wrap around us like a secret. The night outside is quiet, but in here, everything roars.
His body presses against mine, all heat and weight and gravity.
We move together like tides—sometimes pulling, sometimes crashing, but always returning.
He kisses the corner of my mouth like it’s a promise he doesn’t know how to keep.
I press my palms against his shoulders, drag my fingers down his back, feel every tremor in him like it’s mine too.
When he finally sinks into me, I don’t cry.
