He was standing in front of a woman with her hands on his body, who’d examined every mark his life had left and not asked him to explain a single one of them. He’d known what to do with his hands his entire adult life.
But not now.
Her eyes came back to his face. “Pav.”
His good hand cupped her shoulder and held her there.
He drew her against him, more careful than instinct, as if he was measuring the distance even as he closed it. The whole length of her, warm and giving in a way nothing in his life had ever been. He held her there for a moment—because moving forward would mean choosing this, and he wasn’t sure he’d survive it intact.
His good arm sank lower, settling between her shoulder blades. His injured arm came more carefully around the softness of her lower back.
She made a small sound against his throat, her touch riding the ridges of his abdomen.Yes.
Snow built at the window, hiding them from the world. He’d never been in a room he couldn’t exit in under three seconds.
He was now.
She lifted her face to him.
He had to say it while there was still some part of him capable of speech.
“Harper.” His voice came out strange, too low and rough. “I haven’t—" He started again. “I have nothing.”
The words came out rough, graceless, dragged from whatever part of him was still trying to protect her from him.
She went still, then understood.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m on the pill. For my period.” Her hand rested over his heart. “And I’m clear too.”
The last exit closed.
He’d handed her the knife, and she’d set it down.
The relief moved through him unevenly, almost painfully. Like warmth returning to a body that had been cold for too long. When he opened his eyes, she smiled at him.
“Pav. Come to bed.”
She unbuttoned his borrowed pants and pushed them over his hips. He helped, because his body might have limits, but letting her do everything would break something in him.
Then there was nothing left between them but breath and choice.
“Come.” She took his hand and led him back to the bed. She lay against the pillows.
Pav breathed out, gathering himself. He knew how to survive pain. He had no experience of being wanted gently.
Her hair framed her face. Solnyshko.Little sun.
Careful of his injured arm, he lowered himself onto the bed beside her. Forehead to forehead.
For three years, he’d held the line.
Against grief. Against memory. Against wanting anything he couldn’t afford to lose.
Now, for the first time, he let it go.
36
She kissed him.
