He felt it in his chest—how close they’d come to losing this.
He stilled just enough to look at her, eyes dark, wide open.
“This okay?” he asked, low, rough, like the answer mattered more than breathing.
Tessa cupped his face in both hands, thumbs brushing the scar at his jaw. “Yes,” she said. “Stay.”
“Don’t hold back,” she whispered.
“I’m not,” he said. “Not with you.”
Something in his shoulders loosened. The tension that had been coiled there for days—years—finally gave.
He moved with a hunger he didn’t bother disguising—slow only long enough to make her gasp, relentless once she did—until the world narrowed to friction and breath and the sound of her saying his name.
They didn’t hold back.
They didn’t think about morning.
They moved like there might not be one.
After
The fire had sunk low.
Snow whispered against the windows.
He wasn’t gentle because he didn’t care. He was gentle because he did.
Tessa lay on her stomach, breath finally slowing. Scout’s arm draped across her back, hand resting warm at her shoulder.
His fingers shifted, then paused. There — a scar. Thin. Older. Not from yesterday.
He traced it slowly.
She stilled.
He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against it.
Not questioning.
Just there.
“I didn’t plan that,” he murmured into the dim room.
She turned her head toward him.
“Well,” she said softly, “I’m not sorry.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“Good.”
Silence settled between them.
She brushed her thumb along his cheek.
“Why so quiet?”
